Daughter of the Wolf

by Victoria Whitworth

  ‘I have already sent word,’ she said. ‘Weeks ago, to Corbie. My kinsman Ratramnus will find me someone.’

  8

  An arrow smacked into the tree trunk no more than a yard from Athulf’s head.

  He whipped round to stare at it quivering there, his body rigid with disbelief. The arrowhead had embedded itself in the slender birch’s smooth bark. As the shaft stilled he noticed the fletching was swan-feather.

  Everyone at Donmouth used grey goose.

  But he was on the other side of the river from Donmouth now.

  He turned his head slowly, gut tight, eyes flickering this way and that, gauging the little variations of light and shade, movement and calm, among the thick-leaved high-summer trees. The thongs of his sling slithered through his nerveless fingers.

  Widia had told him not to cross the river. ‘What if you meet wolf? Or worse. Boar. I don’t know the Illingham woods. There could be anything.’

  Athulf had bristled. What did he have to do, to earn Widia’s respect? ‘I can cope.’

  Widia had shrugged. ‘Don’t blame me if you get hurt.’

  ‘Nothing’s going to hurt me.

  But his uncle’s huntsman had just lifted one dark eyebrow, in a way that made Athulf’s cheeks burn again, remembering. What if you meet worse...?

  What was worse even than boar?

  Men.

  Three of them, at least. And one a fine archer, to send his warning shot through the dense undergrowth with that precision.

  Damn Widia. Why did he always have to be right?

  ‘Name yourself.’

  They still hadn’t stepped out from behind the densely packed shoots of the overgrown hazel coppice, but he could tell the middle one had spoken. The leader, his bow in his hand, with a man on each side to guard his flank.

  ‘Athulf.’ The word scratched his throat. He swallowed and spoke louder, trying to deepen his voice. ‘Athulf Ingelding.’

  He could see them better now. Older than he was himself, but not by much.

  ‘And what are you doing in my woods?’

  His woods? Athulf raised his hands slowly. ‘Hunting,’ he said truthfully. ‘No luck though.’ He shrugged his cloak back so that they could see he didn’t have so much as a leveret or a brace of ducklings about his body. The urge to cringe, to apologize, almost over-mastered him.

  The youth in the middle stepped forward a couple of paces. He was tall, bony, with a glossy thatch of red-brown hair and cheekbones like clenched fists under the sun-gilded skin.

  ‘From Donmouth?’

  Athulf nodded.

  ‘I didn’t think the lord of Donmouth had a son.’ A tone that Athulf interpreted as disbelief. ‘I heard he only had a daughter.’

  ‘Radmer’s my uncle.’ Athulf couldn’t see much of the other two, in the shadows behind. One dark and thick-set, the other slightly built and fairer. Neither moving.

  The bronze-haired stranger pushed past Athulf and began working the arrow out of the birch tree. Gentle little rocking movements that would ease the wicked little dart out intact. The other two came a little closer.

  ‘You could have killed me with that.’

  One of the others, the dark one, laughed, but the tall stranger’s face remained impassive.

  ‘If I’d wanted to kill you,’ he said, ‘I would have.’ One last tug and the arrow was free. The tall young man turned, and caught Athulf’s eye. ‘I’ve seen you before,’ he said, frowning.

  Athulf couldn’t remember. His scowl deepened.

  ‘At the spring meeting, three months ago. Racing, on that scrubby little pony? With that girl. But I didn’t know you were from Donmouth.’

  There was a half-smile on the other boy’s face, and Athulf read it as one of contempt. He flushed. Bad enough having had to ride Apple; worse being beaten by Elfrun; worst of all to have had this witness. He wanted to say something witty, biting, but his mind was a blank.

  At last the tall boy shrugged. ‘Pick up your sling.’

  But Athulf didn’t move. ‘Who are you?’ For the last ten years the king himself had held the rich estate across the river from Donmouth, and his reeve had cared little who might be pillaging his woods and marshes. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I’m Thancrad. These are my father’s lands now.’

  ‘And who’s he?’

  ‘Tilmon. Tilmon of Illingham, as of last week. And Switha’s my mother.’

  Athulf stiffened. He had heard no word of this at Donmouth. If they had known, no one would have been talking about anything else.

  They didn’t know yet.

  Tilmon of Illingham.

  ‘Go on,’ Thancrad said. He gestured. ‘Pick up your sling.’

