The Lost Tales of Mercia by Jayden Woods Page A

meal.
    Aethelward heaved a sigh, and then heard the
door creak open.
    The boy stood there, hands clasped in front
of him, head bowed so that his unruly hair nearly covered his face.
He looked cleaner now, either because this room was so dim, or
because his mother had meticulously washed him up for this moment.
But the patheticness of his hunched form negated any image of
dignity his mother had contrived, and Aethelward knew for certain
that the boy wanted to be here even less than Athelward did. He
sighed again, thinking it would be best to get this over with as
soon as possible.
    “Well then,” said Athelward, “come and sit
on this stool.”
    The boy obeyed, but he sank his small body
down as if he possessed the weight of a horse. He remained there in
silence, head sagging on his little neck, and for a moment
Athelward wasn’t sure what to do. Then, as he often did when in
doubt, he turned to his books.
    “I, uh … I suppose I should start with our
ancestors from Anglia, across the sea. Do you know whom I speak
of?” He paused to sip from a goblet of water and let the boy
respond, but his reluctant pupil did not even look up. “You ought to know: the Angles and Saxons are responsible for our
existence, you and I, here in Engla-lond. The Angles begot the
eastern and midland Angles, and many of the people who now live in
Mercia, and most the other people north of the River Humber. Then
there were the Saxons and Juts, who lived on provinces on either
side of Anglia. Five or six centuries ago, the Angles and Saxons
both decided to leave their lands and come to Engla-lond. The
Saxons, my own ancestors, claimed the lands of Essex, Middlesex,
Sussex, and Wessex—and I, you see, am a descendant of the Saxon
royal line of Wessex, the same line as King Alfred the Great!”
Again, no response. “In any case, the Angles and Saxons fought the
people here—that is the Celts—to claim their own homes. But they
also forged alliances, to protect each other against common enemies
like the Picts and the Irish ...”
    The little boy sniffled.
    Athelward realized he was probably speaking
to himself. His eyes darted around his table uncertainly. “Boy,” he
grumbled, “what is it you want to learn? I could teach you history,
or I could teach you a few letters—though that won’t do you any
good, as you’ll never be back here again to learn them all. Or you
could sit there and waste your mother’s money!” He waved his hands
angrily. “You should at least pay attention! Your mother paid a
great deal for you to be here. If you’re to learn anything you
should sit up straight, and keep your eyes alert, and—”
    The boy surprised him by obeying. Then the
ealdorman gulped with dismay, for as the boy looked up through his
tangled curls, he revealed big blue eyes filled with tears. “My
lord, why do people fight so much?” he said.
    Athelward cleared his throat and sat up
straighter. “For land, and resources, and … and power, I
suppose.”
    The little Mercian looked away for a moment,
seeming to really ponder this. Then, his eyes rippling with new
tears, he said, “Then why did they hurt Algar?”
    “Who?” And then, suddenly, Athelward put it
together. “Algar—Lord Alfric’s son?”
    The boy nodded.
    “Oh dear.” He must have meant the same
Algar, then, whose eyes had recently been ripped from his skull. He
recalled Golde saying she had “rescued” her son from Alfric, which
is also when she had stolen the money from Alfric’s abandoned
belongings. “Listen, boy … what is your name, again?”
    “Eadric.”
    “Eadric. Did you see Algar get hurt?”
    The boy’s face scrunched up, as if a certain
amount of twisting could keep back his tears. He didn’t say
anything, but this was answer enough for Athelward. Either he had
seen the violence happen, or he had seen its bloody aftermath.
    “I’m sure it’s hard for you to understand
what happened to Algar. But it is the perfect example of violence
done in the