Revenge: Part 3 (Gainesburg, Mercia: Early February, 1014 A.D.)

The law speaker cleared his throat. “We now convene this Thing-Court to discuss the taxation of the city of Beodricsworth, the resting place of Saint Edmund the Martyr. By the laws of the realm, the kingdom may tax any town it wishes, within reason. We will now hear the grievances of the people of Beodricsworth.”

A man, clearly a nobleman, judging by his clothes, stepped forward, nodded to the lawspeaker and bowed to Svein, who sat atop his horse next to his wife, Sigrid, and his son Knut. When he rose from his awkwardly lengthy bow, he said, “I am Ulfcytel, Ealdorman of East Anglia.”

“Ulfcytel! Yes! I remember your defeat at Thetford! You’ve aged well, my friend,” Svein commented, laughing.

Ulfcytel swallowed, and continued. “I have come to argue for the exemption of the city of Beodricsworth from tribute and taxation. Not being the expert I should be on religious matters, I have brought Father Gregory, from the St. Edmund’s chapel in Beodricsworth, to argue on behalf of the city.”

The priest stepped forward from the gathered crowds. He bowed humbly and silently absorbed whispered encouragement from the group behind him. As he stood, he began in a smooth voice, “In our town of Beodricsworth lies the uncorrupt body of Saint Edmund the Martyr. Since he has been buried there, out of respect, no leader has exacted tribute from us. We know you as a devout Christian, King Forkbeard, and would ask that you honor the memory of Saint Edmund as they have.”

Svein resisted the urge to scoff. “Father, if your town won’t pay tribute to my kingdom, it won’t see the benefits of being a part of my kingdom. I’ll have no way to protect you from raiders, thieves, pirates. You won’t see the benefits of our vast trading network throughout England. It’s as simple as that.”

“Saint Edmund was a great saint, who protects us from all ills. He protects our crops, our roofs, and our livelihoods. He is among the holiest of saints. All we ask is that you honor him as those who preceded you did,” Father Gregory insisted. “I swear to you, we have no objection to your reign.”

“You have no need for my protection at all, then? No need for trade? If your saint protects you from all ills, you don’t need to be a part of my kingdom. Is that what you want?” Svein raised one brow.

Father Gregory became visibly incensed. “One-hundred and forty-four years ago, he was slain by your Viking ancestor Ivar the Boneless by arrows, and, when that failed, by beheading. He is our patron saint. Since he has been buried here, no leader has dared exact tribute from us. You owe us that much, for what your ancestors have done.”

Svein wasn’t even Ivar’s descendant! But before Svein could open his mouth to tell him to shove it, there was a murmur in the crowd. A woman gave a shout and pointed. Everyone present raised their eyes to the eastern sky. Svein, too, turned to look, and he could see a comet hanging there. Then, he heard a commotion behind him. He turned back to the crowd, and he could see them parting before some flitting shadow. As it grew nearer, he could make it out as a man, with flowing red robes fit for a king that flowed out behind him like a sea of blood. He carried a spear raised over his shoulder, the shaft carved in byzantine patterns, with a spear-point a foot long.

He recognized him from the paintings he had seen in the monastery. It was the Martyr himself, St. Edmund, who had been killed by Ivar all those years ago!

He flung an outraged finger at the apparition. “Shoot him down!” he cried. But no arrows came. He had only a moment to turn back and glimpse the confused faces of his men before the spear struck him through the heart and he fell from his horse, darkness filling his vision.