The Lost Tales of Mercia by Jayden Woods Page A

it been since these Vikings were
mobile, she wondered? Had this whole army stayed here since the
death of their last king, doing nothing, even though the king of
the Anglo-Saxons had left his own country for a short while? She
could hardly believe it. “But Canute has been your king for almost
two months,” she observed aloud.
    “I said go away! ”
    He shoved her, so hard that she tripped on
her skirts, and then she fell into the mud.
    She should have been furious. She should
have been overwhelmed with shame and outrage. Here, in the filthy,
stinking dirt, she faced utter humiliation, which she feared more
than death itself. And yet faced with it, she overcame it. She felt
as if she had just been pushed off a cliff. Where once the view
dizzied her and prevented her progress, she now realized that she
would survive the fall to the bottom. She heard men laughing at
her, but this only fed her determination to prove them wrong. It
gave her the strength to pull herself from the filth. Silent,
expressionless, she flapped the muck off her dress and lifted her
chin again. The men grew quiet, watching her curiously. She stared
back at them, her gray eyes as solid as stone.
    She had control of her emotions, though it
was not about to seem so. She gathered them all in the pit of her
belly. She let them rise up and make her chest swell. Some of it
overflowed slightly, making her blood boil and her hands squeeze
into such tight fists that her nails pierced the skin of her palms.
But when she let it out of her throat, all the rest was worth it.
She let out a sound that was more than a scream; it was also the
roar of a lion, the howl of a wolf. It was a cry of pain and
sorrow—but also of strength.
    When it was over she closed her mouth and
listened to her own cry echo through the hills. Her vision swam
with the exhilaration of her release. The men all around her were
dumbstruck, and their eyes were filled with terror. She felt a
small smirk on her lips.
    She could not say for how long she waited
for a reaction. The time passed on and on, but she was in a state
of calm, so she did not measure it. She only took note when a
distant door swung open: the door of Canute’s own hall. Surely he
resided there, for it was the biggest building in sight, and it was
guarded by men wearing rings of gold and silver: men who were
probably his personal guards, or as the Danes called them,
housecarls.
    A man peered from the door. She had never
seen Canute before, but she did not think this was him. This man
looked too old and—in any case—she simply sensed that if it was
Canute, she would know it. He only peered at her a moment, then
returned inside.
    She stood calmly and patiently. Her heart
scrambled and thumped in her chest, but otherwise she reined in her
feelings. After all, she had just released her emotions in the most
powerful scream of her entire life. She could relax now.
    After a moment the man walked out of
Canute’s hall again. Her heart surged, this time with eagerness. He
made his way through the mud to the housecarl who had pushed her,
and who now wore a very abashed look on his face.
    “What the hell is going on, Gunnlaug?”
    Alfgifu answered for him. “I am Alfgifu of
Northampton. I brought gifts for King Canute, and this
man—Gunnlaug—pushed me into the ground for my trouble.”
    The king’s man looked warily from one of
them to the other. Gunnlaug seemed torn between surliness and
guilt. “She insisted on seeing Canute.”
    Canute’s housecarl surprised them both by
reaching out and grabbing Alfgifu’s arm. “Then she’ll see him.” And
he started to pull her away.
    “Hey!” Alfgifu squirmed until at last she
escaped his grip. But he kept walking, and she was forced to
scramble after him, feeling humiliated once more. She wanted to
insist on bringing her hearth companions along, but if he refused
her, it would only increase her embarrassment. Besides, she told
herself, she wouldn’t need them.
    Any remaining