Free The Lost Tales of Mercia by Jayden Woods Page B

education.”
    “What!” He felt his own blood drain from his
face. “I am an ealdorman. I don’t have time to—”
    “You are an ealdorman also known as the
‘historian.’ Unlike any other layman before you, you spend more
time reading books and scribbling histories than gathering soldiers
and sharpening spears.”
    “I … I ...” Instinctively, he felt the need
to argue. She was a churl, and shamelessly sinful. But in truth,
her statement made him proud. She recognized his accomplishment as
being one of the first dedicated scribes who was not also a
clergyman, while most people—finding it strange, and thus
incomprehensible—simply ignored this feat. Perhaps she even had a
vague understanding, if skewed, of what he valued. He hesitated too
long to form his response, and she found the breath for more
words.
    “I want to use this money for something even
more valuable than a human body,” she went on relentlessly. “I want
you to give my boy knowledge, and understanding. I want him to be
able to make his life into whatever he wants it to be, despite what
other people expect of him.”
    Athelward continued to shake his head,
harder and harder. “That is not how God made the world! Men must
make the best of the blood God gave them.”
    “Blood?” She looked puzzled. “If by blood
you mean we are not in the family of some great king like you, then
that’s all the more reason for you to help him ‘make the best of
it.’”
    Athelward wanted to keep shaking his head,
but a small crowd had gathered, and he found himself in an unusual
situation. Her proposal was absurd, but indeed, she offered him a
pouch of money, and it would look wrong for him to turn it down. He
glanced angrily at the people around him: soldiers, servants,
visiting thegns, and a few begging churls. He had made a speech to
every single one of them, years ago, that their money could serve a
greater purpose than buying mere food and clothing: it could buy
them peace from the Danes. Now, a woman stood before him, asking to
use her money for something greater than a physical comfort. How
could he deny her that, in front of so many witnesses?
    And yet, even accounting for his own unusual
philosophy, her request was absurd. Surely everyone else could see
that? “I am an ealdorman,” he repeated. “I don’t have the time to
educate a bastard child.”
    Perhaps he had gone too far. He could feel
the disappointment of his people around him; they pursed their
lips, lowered their heads, and exchanged knowing glances that
seemed to say, “I knew he would disappoint us.” Meanwhile, the
woman Golde’s cheeks flushed bright red, and when she clenched her
fists, he saw the veins bulge along her forearm. No doubt she
possessed more strength than her small figure suggested.
    “Time?” she said. A breeze gushed as if from
nowhere, rustling her dress and tossing her hair, making the rest
of her appear even sturdier. “You bought all of Engla-lond a year
of peace—almost a year, at least—with ten thousand pounds. So if
time can be money, tell me, my lord: how much of your time is this
pouch worth?”
    She held it out again, and he felt so
flustered that his face burned hot. She was turning his own ideas
against him. She was clever, but her primary talent seemed to be
throwing his own words back at him, in which case this conversation
could go on forever. It was useless to argue, and to indulge her
any longer would give the people too much to talk about.
    He grabbed the pouch and pretended to weigh
it in his hand, calculating. But how could he calculate the worth
of his time? The notion was preposterous. He looked at the boy
again, clutching his mother’s skirts, big blue eyes filled with
something like fear and hopelessness. He was either a churl with
worthless blood, or a bastard, and in either case he was not worth
even a fragment of Athelward’s time. But he had already caused a
great deal to be wasted, nonetheless.
    “Bring him to my writing