Heart of Venison (Incipit)

Act I: Mærri mildingr deyrat

“A more splendid munificent prince will not die.”

- Þorkell Skallason, “Valþjófsflokkr”

Had it been up to himself, Leofric would have baptized the very road he stood on The Bastard’s Road.

Such a name would have made his dagger much lighter, and its blade, more merciful. Such a name would have denoted far more truth than the insult that was its veritable appellation.

The late afternoon sun had dipped below the tree line, casting long shadows across the King’s Road. Silence reigned; the trees dared not sigh despite the fickle breeze. Leofric flew from one side to the other, ascertaining which one would grant him the greatest foresight. With little care for the flora he crushed underfoot, his talons tightened around the hilt of his dagger.

Death clung to his cloak, robbing the birds of their song and the flowers of their scent. Ever since the cruel execution of his uncle Waltheof four months prior, Leofric had but one taste on his tongue: the metallic relish of blood. Norman blood, to be exact.

And his hunger was about to be sated.

Leofric crouched amidst the underbrush, his lean frame concealed by the riotous greenery. He paid no attention to the red squirrel tentatively climbing down the tree behind which he partially hid, hoping the creature would nibble on his patched-up tunic instead of his skin.

The clatter of hooves reached his ears, faint at first but growing steadily louder. His shoulders tensed and he straightened his back to catch a glimpse of the carriage as it crested the hill. Its silhouette glistened like a pearl emerging from the waters, untouched by the dust it disrupted in its wake. The dying sunlight bounced off its golden trim as it neared, blinding the squirrel into retreat. Meanwhile, Leofric dared not move though his muscles anxiously twitched to plant his blade in the coachman’s heart.

His gaze darted to the fallen tree he had dragged into the road earlier that afternoon, before returning to the carriage, its wheels grinding softly to a halt as the driver pulled on the reins. Leofric’s heart quickened, but his grip on the dagger remained steady. The horses snorted and pawed the ground, uneasy.

The driver, a mousey man with a protruding right ear, scurried down from his perch. “No cause for alarm,” he called back towards the carriage. “I shall have this cleared in no time.”

A murmur of voices filtered from within the carriage, indistinct and distant. Leofric shifted slightly, the leaves beneath him rustling as he adjusted his position. The driver’s focus remained fixed on the task at hand, his small hands shakily gripping the trunk as he attempted to heave it aside.

When the unassuming man began to hum a tune, Leofric stood straight as an arrow. Immediately recognizing the words, he carefully stepped onto the path as the coachman’s whiskered lips parted in a song, a slew of strained lyrics.

William the king, our great emperor,
has been in England for ten full years;
he has conquered all the upland right down to the seashore
and not a castle stand before him.

He paused to catch his breath and heaved once more.

“Blasted!” The mouse squeaked and Leofric froze, his dagger poised for attack. But the coachman continued his futile endeavour, paying no mind to the shadow of a young man creeping in his direction. He only began to sense a movement when Leofric’s arm cut through the wind and swept the blade across his throat in a swift, practiced motion.

A crimson spray dirtied Leofric’s sleeve and he instinctively rubbed the fabric, in vain. The stain would never come out. The driver’s body was a limp mass on the ground, his hands clutched to the gaping wound and his eyes remained wide open, immortalizing his state of shock. Initially grateful for the man’s silence, he quickly turned to the carriage and hoped his employers had stopped listening to his song long before the Englishman emerged from the forest.

Easing the man’s body against the fallen tree, he wiped the blade clean on the driver’s coarse tunic before retreating into the shadows of the forest. The carriage door creaked open, and a man clambered down, his boots landing heavily on the dirt road. His fine garments strained against his bulk, his skin flushed, his presence an overripe fruit ready to burst. Albéric de Conteville, Earl of Chester.

“Tancred?” the man called out. His voice, devoid of impatience, was instead laden with worry. “Tancred!” he called out again as his beady eyes landed on the tree trunk. When no reply came, he muttered a curse under his breath and crept towards the front of the carriage. Leofric, concealed on the other side of the vehicle, held his breath. He watched the man puttering about before freezing before the mouse’s body.

With his gaze fixed on the bloodied carcass sprawled on the ground, he bent low, his hands hovering over the corpse. He grabbed the coachman’s wrists, pulling them away from the wound he had tried to contain. Upon the ghastly sight, he stumbled back in horror and turned around with his mouth open, ready to scream for help.

But although the Norman could beat him in cruelty, Leofric bested him in both swiftness and rancour. He emerged from the shadows, descending onto his prey like a peregrine falcon. He covered the man’s mouth and planted his dagger deep in his neck.

