Daughter of the Wolf

by Victoria Whitworth

  No one trusts a traitor, no matter how useful they might find him.

  And a traitor’s son is tainted by association.

  Thancrad took a step forward. There was an unfamiliar scent, half-sweet, half-acrid, and a little grey haze in the air. The rise and fall of holy song from somewhere ahead of him.

  The guards on the great gate had told him the man he wanted would be here somewhere, but Thancrad was nervous of interrupting.

  There had been no churches like this in the Danemarch.

  His parents were lodged with a Frisian contact in the merchants’ quarter. Muttered conversations and sidelong glances. He couldn’t stand it. They had paid no attention when he had slipped away.

  The song was coming to an end: even he could recognize an amen. Figures in long robes coming from behind the screen of carved stone. He caught at a sleeve. ‘Excuse me...’

  A lad younger than himself. When he heard the question he grinned. ‘Try the library. That door, and across the courtyard. Right opposite.’

  Stone buildings, limewashed, patched and thatched. Hearth-smoke and dusk. A door stood ajar, and he pushed it a little further open on silent iron hinges. The room was full of presses and chests. Two men seated on stools, a book open in front of them on a slanted stand, their backs to the door. Half a dozen honey-scented candles. One man, taller, broader, was reading aloud to the other, in Latin. Thancrad had no idea what the words might mean, but the rhythm and the music of the language was intoxicating.

  After a long moment, hoping they would realize he was there, he lifted a hand and rapped on the doorjamb.

  They turned as one, almost guiltily. ‘Yes?’ It was the slighter, plainer one, his narrow face annoyed.

  Thancrad ducked his head respectfully. ‘Father Ingeld?’

  The other man smiled. ‘Leave me to tidy away, Wulfhere. It was getting too dark to read, anyway.’

  Thancrad stood back as the narrow-faced man came towards the door saying over his shoulder, ‘We can read some more tomorrow.’

  ‘I should start back for Donmouth tomorrow.’ The other man beckoned Thancrad in. ‘What can I do for you?’

  Thancrad looked at the book open on the desk. It was huge, the vellum impossibly smooth, like the surface of a bowl of cream, the little scratchmarks like insects that had fallen in and drowned. He had never been so close to a book before. ‘Is this a bible?’

  ‘This?’ The priest laughed. ‘No, this is the Historia Naturalis of Pliny. The best guide to all the wonders of God’s creation. I was reading to my lord archbishop about the manticore, which has three rows of teeth and sings like a pan-pipe blended with a trumpet.’

  Thancrad nodded, disconcerted. Now he had found the man he didn’t know what to say to him.

  The priest waited, one eyebrow raised. ‘Do I know you?’

  Thancrad shook his head. ‘No, Father. I am Thancrad of Illingham.’ He waited, and watched the expressions flicker across the man’s handsome, mobile face. He was expecting the shutters to go up, but the hazel eyes met his frankly.

  ‘And?’ The priest’s eyes went beyond him, to the door. ‘Do you want to make your confession? There are more experienced confessors than me at this church, you know.’

  Thancrad had no more than a hazy idea of what the man meant, but he shook his head firmly. ‘I want your advice.’

  ‘You would do better—’

  ‘Not a priest’s advice.’ He was gaining confidence. ‘Yours. Ingeld of Donmouth.’

  After a long moment Ingeld nodded. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Radmer is away. Who makes the decisions in his absence?’

  ‘His daughter. Her grandmother has retired to live with me at the minster.’ The priest’s mouth twitched as though he found something funny.

  Thancrad nodded. ‘My parents...’ This was harder than he had anticipated. ‘My parents want me to marry her. But Radmer has said no.’

  And now the shutters did come down. Thancrad watched the priest retreat to somewhere deep inside himself to think about his words and their implications.

  Then: ‘And you want me to say yes?’

  ‘Is it in your power?’

