Free The Lost Tales of Mercia by Jayden Woods Page A

its bitter fibres coated with
lard and butter to form air that stuffed his nose as he inhaled.
This time of year, with the coming warmth of summer, lucky sheep
got sheared all across Engla-lond, and anyone with good sense
purchased some of the wool for himself. But at last he stepped
outside, where the breeze was not cool enough to balance the warmth
of the searing sunshine, but at least it eased the olfactory
senses—except, of course, for the occasional wafting odors of hot
manure and freshly reaped grass.
    Through the glare of bright white sunshine,
glowing green fields, and a piercing blue sky, Athelward soon
spotted his strange visitor. She had the same long yellow hair he
remembered, and lashes so pale they were almost white, which made
her blue gaze especially fierce as she turned it on him. He stopped
a good distance from the woman, all too aware of her persuasive
powers, though he did not consider himself to be easily moved by
matters of the flesh. Even so he could not help but admire her: the
sturdiness of her small frame as she stood in the wind, the lack of
weariness on her face despite the tattered state of her dress and
shoes.
    Then Athelward noticed the little boy
standing next to her, head bowed and downcast, small hands curled
into fists at his sides. He seemed as if he did not want to be
seen, but Athelward could not suppress a gasp of surprise, for he
saw the curliness of the boy’s hair lashing in the wind, and it
occurred to him that this might be Alfric’s son. But no, it
couldn’t be Algar, whose eyes had been seared out with hot
pokers.
    Athelward forced his gaze back to the woman,
Golde, trying to fill his stare with as much stubbornness as he
detected in hers. “State your business quickly or go. If your
business involves Alfric I’ll not touch it. He was my friend once
but his actions have necessitated my opposition to—”
    She pulled a pouch from her dress and gave
it a quick shake, so that he could hear the jangle of coins within.
“This is as close to Alfric as my business will ever come. I took
this from his manor when I went there to rescue my own son.”
    “Are you a thief, then?” The historian felt
uncomfortable, for the way she held out the money made her dress
poof out and display more of her well-rounded breasts than he cared
to see.
    “Of course not. Alfric was long gone by the
time I found this, his household and all of his belongings were up
for grabs to anyone who could snatch them up. Including his poor
blinded son, who he left to die.”
    The little boy made a small whimper, and she
pulled him tighter against her skirts.
    “Anyway, it’s money, and I have traveled
over a hundred miles without using it, all so that I could give it
to you.”
    “Why would you do that?” he cried.
    She stepped closer, her soft lips curling
into a smile. “Because I know you respect money, and you will take
it in exchange for a service of equal value, even if that service
is unconventional.”
    He was impressed by the woman’s awareness of
his feelings towards money, not to mention her obvious ambition.
Some years ago, Athelward—alongside Ealdorman Alfric, in fact—had
advised King Ethelred to pay off the Vikings with money rather than
to engage in another bloody and meaningless battle. Many
Anglo-Saxons had been embittered by this decision; even though it
bought them some peace, they suffered the more immediate effect of
losing their money, food, and hard-earned wares. No doubt some of
the gossip surrounding the Danegald payment, and Athelward’s
involvement in it, had been blown out of proportion. “I respect
money’s ability to save human lives,” he said. “Nothing more.”
    Her eyes seemed to twinkle a little as her
smile broadened. “And what if it could save the human spirit?”
    Athelward shook his head in puzzlement. “You
speak nonsense. I told you, Golde: state your business quickly, or
leave!”
    “All right, I will state my business. I want
you to give my son an