Chapter Text
Thursday, December 25, 872 AD.
There’s always been some kind of disconnect between me and the rest of the world. The rest of Pocklington. A thin linen veil behind which I can just see the shapes of people, yet every time I reach out in an attempt to touch–to join–the others, the fabric prevents me. I’ve never felt it so prominently then I do now, as I grip my wooden cup of sweet spiced mead, lean against the wattle and daub wall and watch everyone else at Edward the Wine Merchant’s house have fun.
Tonight, I watch as half of Pocklington celebrates the miraculous birth of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. They do so by eating to the extreme, drinking until there won’t be a drop of alcohol left in the town, and lusting after the opposite sex like David salaciously preyed upon Bathsheba in a way inappropriate in a man.
I sip my mead. At least I can enjoy the smooth honeyed taste if I cannot enjoy myself otherwise…Edward the Wine Merchant rarely gives product away for free. His generosity must have an ulterior motive. I take another sip.
I didn’t want to come to the feast. I wanted to stay at church and pray for the lecherous town until Christmas passed and Saint Stephen’s Day broke with the dawn. Pray for the poor drunken souls that demons, elves, and other sinister beings will surely harm once they stumble out into the night. Demons are common enough in Northumbria. About as common as Danes. There are too many Danes in Britain.
Dad insisted I come to the feast, promising me he’d stay by my side. For about a half an hour he kept his oath. He broke it after someone spilled red wine on the white silk tablecloth. He saw a chance to sell his silk to Edward the Wine Merchant. And he took it.
Now he’s laughing, drunk and out of control, with his greedy merchant friends. He’s doing an impression of my mother.
‘“Rædbert! Rædbert! You can’t go around with muddy shoes when I just swept the floor!’” Dad waves his hands around like my mother does whenever she thinks she’s been wronged. He does a pretty good impression of her. All of his inebriated friends bray like asses instead of men. It’s extremely irritating. I wonder how many of them have as much money as they do because they’ve sold their souls.
Thank God and His Awesome angels above Mum is not here to hear this. We’d both never hear the end of it. Perhaps that’s why Dad only does the impression when she’s not around and only to other men.
I wish I had friends.
Edward invited all the merchants residing in Pocklington to the feast. They’ve all brought their soon to be of age or already of age sons and daughters. At the other side of the hall, their children sit and drink and laugh and kiss. One maid lets a youth, Harold, cup her breast under her dress. She won’t be a virgin in the morning. Fornicators God will judge. This is precisely why Dad did not bring my sisters with us. He doesn’t trust the youths in Pocklington to keep their hands to themselves before marriage. Judging by the way another youth has his hand up another maid’s skirts, he’s right not to. I cross myself. Before I can look away, one youth, Oda, catches my eye. He grins at me and wiggles his eyebrows suggestively.
My breath catches in my throat. My face burns. Taking shallow, barely controlled breaths, I look at the wooden floor. I’ve never been like other youths. By the time I grew the first hairs of manhood, I was already painfully aware I might be a sodomite. And not even the honourable kind that conquers men. My hand hurts from gripping my cup. It’s empty except for the dregs of clove at the bottom. I swallow. Oda with the suggestive eyebrows grips the mead jug. He pours some in Harold’s cup. Everyone in the circle laughs as Harold tells a lewd story about an elf he saw while hunting.
Slowly, I approach.
They stop laughing when they see me.
“What do you want, Theobald?” Harold snaps.
“I would like some mead,” I can’t help but snap back. Harold irritates me. He’s always belching as loud as he can. He thinks it’s funny. It’s disgusting. No one has manners in Northumbria anymore. I blame the Danes.
“Are you sure you want some?” Oda wiggles his eyebrows again, “We wouldn’t want the righteous Theobald getting drunk. You might have too much fun.”
“If having fun means that I am sitting in public like you are, with the works of flesh open, which be fornication, uncleanness, unchastity, lechery, and drunkenness, which I say to you before, as I have told to you before, for they that do such things, shall not have the kingdom of God.”
Their stupid glazed eyes stare at me and I know I made an ass of myself again.
“What is that from?” A maid asks. “Is that Genesis?”
“It’s Galatians.” I say in a slightly more cheerful tone. “The whole quote is actually–”
“Shut the fuck up Theobald. No one wants to listen to you preach,” Harold belches. The girl whose breast he’s gripping like a rope a shipwrecked sailor holds giggles. Another giggles too. And another. Soon they’re all drunkenly giggling at me.
“You should pay attention to Galatians. It’s the reason you aren’t circumcised!”
The giggles crescendo into braying. My shame floods my face. I return to my spot by the wall. Dad is singing a horribly bawdy song with his friends. The linen curtain thickens to black wool.
I am Theobald of Pocklington. A few weeks ago I turned fifteen. Dad is one of the most important cloth merchants in south Northumbria. He knows almost everyone and almost everyone likes him. I’m supposed to take over his business upon his death despite the fact no one likes me. I will run it into the ground within weeks of his death–not purposely of course. I don’t want to ruin the business he spent his entire life greedily growing. I don’t want his life’s work to go to waste. My older sister, Emma, is much savvier than me. She would run it well, run it ethically, and make it thrive as a good, God fearing business. However, I am the only son and Dad insists it should go to me. I love Dad, as a good son should, but his determination to get what he wants irritates me.
To make matters worse, Dad thinks I can have fun and not worry about the Great Heathen Army returning to Northumbria. God knows what they will do this time. The extent of the slaughter. Whether or not they will utilize demonic powers and witchcraft for their raids. How much taxes will go up to pay the gafol. If payment will even matter when the heathens decide they have more fun slaughtering Christians (and occasionally each other if we’re lucky) than lining their coffers with gold. It seems like I’m the only person that is actually worried about what the godless heathen Danes will do to us.
My hands tremble and I unclench my jaw. There’s no mead in my cup, but I lift it to my lips anyway to prevent myself from unconsciously clenching. I do not want my migraines returning. Last winter I suffered terribly, to the point I was sure a demon had invaded my head. Emma doused me with holy water. When that did nothing more but soak my clothes, Dad hired a Jorvik physician to treat me. He said my humours were horribly imbalanced and I had too much yellow bile.
After he bled me the physician banned any sort of hot or spicy food from my plate and prescribed a diet of unspiced fish and only unspiced fish. I do not care for fish. I especially do not care for it when it is bland and flavourless. Even after a month of only eating fish, my migraines did not stop. The physician said the only solution was to drill a hole in my skull to let the pressure out. Mum and Dad decided the physician was a quack. Father Mark, my tutor, said he knew a monk who could treat me.
The monk visited my sickbed, asked several questions, (I cannot remember what) and said I’d be fine if I stopped clenching. Even in my agonized state, I remember lamenting that was simply impossible. The monk made me a concoction of boiled pennyroyal, leek, and several different types of mint to wash my head with until I could get my clenching under control. It helped with the pain. I fear I will need more soon enough.