  Ingeld thought for a moment. ‘Probably. The king wants an alliance between Illingham and Donmouth; I did know that. But that marriage was in the wind... no.’ He looked hard at Thancrad. ‘Do you want it?’

  ‘I – I’ve never met the girl.’ Thancrad squared his shoulders. ‘But does that really matter?’

  ‘She’s a good girl.’ Ingeld sounded as though his thoughts were elsewhere. ‘Radmer has said no? In no uncertain terms? And contradicting the king’s will?’

  Thancrad nodded. The candles were drowning in their own wax, guttering, melting together and dying, and he could hardly see the priest’s face, just their tiny flames reflected in his eyes. From the courtyard outside an evening blackbird burst into song.

  He said, ‘My parents have told me to make her marry me. But I don’t know where to start.’

  Ingeld laughed. ‘Two things, young man. Always query your parents’ wishes. And never ask a priest about women. Good priests know nothing, and bad priests know far too much.’

  Thancrad could feel himself reddening, half-embarrassed, half-angry. Coming to find this man was perhaps the hardest thing he had ever done, and now he was regretting ever having entered under the shadow of the great gate of the minster precinct.

  ‘Sorry. I can’t help you.’ Ingeld stood up, and the conversation was clearly over. Thancrad nodded, and muttered something, and found his way back into the yard.

  Behind him, Ingeld stared at the door, unseeing. Thancrad’s words had set his head spinning. What a chance to thwart Radmer, in all seeming-innocence and with the best of excuses. The king wanted it... Ingeld chewed his lower lip and stared unseeing at the floorboards. If Elfrun went to Illingham, she would need a bride-gift, but the estate would be left intact. This marriage might – just – free the way for Athulf, if he could coax the dice to fall right. His good boy, for whom he had never done anything. Donmouth hall, falling to him on Radmer’s death, if the king approved. And this lad – Thancrad – seemed decent enough, though surely one should be wary of any child raised by Switha and Tilmon.

  He had been on the verge of saying, Yes, let’s have a wedding.

  And then Elfrun’s face had come to mind, her clear brown gaze, her little frown. So eager to please, so hard-working, so desperate to show she was lady of Donmouth and lord as well.

  He had been unable to betray her, despite the powerful temptation. He closed his eyes, his gut tight and his fists clenched, and he prayed that he would never have to explain himself to Athulf. After a moment he opened his eyes again, and trimmed the wicks of the candles. In the last few moments of light remaining to him, he turned back to Pliny. The manticore has the face of a man, and a man’s eyes. It dwells in India, and it loves the taste of human flesh...

  23

  Saethryth was kneeling on the ground with her skirts hoicked up and the little churn clamped between her thighs. She had been thrusting the dash-staff up and down for what felt like forever, but the butter showed no sign of coming. Pulling the end of the staff out once more, she peered at the bole of wood from which the cream still stubbornly dripped, and heaved a sigh. Why wouldn’t the butter come? This late in the year, there wouldn’t be much more milk.

  Marrying Hirel had been the stupidest thing she had ever done. Looking back over the last few weeks, she didn’t know what had possessed her. Yes, she had been furious over Widia’s injury; and yes, she had been worried that there was a baby coming. Widia’s baby, from that one time when she had given in. Two months skipped, and then she had bled, but by that time it was too late. She had already stood up in the hall and been handfasted to Hirel, the yards of gauzy white linen that symbolised the marriage draped over her head and shoulders, with Elfrun looking on with that steady brown gaze which had always made Saethryth feel about as small and dirty as a woodlouse or some other scuttling thing whi
ch came out when you moved a stone.

  Three months now since the boar had gored him, and Widia was back on his feet, and hardly even limping any more. Not as pretty as he used to be – well, that was true enough, but there was more to a man than his looks. He’d not come within spitting distance of her, though.

