Last Tales of Mercia 7: Godric the Thegn



  Last Tales of Mercia 7:

  Godric the Thegn

  Jayden Woods

  Copyright 2012 Jayden Woods

  Edited by Malcolm Pierce

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  The ten Last Tales of Mercia are stand-alone stories featuring real historical figures and characters from the Sons of Mercia series. You may read them independently as quick glimpses into an ancient world or as an introduction to the novel, Edric the Wild. For more news and updates on the Sons of Mercia series, visit www.jaydenwoods.com.

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  SHROPSHIRE

  1054 A.D.

   

   

  Godric had heard many descriptions of the first Norman castle in Shropshire, but today he observed it in person for the first time. He did not feel especially impressed. Sections of a stone curtain wall rose and fell inconsistently between gaps filled by palisades. Godric surmised that the Normans had run out of stone not far into the project, or something to that effect. Perhaps they’d used all available rocks on the gatehouse, which looked formidable enough. It was the first structure on the castle to be made entirely of stone and mortar. But it would serve little purpose if the walls remained unfinished and the lord had no safe home to sleep in. Altogether the construction of the castle appeared irregular and sloppy, which no doubt resulted from the reluctance of the laborers. Godric wondered why more of the Normans didn’t do the work themselves, if they were such experts.

  As he rode across the swing bridge, Godric studied the Norman guards on the other side. They failed to impress him, also. After hearing so many rumors of their bullying nature and military prowess, Godric found they paled in comparison to the Jomsviking warriors with whom he’d once fought. These were ordinary men dressed in chainmail, their bodies drooping under the heat of the summer sun and the boredom of a long day. They stared back at him with wary glances, their gazes lingering especially long on the eyepatch covering the scarred flesh of his right socket.

  “I’m Thegn Godric,” he told them. “Lord Richard FitzScrob wanted to talk to me?”

  The guards exchanged surprised looks, then snapped to attention. “Of course, Sir Godric,” said one of them. “Please follow me.”

  One guard took Godric’s horse and the second led him into the castle grounds. Godric’s opinion of the castle continued to drop as he proceeded. The slaves cowered in the shade and the Norman guards stood idly by, all labor seemingly halted. Godric noted the mess of wooden logs draping the sides of the raised motte and wondered what in Valhalla had happened here. He didn’t know why Richard had summoned him; he hoped the reason had nothing to do with this God-forsaken mess. However, he appreciated the chance to finally meet the notorious Norman in person, whom he had only seen from afar in the shire court until now.

  He soon found himself standing in the lord’s hall, a meager wooden building which Godric assumed was temporary. His eyes took a moment to adjust to the darkness. Then he discerned the large shape sitting at the table through the candlelight. Richard FitzScrob’s dark eyes stared at him from a long, bony face, composed of a drooping mouth and thick furrowed eyebrows. The man’s short haircut only emphasized the hugeness of his skull and the thickness of his overall frame. The lord was large without being fat, and Godric admired that in a man who had trouble getting around.

  Godric had met various kings, earls, and chiefs in his lifetime. Nonetheless, he had never been very good with formalities. Perhaps because he had never cared for authority.

  He found himself bowing awkwardly. “Lord Richard.”

  “Godric Eadricson. Or is it Thorkellson?”

  Godric’s eye narrowed. He had tried to come clean with his identity years ago. Members of the royal court had only known him as “Thorkellson” during the reign of King Canute, when Godric pretended to be Thorkell’s son Harald. If Richard bothered to voice the question, he probably intended to make a point: he knew more about Godric than his simple thegnship in Shrewsbury. “My father was Eadric Streona,” Godric said at last, straightening and looking Richard in the eye. “Why have you called me here?”

  Richard stared back at him a moment, as if to make sure they understood one another. The only thing Godric understood was that Richard had already managed to irritate him. But Richard nodded, as if satisfied, then waved for the guard to leave the room. “Please have a seat, Godric.”