  Blood flooded Athulf’s cheeks. ‘You can’t tell me what to do.’ He wasn’t going to scrabble in the nettles for the son of a notorious traitor, no matter how high he and his might now stand in the king’s favour. A strip of leather could always be pilfered from the tannery to make another sling. He stuck out his chin. ‘Make me.’

  No one moved or spoke for a long moment. Athulf forced himself to hold Thancrad’s gaze, but he was very aware of the shorter figures to either side, especially the darker one with the grimace and the balled fists.

  The dark one said, ‘I know who he is.’ His voice had a mocking edge. ‘Ingelding. His father’s the abbot.’

  Athulf tensed.

  Thancrad shrugged. ‘What does it matter who his father is?’ He turned back to Athulf. ‘Get your sling and go.’ He jerked his head.

  Athulf folded his arms. ‘I told you. Make me.’

  The dark lad stepped forward, bristling, but Thancrad gestured him away. ‘Stop it, Addan.’

  ‘We should teach him a lesson.’

  ‘Why? He’s done no harm.’ Thancrad looked back at Athulf with a shrug. ‘Please yourself. It’s all the same to me.’

  Athulf turned with all the arrogance he could muster, and started for the river, half expecting the thud of a dart between his shoulder blades. The blood had drained from his face, leaving him cold and shaky. When he was sure he was out of sight he paused and leaned against the hollow bole of an old willow, fighting the hot, sour bile that came flooding up from deep in his belly. It had been so close.

  But he had stood his ground.

  Against three of them. As his fear ebbed little rills of pleasure came rushing in to replace it, as lively as the currents that patterned the river water where it met the salt of the estuary. It belatedly occurred to him that that last exchange had been interesting. Thancrad hadn’t wanted a confrontation, even three against one. It had been scowling Addan who had wanted to fight, and Thancrad had stopped him.

  Had he been afraid?

  But then there had been that little smile, still rankling... And he had shot that arrow, close enough that Athulf had felt the wind of its passing on his cheek.

  Athulf jerked to attention. The ripples on the water told him that the tide was on the turn. If he was going to ford the river he would have to do it now, before the water from the estuary came flooding up into the narrow channel.

  And he knew he had to get back with the big news. Tilmon of Illingham. It might be that no one at Donmouth, hall or minster, would thank him for it, but still they had to know.

  9

  ‘When I get married...’ Saethryth glanced around to make sure she had an audience. She dropped her voice even further and the other girls leaned in towards her. The sun glittered on the loose curls of her hair, pale and shimmering as freshly retted flax. ‘When I get married, it’ll be to a proper man. You know what I mean? I’ve been looking around.’ Her eyes were gleaming, lips moist. ‘And I’ve got a few in mind. One in particular, although it’s a shame to have to choose...’ A stifled giggle erupted. Abarhild raised her head sharply.

  Instant silence.

  They were outside because the summer light rendered the interior of the weaving shed gloomy beyond all bearing. The stink from the urine-vats, with their ill-fitting li
ds, had been making the girls’ noses run and their eyes water; and even Abarhild had conceded that some work could be done as well in the open air. ‘Just make sure you tether the goats first.’ So they were seated on the grass in a ragged circle, heads bent over their carding combs and the little looms for weaving braid. Abarhild squatted on a creepie-stool, one eye on her embroidery, the other on her deceptively meek-looking charges.

  Elfrun sat at her grandmother’s feet, outside the inward-facing circle of the other girls. She was stitching a new border on to the skirt of her blue dress. Athulf might have overtaken her, but she too had grown lately and her grandmother had scowled at her exposed, winter-pale shins and wrists. ‘You’ve just grown up and down,’ she had said, rubbing the nap of the blue with her knotty fingers. ‘Not outwards. No need for a new dress, not yet. Plenty of life in this one. And I want to see some more modesty from you. Deo amur, Elfrun! Behave like your father’s daughter for once.’

  Saethryth was talking again, low and intense, and the closed circle of other girls was listening avidly, but Elfrun couldn’t hear the hissed words, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to. Saethryth really got under her skin, the way she breathed through her mouth, her pigeon-plump body, her air of knowing more than she should. Saethryth, who had been the first of all of them to start her monthly bleeding, and planned to be the first to marry. She was the daughter of Luda, the hall steward; the two girls were of an age, and if anyone at Donmouth should have been Elfrun’s natural ally, it was she. Yet Saethryth had always irked her, like a sharp-edged pebble in her shoe.