  Damn this trowie churn. She could hear her mother’s voice, loud and clear: With a face like that you could churn till Doomsday and the butter not come. She had so looked forward to marriage and getting out from under her father’s heavy hand. How could she have known what it would be like up here, all on her own out in the sheepwick without a single gossip to pass the time of day with? Even the two beardless lads who helped Hirel were away up in the pastures, looking for strayed sheep. They could be away for days.

  This was the rest of her life, stuck up in the hills forever, bar sheep-shearing and haysel. She wasn’t sure whether life was worse when Hirel was at home, or when she was left entirely alone. At least when she was alone he wasn’t pawing at her, or throwing her those wistful looks which looked so ridiculous on his jowly, black-browed face.

  She had known what a mistake she had made on their wedding night, watching him staggering and spewing and passing out. And her gradually realizing that no one else was going to clean up the mess. And that there was nowhere else to lie down but beside him.

  Hirel was hoping hard to get her pregnant. You’ll be settled when you’ve weans of your own. But there had been no sign yet, and for that she was thankful.

  The day was surprisingly pleasant for October, the turning leaves of birch and rowan glowing against a deep blue sky; it should have been a good day for making butter, but the work was hard and weary, and her heart wasn’t in it. She had discarded her housewife’s veil – no one could see her, after all – and pinned her thick flaxen braid high on top of her head, and now the sun was warm on the back of her aching neck.

  Weans of her own. Hard enough to learn to be his wife over the last few weeks, never mind mother to his children. As if she hadn’t slaved all her life looking after little brothers and sisters! The last thing she wanted was to start again on that endless round. But if she went home, she would have to do just that. What choice was there?

  And she couldn’t go crawling back to the hall and beg to be let out of her marriage already. She just couldn’t. The other women would snigger, and Elfrun look down that snotty little nose of hers. The staff thumped viciously back and forth in the wayward churn. Perhaps some more cream would hurry things along. She tipped a ladleful into the churn from the earthenware pot at her side, and poured a little down her own throat for good measure. It distracted her from the stink of the barrels where the lambskins were tawing.

  Better get on.

  Hirel had left his old hound with her while he took the young bitch down to the hall with him. Macsen was restless, prowling up and down and growling, but she ignored him. Wolves posed no threat, not at this time of day. Macsen just couldn’t bear being too old to work, with his greying muzzle and stiff legs. Hirel said he had always been the best of the dogs, and it broke his heart to see him like this. He petted the dog, tickled him under the chin and stroked his ears, ran a scratching hand down his spine.

  He knew how to handle the dog all right. So what made him so clumsy with her?

  She shoved the staff up and down a few more times and at last felt the beginning of the heavy dragging response that meant some transformation was happening inside the churn. About time. The last time she had been down to her father’s steading Luda had told her several times exactly how much butter and cheese the sheepwick would owe the hall, and that she was now responsible for all of it. She might be a married woman now, but she seemed more firmly under her father’s hand than ever. At least he wasn’t slapping her around any more. She sang furiously beneath her breath, ‘Churn, butter, churn! Come, butter, come...’

  Macsen had frozen. He was staring past her, and lifting his upper lip to show what was left of his teeth as he growled on a single, unnerving note.

  Saethryth half twisted round. A dark shape shimmered on the edge of vision, in front of the sun. She squinted and it came a little clearer: a figure approaching on horseback just outside the wattle hurdles, hooves noiseless on the new grass. She tried to get up, but she had been squatting in the one position for too long, and her legs were stiff and awkward, threatening to fold beneath her as though she were a newborn lamb.

  ‘I didn’t mean to frighten you.’ He was slithering down from his saddle and looping his horse’s reins over one of the posts of the lambing pen.

