*
Athelward did not speak another word to anyone all day. His servant, Drustan, discovered what had happened and knew better than to ask about it; he cleaned it up and closed the chamber up tight. Athelward sat in his room a long while, staring into nothingness. Eventually, he found it in his heart to pray, though he could not do even this for very long. He was simply too angry. Every once in awhile people knocked on his door, but Drustan guarded it, and told them all that Athelward was busy.
When it was time for dinner, Athelward went, but he sat still and barely touched his food. The sight of his son, Aethelmaer, gobbling down his own meal made him sick to his stomach. The fat man filled the silence by talking on and on, about this and that, this and that, but all of his words passed through Athelward’s mind, leaving nothing behind. They were meaningless. Empty.
Perhaps everything, he thought, was meaningless.
He drank a great deal that night to dull his anger and help himself sleep. The Lord must have been in a merciful temper by nightfall, for when he awoke the next morning, he suffered few ill effects for this indulgence.
In fact, he felt better.
He got up and donned his robes while his wife continued to sleep in the bed behind him. He thought about all of the work he needed to do: all of the thegns and abbots he needed to speak to, all of the walls and bridges throughout Hampshire and beyond that needed repairing before fall came. He already wanted to start campaigning for another Danegald to be paid upon Sweyn Forkbeard’s next return. That would be much more difficult to arrange without the help of Lord Alfric, who simp