Read Online The Lost Tales of Mercia by Jayden Woods - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jayden Woods
Tags: adventure, Romance, Historical, England, Short-Story, Medieval, Vikings, free, Historical/Fiction, Dark Ages, athelward, eadric, ethelred, lost tales, mercia, anglosaxon, canute, jayden woods, thorkell, grasper, golde
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shut once more. “Yes,
Lord,” she whispered. “I understand. It is Aethelstan who must
gather the armies, and I must help him. I must ...”
Her body slipped from her consciousness, and
her mind returned happily to her dreams, which were much more
pleasant now than before.
**
4
The
Fourth Lost Tale of Mercia:
ATHELWARD THE HISTORIAN
(Or go back to TABLE OF
CONTENTS )
“ There, are, indeed, some notices of antiquity,
written in the vernacular tongue after the manner of a chronicle,
and arranged according to the years of our Lord. By means of these
alone, the times succeeding [Bede] have been rescued from oblivion:
for of [Athelward], a noble and illustrious man, who attempted to
arrange these chronicles in Latin, and whose intention I could
applaud if his language did not disgust me, it is better to be
silent.”
—William of Malmesbury, Chronicle of the Kings of
England, Preface
*
HAMPSHIRE, WESSEX
993 A.D.
The intruder entered quietly, but Athelward
recognized the footsteps of his dearest servant right away. The
servant knew better than to interrupt the ealdorman in the middle
of his work, so this must be an emergency. But if this was an
emergency, why didn’t the servant say something? Silent or not, his
presence wreaked irreparable damage. Athelward could not focus on
his writing when someone loomed close enough to see over his
shoulder, nor when such trivial questions plagued his mind as why
the servant entered in the first place. Already, he felt himself
slipping from his own stream of thought: a stream consisting of the
dazzling rapids of history swirling in harmony with the
sophisticated currents of the Latin language.
Athelward’s quill quivered with his growing
frustration, then at last fell aside. It was too late now; his
focus had been dashed upon the rocks and left to dry. Through
gritted teeth, he said, “What is it?”
“There is a woman here to see you, my lord.
She seeks your aid.” The Celtic servant, Drustan, seemed entirely
undaunted by his master’s mood. Very little phased Drustan, who had
a smug and rather reckless demeanor for a servant. Despite this, he
almost always seemed to know Athelward’s mind, even without being
told what to do, so Athelward kept him.
This, however, was not such a fitting
example. Athelward could not believe he had been interrupted for
something so trivial, and without more of an explanation. Because
he was ealdorman of Wessex, thousands of people desired his aid
every day. The fortune of a single woman, when compared to the
importance of completing the great literary work Athelward now
devoted himself to, was so trivial as to be completely
insignificant.
Athelward closed his eyes and took a deep
breath. The candles around him fluttered as he exhaled, casting
undulating waves of warmth on his face. He did not want to waste
his time with a useless conversation right now, especially with a
servant he would probably expel from his service on the morrow.
Better to simply ignore Drustan’s presence and get back to work.
After a few moments, he felt as if he succeeded. He felt the stream
of Latin words flowing back into his mind, the stream which flowed
to his heart, then through his blood to his fingertips. He brought
his quill back to the parchment.
“My lord? Her name is Golde. She says she
knows you. She has a child with her, a little boy, and they look
very traumatized.”
Athelward put down his quill with an angry
smack. He turned slowly around, the wooden chair creaking beneath
him, the bones of his back popping and groaning in harmony with the
furniture. Usually, tearing himself away from his writing was a
smoother and more gradual transition, aided by a long prayer and a
little bit of stretching. This interruption was simply
inexcusable.
Now that he looked upon Drustan directly,
though through a haze of anger, he thought the servant seemed even
smugger than usual. His eyes were twinkling,
Lord,” she whispered. “I understand. It is Aethelstan who must
gather the armies, and I must help him. I must ...”
Her body slipped from her consciousness, and
her mind returned happily to her dreams, which were much more
pleasant now than before.
**
4
The
Fourth Lost Tale of Mercia:
ATHELWARD THE HISTORIAN
(Or go back to TABLE OF
CONTENTS )
“ There, are, indeed, some notices of antiquity,
written in the vernacular tongue after the manner of a chronicle,
and arranged according to the years of our Lord. By means of these
alone, the times succeeding [Bede] have been rescued from oblivion:
for of [Athelward], a noble and illustrious man, who attempted to
arrange these chronicles in Latin, and whose intention I could
applaud if his language did not disgust me, it is better to be
silent.”
—William of Malmesbury, Chronicle of the Kings of
England, Preface
*
HAMPSHIRE, WESSEX
993 A.D.
The intruder entered quietly, but Athelward
recognized the footsteps of his dearest servant right away. The
servant knew better than to interrupt the ealdorman in the middle
of his work, so this must be an emergency. But if this was an
emergency, why didn’t the servant say something? Silent or not, his
presence wreaked irreparable damage. Athelward could not focus on
his writing when someone loomed close enough to see over his
shoulder, nor when such trivial questions plagued his mind as why
the servant entered in the first place. Already, he felt himself
slipping from his own stream of thought: a stream consisting of the
dazzling rapids of history swirling in harmony with the
sophisticated currents of the Latin language.
Athelward’s quill quivered with his growing
frustration, then at last fell aside. It was too late now; his
focus had been dashed upon the rocks and left to dry. Through
gritted teeth, he said, “What is it?”
“There is a woman here to see you, my lord.
She seeks your aid.” The Celtic servant, Drustan, seemed entirely
undaunted by his master’s mood. Very little phased Drustan, who had
a smug and rather reckless demeanor for a servant. Despite this, he
almost always seemed to know Athelward’s mind, even without being
told what to do, so Athelward kept him.
This, however, was not such a fitting
example. Athelward could not believe he had been interrupted for
something so trivial, and without more of an explanation. Because
he was ealdorman of Wessex, thousands of people desired his aid
every day. The fortune of a single woman, when compared to the
importance of completing the great literary work Athelward now
devoted himself to, was so trivial as to be completely
insignificant.
Athelward closed his eyes and took a deep
breath. The candles around him fluttered as he exhaled, casting
undulating waves of warmth on his face. He did not want to waste
his time with a useless conversation right now, especially with a
servant he would probably expel from his service on the morrow.
Better to simply ignore Drustan’s presence and get back to work.
After a few moments, he felt as if he succeeded. He felt the stream
of Latin words flowing back into his mind, the stream which flowed
to his heart, then through his blood to his fingertips. He brought
his quill back to the parchment.
“My lord? Her name is Golde. She says she
knows you. She has a child with her, a little boy, and they look
very traumatized.”
Athelward put down his quill with an angry
smack. He turned slowly around, the wooden chair creaking beneath
him, the bones of his back popping and groaning in harmony with the
furniture. Usually, tearing himself away from his writing was a
smoother and more gradual transition, aided by a long prayer and a
little bit of stretching. This interruption was simply
inexcusable.
Now that he looked upon Drustan directly,
though through a haze of anger, he thought the servant seemed even
smugger than usual. His eyes were twinkling,
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