NaNoWriMo Chapter 2

Burgred didn't like Caldwell, and Caldwell hated Burgred, although only secretly, and in public had never been less than pleasant with him.  In truth, Caldwell didn't like the fact that he hated Burgred, and refused to admit it even to himself, for Burgred was by any honest account a good man and a fine Earl, and if Caldwell didn't take to Burgred, it probably said more about the former than the latter.   Burgred, for his part, didn't actually dislike Caldwell… Caldwell just had a rather grating voice and said some even more grating things, and Burgred far from enjoyed his company.

But both men loved their king, Caston, and both had served him for a very long time.  They had known each other when they were little more than boys, when Castus had become king after the death of his older brother, and he called together all his new earls, who had become so after the deaths of their noble fathers.  At the time, the experience was frightening and bloody, but even more so it was hungry and wet and cold and it smelt like horse shit and still water.  However, that was thirty years ago, and twenty since the last battle, and all either remember of the time is that they would never do anything in the last half of their lives like they achieved in the first, and that creates a sense of nostalgia that only the greatest of men can know.

And there weren't many such men left.  

There was Bert, of course, and he would likely outlive the lot of them, which is ironic since he nearly died during the wars at least three times.  But he was the Earl of Farpont, which was quite appropriately named, and had married a foreigner, a Kraki, so they heard from him very little.  All four of Edwin's boys, along with Kate's husband, had fallen at the Battle of Bruna.  Walder was around, or at least alive, but in ill health.  Which left Caston, Burgred, and Caldwell to reminisce about the marching times, and by now the three of them hadn't a story untold or a boast unbellowed between them.  

And, of course, there was the fact that Caldwell and Burgred didn't like each other very much, if at all.

But Burgred was Earl of Timber, and that was on the River Temesene, as far west as one could go before walking in the Marches, and to see his king, Caston, in his Hall in Caerlot, he had to travel along the New Road.  And the New Road ran through Kenton, and Caldwell was the Earl of Kenton, and so Burgred faced a choice each time he passed through… would he dine and drink with the Earl, when all traditions of hospitality suggested that Caldwell should welcome and feast him?  Or would he pass through, feeding the gossips and fools who now danced about Caston's hall?  

Burgred was an old man, and a loyal one, and he only passed through Kenton twice a year… once on his way to Caerlot, and once on his way back.  And so, twice a year, Caldwell and Burgred went through a rather uncomfortable event where they told the same stories and bellowed the same boasts, and never interrupted each other.

It was late, and the hall was largely empty.  Caldwell, for all his boorish ways, was not a bad man, and he kept decent company and even better food.  He had feasted his guest with duck and pheasant and other game fowl his hunters had back that afternoon, and filled his table with all manner of sweet breads, which Caldwell knew his young wife, Inge, adored.  And he had enough casks of beer and mead to put an army to their beds at night, and so by the time the embers of the fire approached their final moments, both men were drunk.  Inge waited up with them, as appropriate, but apart from the occasional servant and the snoring of Gilder, Caldwell's champion, they were alone.

Burgred, coincidentally, never travelled with his champion, who was a woman and Aelic, but that was not a topic of polite conversation in the halls of the other Earls.

"I heard he clutches his stomach these days, that there is a rot there."  Caldwell doused his bread in gravy as he sopped up the last of it.  Crumbs and stains filled his beard; his mouth few teeth left and his he had trouble chewing.  It did not stop him from eating a prodigious amount, but rather turned the act of feasting into a strange form of entertainment for those around him.

"I do not know, but I have heard the rumors.  And he does clutch his side.  Thank you."  He turned the last words toward Inge as she filled his cup.  The mead had dulled his senses just a bit, and it was getting chilly, so the drink warmed him.  "I think they are…"  He paused, and frowned.  "He is in a great deal of pain."

"In the stomach?" asked Caldwell.

"In the stomach." Burgred reached for more bread, more out of something to do than hunger.

"So Caston's dying, eh?"  He gave just a moment's pause but didn't wait for Burgred's answer. "Asshole.  He survived the war and will die of stomach rot.  And leave you and me behind to clean up the mess."