  Not her fault. She was ready to be friends. But Saethryth always deflected such overtures, with her sharp tongue and contemptuous glance.

  A ripple of shocked, stifled giggles, and Saethryth looked up to meet Elfrun’s eye, a challenge in her gaze.

  ‘What?’

  Saethryth shrugged, and smiled, but she didn’t look away.

  ‘Yes, what is it, girl?’ Abarhild looked up from her needle. ‘If you have something to say, share it with all of us.’

  Saethryth ducked her head and looked demure. ‘Sorry, lady.’

  Abarhild snorted, and Elfrun just had to hope that her grandmother wasn’t fooled. She jabbed her needle into the thick blue wool and it went right through and pierced the ball of her thumb. She snatched her hand away, stifling a yelp, and jammed her thumb in her mouth before any blood could get on her clothes, bending her head in the hope that the others wouldn’t notice, staring furiously at a head of cow parsley that was just coming into flower. The pain was astonishing for such a tiny wound, and she bit hard on the end of her thumb, hoping to blank out the first shock with a more manageable one. A small ladybird was crawling across the flower-head, a red bead.

  Abarhild was still glaring at Saethryth, rheumy eyes narrowed. The familiar smell of baking bread was coming from the cook-house, and from the hillside above the yard she could hear the bubbling, swooping call of a curlew.

  Saethryth caved in at last. ‘Sorry, lady. We were just talking about weddings.’ That bold glance at Elfrun again. ‘We were wondering who might want to marry Elfrun.’

  ‘That is none of your business.’ Abarhild looked at the girl, eyes like chips of flint in the shirred, pouchy skin of her face. After a moment Saethryth had to look away. Abarhild gestured with her stick, its silver-gilt mount flashing. ‘Bring me your work.’

  ‘Why?’ There was a little ripple and shiver in the group of girls.

  ‘I want to see if you can weave as well as you can gossip.’

  Saethryth rose to her feet and advanced a few slow paces, holding the little loom in front of her as though it smelt bad.

  ‘Closer.’

  Another two paces, and Abarhild’s stick darted out and up, knocking loom and braid away from Saethryth’s shocked hands into the long grasses. ‘I don’t have to look at it. I know you, you lazy lummock. You girls, you’re all the same. I’m sick to death of you. Pick it up, undo it and start again.’ Elfrun lowered her face and tried hard not to smile.

  Saethryth scowled, massaging the knuckles of her right hand. ‘And what if I don’t?’

  ‘I shall beat you, you know that, you idle lump. And so will your father.’

  Saethryth was biting her lip, drawing breath. She clearly had more to say, but she was interrupted by a furious shout from the hill.

  ‘Out of the way, all of you – out of the way!’ A fair-haired figure came pelting down through the trees to the little grassy field where the girls were sitting. They scrambled to their feet, staring. Behind him now they could hear the thud of hooves. ‘A boar—’ The man bent double, winded, his sides heaving. It was Dunstan, Radmer’s sword-bearer.

  ‘There’s a boar coming?’ Abarhild was hauling herself up from her stool, keys jingling at her waist. ‘Down this way?’

  ‘No – no – Widia.’ He panted hard. ‘The boar charged... Lady, he needs your help.’

  ‘Widia’s hurt?’ Saethryth was pushing in, her face pale, the corners of her mouth tugging down.

  ‘Yes.’ Dunstan was nodding, his sides heaving. ‘It gored him. Ribs. His face.’

  The girls were scrabbling after their tools and cloth-work, scrambling over against the hedge, and the horses coming into sight now over the ridge, two of them, one led not ridden, with loping hounds and a couple of boys tearing down in their wake. Staring, Elfrun realized Athulf was one. Cudda, the smith’s boy, was the other. Her uncle Ingeld was in the lead, on grey Storm, with a long, bulky, wrapped bundle thrown over his saddle-bow.

  Not a bundle. Oh God. A man. She could see his arm hanging down, the hand bouncing like a dead thing. Widia.

  10

  ‘Mother! You’re needed!’

  Blood, great quantities of blood, soaking Ingeld’s hands and the front of his tunic, but much, much more drenching Widia’s clothes. How many pints ran through a man’s veins? Storm’s white hide was streaked with red, and Elfrun was amazed that the mare could tolerate the smell.