The earl struggled fiercely, fighting under Leofric’s iron grip like a pig in a slaughterhouse. He dragged his captive into the thicket, a smile flickering on his lips upon the sweet melody of the Norman’s weakening breath. The forest swallowed them both, behind whom the silence had fallen once more over the King’s Road.

While the carriage was little more than a dim shape between the trees from where Leofric stood, he distinguished a strident voice ringing from the vehicle window. “Albéric? Where have you gone?”

He paused before hastening his trudge when he heard the click of the carriage door latch and the faint thud of shoes descending its step. Another female voice, this one steady and calm, followed. “Be careful, Madame. You ought to wait for Monsieur to return.”

But the first woman paid the warning no heed. The fabric of her skirts rustled faintly as she waddled her way to the edge of the forest like a Duclair duck. She called the now-dead earl’s name once more, her voice fragile. Searching.

Leofric released his grip on the Norman, whose eyes stared sightlessly at the canopy above. He shifted his focus to the sound of the approaching woman, his dagger once more at the ready. She moved cautiously, following the drag marks carved deep into the earth.

Leofric’s final act was swift. He emerged from the shadows before she could find her husband’s lifeless form. Before she could register the fear crawling up her spine to her nape.

Before she could begin to scream.

Her body crumpled to the forest floor, her blood pooling among the leaves and tinting them red like an early autumn. Leofric stood in the dim light of the forest, his breathing measured but his mind racing.

Time, he knew, was not on his side.

He knelt beside Albéric and began to strip the man of his fine garments. He traced their embroidery with his calloused fingers before slipping out of his own clothes. He detested how soft his new garb was, how comfortable he felt in them. He especially hated the ease with which they reminded him of his childhood, a time when he wanted for nothing. A time when it was inconceivable for him to measure anything by its absence.

Leofric cast a glance downward, taking in the image of himself as a Norman nobleman. The irony was bitter on his tongue, but he swallowed it down and banished it to the pit of his stomach. He concealed the bodies at his feet beneath a tangle of branches and swiveled on his heels to make his way out of the forest, back onto the King’s Road.

Leofric stumbled towards the carriage, his steps purposefully unsteady. His breath came in ragged gasps as he reached the vehicle, his hand gripping the edge of the door for support. His mask quickly dissipated as he took in the small figure lying on a seat, curled in slumber. Her face was hidden behind a cascade of blonde curls. Opposite her sat a woman of stern demeanor, one with cold eyes and a long neck. Her gaze snapped to Leofric, waiting only a heartbeat before addressing him.

“You did not make a sound,” she said, her voice low.

Leofric watched the little girl, who did not stir from the sound. Peeling his eyes away, he met the woman’s gaze, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “What can I say? I’m great at what I do.”

The governess’s eyes narrowed, but she said nothing further. She leaned to the seat across and gently shook the girl awake. “Léontine,” she whispered. “You need to wake up.”

“Let me,” Leofric interrupted when the young heiress did not move. He kneeled next to her like he did with her father’s body, leveling his face with her. “Léontine,” he uttered her name for the first time, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles. The girl stirred, her eyelids fluttering open. She blinked at him and frowned, lazily reaching her hands out to touch his face.

“Léontine,” he continued. “It is I, your uncle Baldwin.”

“Uncle Baldwin?” she murmured, her voice soft and uncertain.

Leofric nodded, his voice gentle as he replied. “Yes, my dear.” He cleared his throat, looking back to the governess for guidance. But the woman was seemingly enraptured by the stillness of the forest outside. “Your parents had to urgently return to Chester, so I shall escort you to the castle.”

The child’s lips curved into a small smile and Leofric’s chest tightened as he let go of her hand. “Where are you going?” she asked him.

“I shall keep Tancred company,” he replied as he stepped out of the vehicle. “The King’s Road is a rather lonely one.” Leofric turned his attention back to the governess, who had resumed watching him with unnerving intensity.

“Uncle Baldwin?” The little girl called out.

Leofric froze. “Yes, Léontine?”

“You shall address me as ‘my Lady.’”

Leofric nodded once and quickly closed the carriage door, afraid to look at the golden-haired girl any longer than necessary. He disliked the innocence in her eyes and how he had spared it twofold: by ripping apart her family under the cover of the forest and by lying to her about it.

He returned to the fallen tree and looked around to ensure that Léontine and her governess had remained inside the carriage. When he had ascertained his solitude, he retrieved a stack of wooden planks dissimulated under foliage on the side of the road. He placed them carefully over the tree and guided the horses along. Climbing onto the coachman’s post, he took the reins as the carriage lurched into motion. Its wheels creaked against the planks and landed on the other side of the road with a violent spring.

Firmly back on solid ground, the carriage rumbled onwards under the setting sun and resumed its journey down the King’s Road.

“Away we go,” Leofric exhaled. “Only for you, Uncle.”