"The mess?"

"Draught."

Burgred took another drink.  "Draught is to be made the Earl of Bessex.  And he's about that business already."

"And doing quite a good job of it."

"He is his father's son. "

"And his mother's son.  Who is Heorot."

Burgred looked to Inge.  She had the look of a young and worried wife who did not understand the situation.  She was quite good at that look.  She looked at Burgred and managed a polite smile.  He suddenly found himself realizing that he was rather cold, and reached for his fur, which was just far enough from his seat that he couldn't quite reach it.  He grumbled, and spat out an incoherent curse, before Inge stood and brought it closer to his grasp.  "How are your children, my lord?" 

Burgred took the fur and pulled it about his shoulders.  He was a skinny man, small, always smaller than all the others.  Caldwell towered over him, and was a far better warrior, but Burgred had worked very hard to be adequate at fighting and good at battle, and had survived through a bit of cunning where much stronger warriors had failed.  But you couldn't trick the chills or outthink old age, just like Caston couldn't craft a strategy against the rot laying siege to his innards.  "They are well, good lady.  I saw my boy Aldred in Caerlot and he seems most settled in his new service."

"He doesn't fill Hengur's cloak out quite yet."

Burgred reached for his cup.  "It's a hard mantle to bear.  But he is young, and so was Hengur when…"

"Is he going West?"

Burgred's hand stopped short of the cup.  He really did not like Caldwell.  "I do not know.  I did not ask him."

The fire smoldered, and Caldwell coughed and pointed and Inge stood and walked to tend it.  A few servants came forward and she waived them off.  Caldwell called for them to bring him the last of the ducks, which he started to rip apart with greasy fingers.  He looked at the last portions of his meal, Burgred looked straight at him.

Under the furs, Burgred looked relatively small, almost ridiculous.  He kept his beard and hair short, and both were stark white, which made him look somewhat older than his forty-five years.  Caldwell still had dark brown hair, and his curled in long and nasty strands around his fat face.  Caldwell wasn't really fat… he wasn't lean, he was just big, with a big chest and big arms to go with his big stomach… but he always had a fat face.  "If he were really to take the mantle of Justice after Hengur, he should go West, where Hengur died, and finish the job."

"Winter is almost here.  If there's anything out there, it'll be there in the Spring or it'll be gone." 

"It wouldn't matter.  I hear the Beast doesn't eat Aels."

"My son isn't Aelic."

"Then he's not Heorot either, is he?"  There was a moment of silence.  Caldwell looked up to meet Burgred's eyes, and then turned away, a bit surprised.  "I mean, I heard the Beast won't eat one of Aelic blood."

"My son is of the Faith and faithful to the king.  As his sister, my daughter, and his mother, my wife."  Burgred didn't look threatening with his wizened head looking like a dwarf in his heavy fur, but he wasn't exactly trying to be.  Caldwell grimaced and pulled at the strings of meat under his nails.

"How's your other son?"  Caldwell stared at Burgred, and Burgred stared at Caldwell, and Inge looked back from the hearth at them both.  And then they both started laughing… Burgred first, a bit despite himself, and Caldwell a bit more satisfied.  "I heard he killed Sander."

"Oswulf's man?  Aye, he did."

"Your son is a great warrior."

"Oh, I know.  Believe me, I know.  He does too.  And I was once a rich man.  And my son knew that as well."

"What did it cost you?"

"Five horse, with tacts and saddle; one was a Rooster, with its saddle inlaid with bone and gold."

"Where did you get it?"

"It was mine."  Both men laughed again, Caldwell a little more, Burgred a little less.  "You don't believe that Hengur and his men were killed by a monster, do you?"

"I believe nothing that I do not see, my good friend, but I fear everything I do not, particularly in the West."  Caldwell finished the last of his mead and slammed the cup to the table.  "You do not think there is a monster?  Or are you not afraid of it?"

Burgred drained the last of his wine.  His eyes were heavy and he wanted to pull the fur over his head and sleep.  He wanted to not worry of his son's duties or of what happened in the west.  "On matters of the Marches, I believe what my wife tells me, and truly, these days, I only really fear her."