Egelric walks out after the storm

The storm that rolled in that July afternoon served an entire generation as a point of comparison for all the storms that followed. For a night and a day it lashed the hills and the valley, overflowing the river with torrents of rain, flattening the wheat, uprooting trees, and pouring through thatch roofs. In the occasional moments that the rain slowed, the black sky lightened to a sickening shade of green that was more frightening than the lightning and hail itself. Peasants and noblemen alike huddled in their homes, more or less dry according to their stations, waiting for the punishment to end. And the wetter they were, the more often could the word “curse” be heard in their mutterings.

Egelric Wodehead awaited the end of the storm in the loft at Nothelm stables. The horses liked having him there—even the beasts seemed to recognize that Egelric Wodehead was a capable man who would know what to do in case of danger. And the Duke merely shrugged when Egelric had asked the favor. Egelric never begged an explanation, but it was clear to him that Alred could not stomach Elfleda any longer.

Matilda herself brought him inside those two evenings to dine with her and his young lordship. Egelric had been mortified—they said Matilda was the cousin of King Harold himself—but Dunstan was quite fond of him, and Egelric was able to hide his embarrassment by talking nonsense with the boy. Matilda was not nearly so enamored of Egelric as her husband was, but she enjoyed the idea of inviting him to dine with her noble self while that witch Elfleda stewed at home, alone.

After dinner he was relieved to retire to the stable. The grooms had been talking quietly when he came in on that second night, but they pointedly fell silent as they watched him climb the ladder into the loft. They left, mumbling something in which he thought he heard the word “curse.”

Egelric sighed and stretched out in the hay. They all knew. He wondered if they would run him out of Lothere some day, the way the people had done in Thorhold.

At least the animals didn’t fear him. A few tawny barn cats had slithered out of the hay and were rubbing their flanks along his body. He listened to the rain, falling steadily and without thunder now, and fell asleep.

When he woke, the animals were quietly sleeping and the rain had stopped. Through the high window he almost thought he could see stars. He stood up, shaking hay and cats off of him. He would just step outside and survey the devastation.

The night sky was crystalline, with only a few translucent moonlit clouds lingering. He walked through the gate and onto the swampy road. He made up his mind to go home. Elfleda would be sleeping—so much the better. He would take her by surprise.

He started towards the crossroads, trying to weave a path around the puddles that didn’t require too much jumping. As he reached the Hogge farm, he slowed and finally stopped at the side of the house.

How the world had changed since last he stood here at this hour. The birch against which he had been leaning when Gunnilda first touched his face had fallen across the road. The curse? He felt an odd flush of power as he realized that he could kill a tree simply by touching it. Had he been a little more… like Elfleda, say, he might have been able to turn this curse to his own ends.

But what about Gunnilda? His blood froze. The tree had merely stood innocently by—Gunnilda had touched his face. He whispered a little prayer for her—hoping that it would be answered for her sake, since he knew that God had already given him up.

He started walking again, slowly, looking up at the young moon as he passed under another tree and it came into view. It had grown so little since he had stood here with Gunnilda, and yet it seemed so long ago…

After a few steps more, he noticed something else in the sky. He stopped and stared up, perplexed. It looked like a shooting star frozen in place. He had seen something like this a few years before… it had been far brighter and its tail longer, and it had terrified his more superstitious neighbors. And in truth it had proved to be an evil omen: a few months later, the king was dead, shot through the eye with an arrow on Hastings field.

Another portent of evil? Egelric was not afraid. Again he felt a rush of strength. “Hail, brother,” he said softly, and he walked on.