The Lost Tales of Mercia by Jayden Woods Page B

so
far that she almost stumbled to the floor. “Give it back!” The
pitch of her voice rose nearly to a scream.
    “I grow weary of hearing you speak of her,”
said Aethelstan. “'Lady of the Mercians.’ Her story may be history,
but it is still ridiculous! The Archbishop was right: reading has
filled your head with nonsense.”
    Aydith clutched her face, nails digging into
her cheeks. “He … he said that?”
    Aethelstan lowered the figurine somewhat,
taking her sorrow for submission. “Aydith, women should not lead
armies, nor rule in the place of an ealdorman.” He said it so
calmly, so matter-of-factly. “Your nature is to be peaceful and
supportive. It is the role God chose for you. I thought you knew
that?”
    She shuddered. “But … she took Derby … and
built burgs … and―”
    “Her husband was dead,” said Aethelstan.
“That was different. There was no one else to do it. Do you
remember what happened after she died, and Mercia fell to the
spindle side? Her daughter failed to rule, and had to give it up to
her brother, and … oh I forget the rest.” He looked frustrated.
“What does it matter? It’s not even your concern!”
    “Please, Aethelstan, I’m … I’m trying to be
good.” She felt cold inside out, and trembled uncontrollably. “I’m
trying to do what’s right. Tell me what to do.”
    He thought about this long and hard. Then
his eyes fixed on the figurine. “First, you have to forget about
her.” He walked towards the brazier.
    “... What?” Aydith scrambled to her feet.
“What are you doing?”
    Without any ceremony, he opened the brazier
and tossed the figurine into the flames. Aydith put her hands over
her mouth to cover her squeal.
    Aethelstan stared into the brazier with deep
concentration, the bright orange light glinting in his eyes.
Despite all this, he seemed unsatisfied. He picked up a poker and
jabbed angrily at the embers, little sparks and pieces of burning
ash spraying up in a gruesome fountain.
    “I will do that, my lord,” said
Hastings.
    Aethelstan blinked with surprise, having
forgotten Hastings’s presence. He passed off the poker. “Er, thank
you,” he said.
    Hastings took up the job of stoking the fire
with a grim, firmly-set expression. For some reason, Aydith felt
even more betrayed now than when Aethelstan had done it, for she
had thought maybe Hastings understood her mind. But of course, that
was foolish, and in both instances Hastings was only doing his
duty, serving the lord and lady according to their respective
ranks.
    She crumpled in on herself, feeling her
tears return. Her eyes had nearly run dry, she thought. Perhaps
that was for the best.
    Aethelstan walked up and stood over her. His
voice was soft. “Come now, sister. It’s for your own good.”
    “I know. Th-thank you, brother.” She could
not bring herself to look at him. “Now … please leave.”
    He remained there a moment, unmoving. She
did not bother to glance at his expression; she did not care. At
last he turned, and she listened to the heavy thuds of his boots as
he walked out, and shut the door softly behind him.
    Aydith did not budge for a long while. She
tried to find some peace and quietude within her mind, not thinking
about anything else. She forgot Hastings was even in the room until
she heard him shutting the lid of the brazier, and she shuddered.
She had managed to forget the destruction of her figurine until she
heard that terrible sound.
    “My lady,” said the hearth companion
softly.
    “Don’t speak to me,” snapped Aydith. She
wished she could order him to leave, but she knew she could not. He
would follow the king’s will over hers, as he should.
    He walked closer to her, his feet treading
much more quietly than Aethelstan’s, even though he was a bigger
man. She smelled the ash and smoke that must have blown on him from
the fire he encouraged, and it made her sick to her stomach.
    She she heard a loud thunk , and
turned to see that he had dropped