The First Lost Tale of Mercia: Golde the Mother by Jayden Woods

The First Lost Tale of Mercia:
    Golde the Mother
    Jayden Woods
    Smashwords Edition
    Copyright 2010 Jayden Woods
    Edited by Malcolm Pierce

    “ And this year the king
and all his witan decreed that all the ships which were worth
anything should be gathered together at London, in order that they
might try if they could anywhere betrap the army from without. But
Aelfric the ealdorman, one of those in whom the king had most
confidence, directed the army to be warned; and in the night, as
they should on the morrow have joined battle, the selfsame Aelfric
fled from the forces; and then the army escaped.”

    --The Anglo-Saxon Chronicles, Entry For Year
992

    *

    WORCESTERSHIRE
    993 A.D.

    Even the lazy pigs stirred to life when
Alfric and his men came riding over the hills. The hogs rolled and
squealed, bobbing up and down on stubby legs as they ran around in
mass confusion. The dog barked, lifting wiry haunches from the dirt
to point his muzzle and boom his howl of alert. The horizon
undulated as the ealdormen’s cavalry sliced black silhouettes
against the iron gray clouds. Chills raked down Golde’s skin as she
watched, though the breeze brushing her pale hair blew with the
warmth of spring.
    “Hunwald?” she called. “Hunwald!”
    She heard no response from the swineherd:
only the thunder of Alfric’s men galloping closer. Then, over the
cacophony of thudding hooves, grunting pigs, and barking dogs, she
heard a child yelling.
    “Mother!”
    She turned just as his little hands struck
her skirt, pulling and tugging. She looked down at his big blue
eyes, unable to be mad at him even though she wished that right
now, he would simply disappear. “Eadric, find Hunwald and tell him
to put up the pigs.”
    “I’ll do it myself.”
    Golde shook her head helplessly at the
boisterous seven-year-old. Only yesterday, one of the hogs had
flattened him in the mud and nearly crushed his chest. Already, he
seemed to have forgotten the incident. His thick yellow curls
lashed against his face in a visage of defiance. “No,” said his
mother, “you’ll help him, and then you’ll feed the pigs yourself
while Hunwald joins me inside. Can you do that?”
    “I suppose.” As if noticing them for the
first time, Eadric stared at the war-horses riding closer. Even in
the fading sunlight, the chainmail and weaponry of the riders
glinted brightly. “What’s this?” The little boy sounded more
exasperated than afraid.
    “ Off with you!” She kicked his
departing rump with too much force to be playful. Sometimes she
wondered whether she had sheltered the little boy too successfully
from the horrors of the world he lived in. He seemed oblivious to
pain and danger.
    All too soon, the riding men reached her,
flinging dirt onto her dress as they reined their horses to a
sudden stop. Despite their intimidating approach, there must have
been only a dozen of them, most of them wounded and weary. Foam
bubbled from their horses’ mouths and salt whitened their flanks.
She squinted disapprovingly as she searched the score of
dismounting men for the one she knew to lead them.
    He was not a hard man to find. He had a head
of such thick, golden curls that he could have been a second sun
rising from the east as he pulled off his helm. He wore a blue
mantle, though now it was stained with filth and blood, and a tunic
of crushed diamond twills in flax covered his mail. It was a
garment any outlaw would risk his life to obtain, so Golde thought
he was a fool to wear it. He jangled from the weight of his weapons
and jewelry as he blundered towards her.
    “Oh, Golde!” he cried.
    Before she could stop him, he fell against
her and wrapped her in an embrace. He probably intended it as an
embrace, at least, but it felt more like he simply threw his weight
against her and expected her to hold him up.
    “I’m done for—disgraced—humiliated—finished!”
He clutched her fiercely, his whole frame trembling.
    “You’re … pathetic!” She put her