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Clip from
Edric the Wild
(Chapter 1 Excerpt)
Behind them, the sun sank low in the horizon, adding red hues to the interior of the building. A low fire cast flickering light onto the rush-covered floor. Strong winter winds struck the walls, making the tapestries billow and rustle. In the middle of it all sat two groups of armed men. One was Godric’s, who wore a mixture of tunics, light mail, and axes. But at the front end of the table sat Lord Richard FitzScrob and six of his own knights. The Normans were dressed as if for war, covered in chainmail and even steel plates, each of them draped with a sword at his hip.
Tension hung in the air, but it was less taut than Edric had expected. All of the men were drinking and eating, though it was not yet time for dinner. The food seemed to provide a channel for their anger, for they chewed as if to kill a small rodent between their teeth. Edric was glad that they were more preoccupied with their food than their heavy, gleaming weapons. Osgifu herself moved down the table, refilling empty cups and horns.
Godric seemed to calm somewhat as he paused near the threshold, surveying the scene with his one good eye. Edric could still hear the snarl in his voice as he said, “Richard.”
“Hello, Godric.”
Edric peeked around his father’s shoulder to see the Norman lord. He sat hunched over the table, his big chin bobbing as he chewed on a stale piece of bread. The man had a large and awkward form innately, with such unfortunate features as a long bent nose and ridiculous chin. But other parts of his body seemed even more gnarled, twisted as if to make up for his bad feet. Even though he was surely rich enough to afford better accommodations, Richard FitzScrob insisted on walking on his own two feet with as little help as possible—except for the typical occasions of riding a horse. His short hair, cropped close around his ears, only emphasized the hugeness of his skull. He was truly monstrous, thought Edric. And yet his father insisted on being friends with him.
“You are … welcome at my table, of course.” Godric cleared his throat, which remained hoarse despite his better efforts. “But why are you here?”
Richard wiped off his bulbous chin and threw the dirty cloth onto the table top. “I think you know why. Or, at least, your son does.”
Godric stepped aside, revealing the youth in question, and Edric flushed nearly as red as his hair.
Edric resisted the urge to cry I didn’t do it! yet again. Now faced with Richard, he felt bolder than before. He knew he was not guilty. He had nothing to fear from this brutish, evil man. This man was a bully and responsible for sprouting another bully, his son Osbern. Edric stuck up his chin, knowing that he had right on his side. “I have done nothing wrong,” he declared.
Richard planted his fists on the table and pushed himself up. The movement was intimidating, even though the deformed lord swayed while attempting to steady himself on inward-pointing feet. Edric shoved his his chin high while Richard glared at him through black eyebrows. “My son is lying in bed, bruised and bloodied, and one of his knights lies dead in the forest. Someone must pay, and if you are a man of good faith, Edric, you will confess to what you have done.”
Edric paled. He stepped back a little, gulping.
Godric turned on him again. Though he did not hold his axe in his hands, he looked ready enough to hack Edric in two, nonetheless. “What happened, Edric?” The strain in his father’s voice surprised him. In it was both sadness and fear.
Edric slicked his throat with a swallow, but still found it hard to speak. “I … defended myself against Osbern. Nothing more. He swung at me, you see. Ask Leofred. Ask anyone in the tavern that night. He swung at me first, so I dodged, and swung at him in return. Only my blow connected. Should I be punished for my superior aim?”
Richard made a grunting sound and a flinching movement. Godric’s hearth companions all jerked at once, their hands moving towards their swords and axes. But Richard moved no further, so neither did they. Stillness resumed once more, and Edric blew a careful sigh of relief.
“You killed one of my son’s knights,” said Richard.
“I certainly did not. I and my horse-man, Leofred, left immediately after that. We rode home and nothing else happened.”
“An easy lie,” said the Norman. “Osbern says two of his knights followed you out into the woods. It was dark and no one else saw what happened. But it’s obvious.”
