The Lost Tales of Mercia by Jayden Woods Page B

name of power. King Ethelred needed to maintain his
power by hurting the man who had wronged him—Lord Alfric. But
Alfric escaped, so he punished the next person available.”
    “Algar didn’t do anything wrong!”
    “He was Alfric’s son.” Eadric looked
confused. “Our lineage determines our fate, Eadric. Algar was in
the wrong by being born of Alfric.”
    “That’s stupid!”
    Athelward glowered. He thought he could
guess why a poor little boy like this might say something like
that. “Was Algar … was he your brother?”
    Eadric stiffened and became very still. “No.
Alfric’s not my father.”
    It seemed like a recited response: one his
mother had instilled in him, no doubt. But one had only to look at
him to guess his father. “If Alfric’s not, who is?”
    “Um ...” Eadric kicked his feet nervously as
he considered his. “Hunwald.”
    “Who?”
    Eadric grew still again, a fierce scowl
creating dozens of lines on his round little face. “Why does it
matter?”
    “Why does it matter? ” Athelward
guffawed. “Does your mother teach you nothing? ” He grabbed
his goblet of water and drank thirstily, as if this would quell his
rising anger. When he slammed it back down, he nearly splashed some
drops on his parchment, so furious was he. He waved angrily at his
manuscripts. “Our fathers make us who we are, Eadric. My
great-great grandfather was Ethelred of Wessex, brother of King
Alfred the Great! My name means royal protector. I owned this land,
and have the responsibility of overseeing many others, because my
father and his fathers passed such things on to me.”
    “Can you pass any of that on to me,” said
Eadric, “without being my father?”
    Athelward’s mouth hung open. He said nothing
for a long while, just stared at the boy in utter horror.
    Then the little boy did something even more
ridiculous. He smiled, tears dissipating as his eyes twinkled. “The
look on your face!” he snickered.
    Athelward forced his mouth shut, feeling his
face turn red nonetheless. “I’m sorry,” he said. “But the answer is
no, I can’t pass those things on to you! The idea’s absurd!”
    “All right.” Eadric shrugged, still smiling.
“I’d rather do something fun, anyway. None of that sounds like
fun.”
    “Fun! It’s not about fun! ”
    “Then why do you do it?” The boy was looking
curiously at the ealdorman’s books.
    Athelward followed his gaze to the
manuscripts: the carefully blotted ink, the leather and gilt
decorations encasing the pages, and all of the ridiculous stories
contained within. He could have gone into a long speech about how
he was protecting his family’s history, and thus that of Wessex.
But he did not. Instead, he felt a little smile crease his face, as
if of its own will. “Well … I suppose it is a little fun.” He felt
a warm wave of joy arise within him out of nowhere, filling him up
and rising to his throat. “Hah!” he cried. “I suppose it is a little fun!”
    “No it’s not,” said Eadric, still laughing.
“You’re just saying that.”
    “Oh, but it is!” Athelward grabbed his quill
and raised it up high. “Sometimes, Eadric, it makes me feel like a
king!”
    “Really?”
    “Oh yes! I write about great hordes of
people, of armies and battles, and sometimes I feel almost like I
am orchestrating them myself! Just now, for instance, I was writing
about the Battle of Ethandun.” He leaned in close to Eadric,
lowering his voice as if to divulge a secret. “The battle took
place after King Alfred and his army had been hiding in the marshes
of Wessex for a long and miserable year, while the Danes and their
leader, Guthrum, managed to take over most of Engla-lond. Wessex,
you see, was the only kingdom still resisting the Vikings, and it
seemed as if all was lost. Alfred was so desperate that he
disguised himself as a minstrel to sneak into the enemy’s camp. But
then he gathered all the peoples of Somerset, Wiltshire, and
Hampshire, for Alfred had