Free The Second Lost Tale of Mercia: Ethelred the King by Jayden Woods Page B

his
still-reddened face.“What a waste of time. We have game to
catch.”
    His soldiers relaxed visibly and continued on
to their horses. Alfryth remained standing at the door of the
stronghold, chin lifted in triumph, her dark wimple fluttering in
the salty breeze. Edward cast Ethelred one last glance before
departing.
    “Maybe next time, brother,” he said. But his
voice was sullen, and Ethelred did not think he expected a next
time, in truth.
    Not until that moment did Ethelred comprehend
the true extent of his loss. He realized that Edward had sincerely
wanted to hunt with him. Until now, Ethelred had still been afraid
that it was all some sort of prank—or at least a way to make
Ethelred humiliate himself. He had been so desperate to join the
king and his men that he had agreed despite these instincts. But as
Edward trudged away, he actually seemed disappointed—disappointed
that Ethelred wasn’t coming along!
    Despite himself, he felt tears prick his
eyes.
    “Ethelred, what is wrong with you? Come
inside.”
    “But Mother, I want to—”
    “You don’t get to do what you want. If you’re
to be king then you’ll have to do a great many things you’d rather
not do.”
    “I don’t want to be—!”
    “ Silence! I don’t care!” She grabbed
his wrist fiercely, then pulled him inside.
    He was even more surprised when she led him
to his room and told him to stay there.“But I’m supposed to speak
with Ealdorman Alfhere!” he cried. Then, when she scowled at him,
his face scrunched up helplessly.“Aren’t I?”
    Her expression tore between pity and
disgust.“I’ll handle him myself, son. You stay here and practice
your reading.” Then, as an afterthought,“Also, consider why your
father’s wise men chose Edward to be King over you, even though he
was not my son. Think on it long and hard.”
    She slammed the door behind her, and though
the chill of winter had supposedly lifted from Engla-lond, he
shivered.
    As his mother had suggested, he stayed in his
room and read. He also pondered over the matter of the
witenagemot’s decision to choose Edward over himself. He thought it
made practical sense for anyone to choose the older of the two
boys, considering how young they had been at the time, and the fact
that no one else of royal blood had been available. On top of that,
Edgar himself had said before his death that he wished Edward to
succeed him. But on the other hand, Ethelred was the son of
Alfryth, the present queen: he really should have been next in
line. He wondered whether the wise men’s choice to put Edward on
the throne had been any fault of his own. Then, filling with shame,
he remembered the story of his own baptism.
    When the Archbishop Dunstan had held him
underwater and offered the holy sacrament, baby Ethelred had
defecated in the water. Dunstan had pulled him out and handed him
away, crying out with disgust.“By God,” declared the bishop,“this
will be a miserable man!” Ethelred’s ears burned with embarrassment
whenever he heard that story retold, but he also felt anger. He had
been a baby at the time. He had no control of such things.
    As he stayed in his room according to his
mother’s wishes and read the Holy Gospels, he tried to gather
encouragement from them. He wondered whether everything that
happened on earth was truly God’s will. If so, what power did he or
anyone else have to change it? He thought that perhaps he was still
too young to understand; adults never seemed to question this
paradox, so surely he must be missing something. In any case, he
found it comforting to believe that his father’s witenagemot had
chosen Edward by God’s ordinance. If God orchestrated everything,
that meant the matters were no fault of his own, at all—especially
not the fault of a helpless baby.
    Ethelred’s scholarly pondering helped the
time to pass, at first. But after the sun peaked and fell westward,
thrusting its last orange beams through his window, he found
himself