Godric’s breath heaved in and out; his shoulders sagged forward. He would not turn to look at his son, though now Edric wished that he would, for surely he would see the surprise and confusion on his own face. Osgifu came over and put her hands around her husband’s arm, which lifted him back up slightly. “How did he die?” he rasped at last. “Could it have been an accident?”
“Stabbed through the neck,” said Richard.
Edric staggered. Suddenly, this whole situation had gone from an inconvenient misunderstanding to something very, very real. A murder had truly taken place. And all of the evidence, or lack thereof, pointed to Edric as the obvious culprit.
“But I did not do it.” He tried to sound calm, confident. That was difficult, now that fear clutched him around the neck. Godric finally looked at him, searching for hope, but finding none, it seemed. “I swear, Father. I didn’t.”
“Can you … prove it?” said Godric.
Edric shrugged helplessly. “How should I know? I wasn’t even there when it happened!”
“I didn’t come here to argue,” snapped Richard. “It is clear to me what happened, and the proper punishment will be made. I came here as a courtesy to you, Godric, so that you would be forewarned of your son’s misbehavior. We will take this to the shire court, and if Edric is found guilty—as I’m sure he will be—he must pay three hundred shillings.”
“Three hundred?” Godric shook his head uncertainly. “The weregald of a free man is only two hundred.”
“Perhaps more,” said Richard. “He was a Norman.”
Edric could practically hear his father’s teeth grinding together. He pretended to like the Normans because King Edward liked the Normans. When King Edward—an Anglo-Saxon by birth—came back from Normandy and took the throne of Engla-lond, he brought several knights and Norman lords with him. King Edward himself had given Richard FitzScrob his great estate in Shrewsbury, as well as one in Herefordshire and Worcestershire. Godric tried to approve of everything King Edward did because he had fought so hard to put King Edward on the throne. But it was difficult for any Anglo-Saxon to approve of the way the Normans planted themselves on the English landscape and seized so much power. Truly enough, Richard could probably demand three hundred shillings for the life of one of his knights, and Godric could do nothing to refute him.
The discussion seemingly over, Richard turned and hobbled away from his seat. His feet were much worse than his son’s, both set of toes practically touching. He had to move somewhat sideways in order to walk at all. Once he had made it to the end of the table, his knights following slowly after, he paused there, his drooping eyes lifting somewhat.
“I hope this does not cause problems between us,” he said.
“Nor do I,” snarled Godric. His muscles were as tight as ropes, Edric could see, even though Osgifu kept her calming hands upon him. “We will right this wrong, I assure you.”
“I hope you do, Godric Kingslayer.”
Godric’s face slackened with shock. Edric felt a shiver of fear. There was no reason Richard would bring up Godric’s old nickname unless to use it as a threat. Seeing that Godric understood his meaning, he hobbled the rest of his way out of the hall.
As Edric listened to their slowly receding footsteps, he considered the possible repercussions of Richard’s parting words. He did not know the full details of Godric’s past, but he did know that Godric had killed King Harold Harefoot. Most nobles, in fact, knew this, though the proof had been discarded, for his father told him Earl Goodwin of Wessex had arranged the murder himself. As Goodwin and his sons possessed as much wealth and
power in Engla-lond as King Edward himself, if not more, no one bothered to protest the incident. After Godric slit Harold’s throat, Goodwin had Harold’s head chopped off and his body thrown into the river with no ceremony at all.
Other rumors circulated about Godric “Kingslayer”—rumors Edric was not entirely sure were true. His father had sat him down one day to confess the fact he had killed Harold Harefoot, and he had done so with full disclosure. If he had more to confess, wouldn’t he have done so? Besides, if the rumors were to be believed, Godric had killed as many as four kings. Which was simply ridiculous.
At last, the sounds of Richard and his men galloping away faded to silence. In that moment Godric stormed to the table, picked up a goblet, and threw it against the far wall with so much force the wood creaked.
“FUCK!” he shouted.
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