The Third Lost Tale of Mercia: Aydith the Aetheling by Jayden Woods Page B

tavern
wenches. Aydith did not not know exactly what they were whispering
to each other, but she knew it must be sinful, and even if it was
not, it was disrespectful to speak of an aetheling in such a
manner. Not sure what to say, she harrumphed and crossed her arms
over her chest, then went to sit at her table and chair.
    This table was probably her favorite place
on earth to sit. It squatted in a cold corner of the stone room,
from which point the rest of the world seemed to grow quiet around
her. At the table, she did not have to focus on anything but her
wooden toys, and the precious manuscripts from which they were
inspired. No matter how bright the outdoors, the table always
seemed to collect a gentle glow around its corners, whether from
the nearby candles, the lit brazier, or the sunlight forcing its
way through the thick tapestry over the window. She sat in her
table and took a deep breath, feeling the way a breeze always
seemed to flutter here, making everything move and come alive, from
the fabric of her dress to the delicate parchment of her books.
    Her fingers reached out and found the smooth
wooden piece tucked behind the books. She owned a few different
carvings: one of a horse, and a church, and a wooden palisade. But
most precious to her was the carving of a woman, crafted for Aydith
per her request to the royal carpenter. The woman wore a dress, but
leather armor was also carved onto her form, as well as a helm over
her bound hair. A sword hung from her hip. Aydith traced the rim of
the toy sword with her fingertip while staring longingly towards
the glowing window.
    For a moment she began to feel peaceful and
alone once more. Then she realized Hastings stood only a few feet
away from her. She had not even heard him approach.
    She started, then quickly put the carved
woman away. She looked at Hastings with a wary expression. “Don’t
worry,” she said. “I don’t think I can escape through the window
from here.”
    “ I am not so sure.” He
attempted a smile. “You look very fast.”
    “ Hmph!” She wanted to be
mad at him, but she could not resist smiling, herself. She turned
away to hide her expression and a heavy silence resumed. She wished
she could return to that quiet place in her mind, but she could
not, and it was not entirely Hastings’s fault.
    “ What was that you were
holding?” asked the hearth companion.
    “ It was nothing,” she said
quickly. “A silly trinket. But I’ve grown out of such
things.”
    She heard the maids across the room start
whispering again, and it reminded her of the much louder, but no
less shameful, whisperings that took place among the king’s
witenagemot, or gathering of wise men. Much against her will, she
felt her tears and sobs returning.
    “ My lady?” Hastings watched
her face uncertainly. “Can I … do anything?”
    “ I don’t know.” She
sniffled and looked at him directly. “Can you? Can anyone?” She
shook her head so forcefully that some dark strands of her hair
fell over her small face. “My father tried. God knows he tried. He
even went across the sea and tried to fight the Danes in their
homeland, and I was so proud of him. But he failed. Then he went to
Normandy!” She smiled sadly, even as her chin quivered. “He said he
would capture Duke Richard and take him back to Engla-lond with his
hands tied behind his back, for all that he had done to help the
Danes! What changed, Hastings? Is there something I do not
understand? What makes my father go back and forth between being a
proud and brave king to a cowering fool? Whatever in heaven or hell
made him decide to marry Duke Richard’s daughter? Please tell me
that my father was right after all, and that I am simply too young
and foolish to understand!”
    Hastings had a strange look on his face: one
of awe, and bewilderment, and a small degree of discomfort. “I … I
wish I knew, my lady. But in truth, I am as puzzled as you.”
    She looked at him with fresh eyes, wondering
if