  And Abarhild was there, even before Ingeld and Dunstan had eased the huntsman down. ‘Elfrun, here’s the key to the heddern. Get me some linen. Clean, new. The rest of you, go away.’

  ‘It came from nowhere.’ Dunstan still sounded dazed. ‘Out of a bramble thicket, it came straight for the abbot. Widia pushed us out of the way...’

  ‘Elfrun, linen.’

  She had been staring at her uncle, her mouth open, barely recognizing him. Blood had splattered across his cheekbones, streaked in his hair, stiffening it to spikes. She had never seen anyone look less like a priest.

  ‘It tossed him,’ Ingeld said. ‘I drove it off.’

  ‘Elfrun.’

  She picked up her skirts and ran for the hall. The heddern at the back was kept locked, and she had never before been entrusted with the key. It was stiff, and she struggled for a moment before the lock clicked open. Spices, and the money chest, and her father’s weapons and war-gear, and the lengths of linen neatly folded on a low shelf. Grabbing an armful she hurtled back to the infield. Someone had brought water. Saethryth was pushing forward, trying to see. ‘Is he dead?’

  ‘Get away out of it, you girls. There’s nothing more you can do.’

  A groan from the wounded man, and Abarhild bent over him again. Elfrun could see a great flap of gory skin hanging loose from the side of Widia’s face, a bloody sheen of pale pink exposed. She realized it was the bone of his cheek, and she looked away, revolted. ‘Come on.’ She forced herself to take Saethryth’s arm. ‘You heard my grandmother!’ But Saethryth elbowed her away.

  ‘Help me get his tunic off,’ Abarhild was saying. ‘No, cut it, you fool. Not over his head! There’s ribs broken.’

  ‘He’ll be scarred,’ Saethryth said. ‘If he lives.’ Her voice was low, lacking its usual truculent edge, and Elfrun thought the other girl must be as shocked as she was herself. ‘And not just his face.’

  Radmer was striding towards them. Elfrun was glad to have the excuse to drop Saethryth’s arm and run to him,
seeking comfort. But he pushed right past her, his face set hard, making straight for his younger brother. Fighting hurt which she knew to be unreasonable, Elfrun turned and watched.

  He and Ingeld were only inches apart, and for a moment she thought her father was going to hit his brother, his wrath was so palpable. Elfrun couldn’t hear her father’s words, but she didn’t need to. His expression was enough.

  ‘If Widia doesn’t die he’ll be crippled.’ Saethryth still had that unwonted quietness to her.

  ‘We don’t know that.’ But Elfrun wasn’t really listening to the other girl, absorbed by her father’s simmering gestures, that jabbing finger. Now Ingeld was turning his back and walking over to Storm. Radmer was following him, hauling his younger brother around by the shoulder, but Ingeld threw the hand off and swung himself up into the bloodstained saddle.

  ‘My fault? How is it my fault?’ He was tugging Storm’s head round.

  ‘Whom do you blame then?’ Radmer had to raise his voice to reach his brother’s ears. ‘I’ve told you before, gamble all you like with your own worthless life but leave me and mine alone. As though I haven’t enough to worry me, with this news of Illingham.’

  Ingeld didn’t reply. He dug his heels into the mare’s flanks and Storm set off at a jolting trot. Athulf stared at Radmer for a moment, then tugged at Cudda’s arm and the two boys hurtled off in Ingeld’s wake.

  ‘I’m going to ask your grandmother.’ Saethryth sounded as though her teeth were tight-gritted. ‘Where he’s wounded. If he’s going to die or not.’

  Elfrun only had eyes for her father, who was still glaring after Ingeld. ‘Don’t be stupid! Can’t you see she’s busy?’ Didn’t Saethryth know better than to interrupt at such a time? ‘Anyway, no one can tell yet. If he lives, he might heal fine well in my grandmother’s care. They taught her so much, the nuns, when she was a girl in Frankia.’ She tried to remember what Abarhild had said. ‘But, yes, he might be crippled. Or he might live, and then the wounds stink and rot and he would die slowly from that.’ She could hear her own voice rattling away, hardly aware of what she was saying, trying to remember Abarhild’s teaching as a way of distracting herself from the horror of what had happened. ‘That would be awful. But nobody knows what’s going to happen.’