  Godric gladly obeyed, for the long ride here had left his knee aching. He appreciated a goblet of wine from Richard even more, which Richard poured and handed to him. Godric drained the cup in a few gulps.

  When he set down the empty chalice, he found Richard still staring across the table at him, his own wine untouched. “I called you here because I have a strange situation and I’m not sure how to solve it. I hear you are a ... capable man.”

  A warm thrill rushed through Godric’s veins. He detested his reaction even as his heart stirred with excitement. Did this man want him to kill someone? And why did that so entice him? He had promised Osgifu he was done with that life. However, he had broken that promise already. Hiding that secret from her tormented him enough already. Would adding another be any different? Or unbearably worse?

  His mind went round in circles until a long silence had passed. Richard watched him closely all the while.

  “A few days ago, a group of Saxons came here and befouled my castle. You might have noticed the result outside.”

  “You were attacked?”

  “Not exactly.” Richard’s leathery skin turned a deep shade of red. “They were a group of young men, very unorganized, and by the looks of them I fear they thought of their crime as no more than a prank. But their actions deserve a grave punishment, and I intend to make them understand that.”

  Godric felt increasingly uncomfortable. “The law is on your side. Punish them yourself.”

  Richard flinched to be spoken to so brusquely. But he let it go, and after a moment, leaned closer. “This is a sensitive situation. I don’t want to appear as a tyrant. Nor do I want to make this about Normans against Anglo-Saxons, or I would send one of my own men. But I want to ensure that no one else ever attempts this again. Do you understand?”

  “No, I don’t.” Godric leaned closer as well, lowering his voice. “I’m not going to kill someone for chopping your fucking tower.”

  Richard leaned back again, duly unsettled. “I never said I wanted you to kill him.”

  “Then what in God’s name am I doing here?”

  Richard finally took a sip of his wine. His hand shook slightly. “Perhaps we got off to a bad start. Let me tell you more about the boy who wronged me. My men have already discovered his identity; the culprit abandoned one of his wounded friends, Dudda, at a church not far from here. Dudda gave us information in exchange for mercy. The gang leader is named Hereward, and he’s the son of Lord Leofric of Bourne, Lincolnshire. I’m sure he has plenty of money to pay whatever fines I may throw at him. That is why I want to make my point in a different manner.”

  “So you want me to ... ?”

  “Frighten him. Your reputation might be enough to accomplish that, if he has heard of you. If not, I don’t care how you scare him.” He leaned close again, eyes narrowing. “Nor do I care how far you go to subdue him. If you saw fit to kill him ...” The large lord pulled back again, shrugging his shoulders. “I confess the thought appeals to me. But all I care about is that you make a point. Any point you make will be much more profound because you’re the one making it, rather than one of my men.”

  Godric hated to admit that he wanted to take this job, and badly. He had known that right away, though he hated to consider why. Long ago he had convinced himself he enjoyed overseeing far
mers, chopping wood, and tending animals as a daily lifestyle. Yet every day he fought the feeling of restlessness stirring deep down inside him, the desire to bring out his true skills, the need to face danger, the thirst for something like ... battle.

  He shifted in his seat, hoping that to Richard, he seemed to be struggling with the decision. “What do I get out of it?” he asked hoarsely.

  “I’ll pay you twenty shillings,” said Richard, though he sounded reluctant.

  Godric looked up, his one eye fixed on Richard with new determination. “King Edward brought you to Engla-lond. King Edward chose you as one of the few Normans to remain even when he sent many others home. You are a faithful servant of King Edward’s. And so am I.” He sat up straightly. “You don’t need to pay me.”

  Richard’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction. “In that case, Godric, you will most certainly obtain my friendship.”

  Godric nodded and stood, infused with a feeling of righteousness. By pursuing Hereward for free, he could claim he wished only to uphold the king’s justice. And by strengthening his friendship with Lord Richard, he could tell Osgifu he was trying to maintain peace in the shire—a rather fortunate consequence.

  He could hardly wait to begin. “Where is Dudda now?”