Free The Lost Tales of Mercia by Jayden Woods

and his gaunt cheeks
glowed bright pink. His short straw-like hair, meanwhile, was a
total mess upon his head, like a roll of hay that had been rummaged
by a bear. Athelward’s eyes squinted even further, for he now felt
suspicious. “Golde? I don’t recall her. Is she of noble blood?
Married to a thegn? Is she a landowner? A churl?”
    Drustan shook his head at the first two
questions, then nodded at the last.
    Athelward guffawed. How much more ridiculous
could this get? “What sort of churl? A geneat? A kotsletla? A
gebur?” Drustan stared back at him with a dumb expression.
Athelward waved his hands frantically in the air. “Saints above,
who is she?”
    “She said she was a friend of the
ealdorman—er, now exiled, I think—who ruled Mercia. Alfric, my
lord.”
    Athelward sat up, attentive at last. Now, he
remembered. She was a woman with long blond hair, a beautiful round
face, and even less manners than the fool standing before him.
Worse, she had been a whore, or something similar enough to be
considered equivalent. But worst of all, she was associated with
Alfric, and to be associated with Alfric—whose son had recently
gotten his eyes removed by King Ethelred’s soldiers—was probably
one of the most dangerous traits in Engla-lond at this given
time.
    Athelward bowed his head and crossed
himself. When he was done, he looked back up at Drustan, eyes
blazing. “What on earth possessed you to think I would want to
speak with her, Drustan? Oh, I have a theory—you were not thinking
at all!”
    At last, with a heave of effort, Athelward
pulled himself from his chair. He did not like to think of himself
as old yet—though some might call him such—but he was certainly not
heavy or unfit. In fact he was quite skinny, and any extra girth or
awkwardness came from his somewhat excessive height. Moving from
the realm of literary knowledge to the physical world of sensation
and sin was simply a difficult maneuver. Once at last he stood and
reclaimed his body, pushing back his shoulders and lifting his
noble beard, he loomed over his servant and cut a respectable
figure.
    For a moment, Drustan looked encouraged. He
must have thought Athelward was getting up to see the woman. But
his smirk turned into a frown when Athelward took a loping step
forward, craning his head low to look the servant up and down. He
observed the ruffled state of Drustan’s tunic, then the loosened
nature of his trousers. “You know better than to interrupt me. How
did she persuade you?” asked the ealdorman.
    “She, uh ...” Drustan laughed nervously.
    Athelward crossed his arms over his chest
and stared at the servant in silence.
    “Well, she … um ...” Drustan moved his arms
about, then dropped them again, helpless.
    Athelward sighed heavily, his suspicions
confirmed. “I will see her at church on Sunday and give her some
alms, like so many others in need. It sounds as if she needs God as
greatly as she needs money, after all. That is all I can do for
her, Drustan.” He turned to go back to his table, feeling strangely
victorious.
    “She … she doesn’t want money, my lord. In
fact, she says she wants to give you some.”
    “What?” Athelward turned back around,
intrigued despite himself. A wandering churl wanted to give him money? “Whatever for?”
    “I don’t know, my lord. She just told me she
walked all the way from Worcestershire—”
    The ealdorman saw that it was useless to
keep talking, and he had already wasted a great deal of time
arguing with his servant, when it would have been faster to see the
woman herself and send her away. Without another word, he strode
past Drustan and out the door.
    The sensations of the world beyond the
sanctuary of his scriptorium struck him like a whip as he moved
through his manor. At first he simply smelled people: that
combination of musky, tart scents emitted by every slave, maid,
churl, or thegn who passed through his lodge. As he neared the
outdoors, he began to smell wool,