The Lost Tales of Mercia by Jayden Woods

chamber at dawn
tomorrow; I will teach him until mid-morning. That is all.”
    Clutching the pouch in one hand and his
robes in the other, Athelward turned and hurried back inside. He
could not erase from his mind the smile of triumph he had seen on
Golde’s face before he tore his eyes from her.
    He hoped he had not made some sort of
mistake.
    *
    In the morning, Athelward felt strangely
nervous. He could not even explain why.
    The night before, Golde’s words had echoed
at him throughout his entire night meal. His son’s family was
visiting that night. His wife had tried to make light conversation
and had even asked him about his writing, a topic he normally loved
to discuss. But he could not think of much to say. Meanwhile, he
had watched his own grandchildren fussing at the table, kicking
each other’s stools and playing with their food. Most of all, he
stared at his own son, Aethelmaer.
    Aethelmaer was large, fat, and dumb as a
rock. Most of the time, Athelward managed to ignore this fact. But
last night, he could not. He watched Aethelmaer stuff down his
food, fail to reprimand the bad behavior of his children, and
continue to say stupid and meaningless things. He spoke proudly of
his rapacious hearth companions, his cowering servants, and how he
was looking forward to an upcoming Saint’s festival—but he could
not even remember the Saint’s name.
    Athelward spoke little at night, but at one
point, he could not stop himself. He looked his son in the eyes and
proclaimed, “I taught you to read!”
    Aethelmaer stared at him strangely, as he
should have, for the statement had little precedent. The fat son
had a big bite of food in his mouth which he forced down his throat
with a gulp of wine. At last he said, “Um, yes you did. Thank
you.”
    “Thank you?” Athelward shook his head. “I
don’t want thanks. I want results. Do you ever read anymore,
Aethelmaer? Do you use anything I taught you?”
    The young man shrugged his big round
shoulders. “Sure I do.”
    “I mean beyond determining charters and
taxes.”
    “What else is reading for?” Aethelmaer took
another desperate drought of wine.
    Athelward sighed. “Have you started teaching
your own children?”
    “They’re too young!”
    “You were younger than them when I began
teaching you.”
    “Yeah, and I almost forgot everything!”
Aethelmaer laughed nervously, flinging spittle across his plate.
“Anyway, I’ll get a monk to teach them. Unless, that is, you expect
me to teach them Latin?” He made a wet sound of disgust. “I don’t
know why you spend so much time turning history into Latin, Father.
Everyone thinks you are mad! I do remember at least one thing you
taught me, which is that King Alfred himself wanted history to be
written in English, so more people could understand it!”
    Athelward had gripped his dirk and seethed
with anger; his wife had sensed his mood and put a calming hand on
his arm. But he did not know what to say to her. He could not
explain what he was feeling, nor why he was feeling it now.
    As he sat in the solitude of his writing
chamber the next morning, anxiously awaiting the strange boy’s
arrival, he tried to determine why he felt so upset. He suspected
it had something to do with his disappointment in his own son, to
whom he had tried to pass off the culmination of his life’s
studies. The disappointment had been there for a long time, he
realized, but he had ignored it until last night. The woman
pleading for her poor son’s education reminded him of the hopes he
once entertained for Aethelmaer. Once, he imagined Aethelmaer
becoming wise and clever, using his vast knowledge to impress the
king and perhaps become the king’s most trusted adviser. He
imagined Aethelmaer coming up with brilliant battle schemes, or at
least defensive tactics, to push the pagan Vikings from
Engla-lond’s shores. Instead, Aethelmaer was another man, like so
many, who simply did what he was told, and rarely thought beyond
his next