  She blinked into the dazzle, half-giddy from heat and effort, and from standing up too quickly. The lord abbot, walking towards her. She had been aware of him since his return from York, of course she had, and more so since she had gathered all her courage in her hands to run to the minster and ask what had happened to Widia, on that dreadful day. But apart from that one time, stripped to the waist and stained with blood and water, she had never quite been able to take him seriously: a shimmer of silk and golden thread, a blur of sweet smoke, a babble of eloquent gibberish. Now here he was clad as an ordinary man, though still with glitter at throat and cuff; and no ordinary man would ever have such a smooth chin or such clean hands, or ride such a sleek white mare. She ducked her head awkwardly, and looked up again to find that he was smiling at her, and coming closer still. She felt her cheeks reddening. His thick dark-brown hair was scattered with silver, but his eyes were dark and bright at the same time, and his teeth were white.

  ‘Are you looking for my man? Hirel’s not – he’s not here, my lord. He’s down at the hall, gone to meet my father...’

  ‘So I’d heard,’ he said. He was still smiling, though his gaze went flickering past her, to the little house beyond. ‘You have cream on your face, did you know?’ He reached out and stroked his thumb over her chin, and then very deliberately he touched his thumb to his mouth.

  Saethryth felt an even hotter wave swamp her cheeks. She took a step backwards and stumbled against the churn. It toppled and fell, slowly – oh, so slowly... She could see the buttermilk lapping the wooden rim, ready for tipping out and sinking into the dusty soil... but at the last moment he grabbed the churn and righted it, setting it firmly down on a flat patch of ground.

  ‘Looks like you need someone to keep an eye on you.’

  Saethryth stuck her chin out. ‘I would never have stumbled if it hadn’t been for you.’

  ‘Is that right?’ He was looking at her avidly, like a hungry man staring at bread, and she knew her cheeks were still scarlet. If he touched her again, she didn’t know what she might do.

  But he didn’t. Instead he smiled, a slow, lazy curve of the mouth that had her insides turning somersaults. ‘I hope I haven’t spoiled the butter. Bring some down to the minster when it’s done? Tell them it’s special, for me.’

  And he had gone, just like that. Turned and swung himself back into the saddle and ridden away, leaving her flushed and restless and confused. She stared down the track for a long time, until the angle of the shadows reminded her that time was passing, and the butter wouldn’t churn itself. Butter, he wanted, did he?

  She would give him butter.

  24

  ‘Close the door. Was there anyone in the yard?’

  Hirel stepped in, and shoved the door of the hall shut behind him against the hazy autumn sunlight. The day seemed strangely warm and airless for so late in the season. He shook his head. Luda was squatting on a three-legged stool by the cold hearth.

  ‘Don’t you have the lambskins?’ The steward’s voice was sharp. He stared at the shepherd’s empty hands, his unburdened back.

  ‘The ones that you asked me to hide for you?’ Hirel wanted to be sure. He was afraid of this little man, now his father-in-law. ‘This year’s?’

  ‘Not so loud!’ Luda tutted. ‘Of course this year’s. What else would I mean?’

  ‘No,’ Hirel said slowly. ‘Not with me.’

  ‘Wh
ere are they then? I gave you plenty of salt and alum. I wanted them sorted out, ready for market.’

  Hirel grunted. ‘Aye. Skinned and salted each one the same day we killed it.’ He paused, thinking back. ‘I had Saethryth scraping the fat off, but there were so many, you hadn’t given me enough salt.’ He shook his head. ‘Nor enough alum, neither. And a fair few were too maggoty to save by the time your lass got to them. The rest are still tawing.’

  ‘My lass? Your lass now.’ Luda grinned without humour, showing his long top teeth. ‘Learning a bit more about her, are you? No matter.’ He picked up his wax tablets. ‘We’ll set them all down as lost in the bad weather or taken by wolves, anyway.’

  Hirel nodded. ‘A lot was lost, you know.’ He frowned earnestly. ‘Really lost, I mean. The flock was scattered at lambing – too often the crows got there before I could. Not like you’re putting down there.’ He stabbed his raddle-stained index finger at the neat set of tablets. ‘Much worse than last year.’

  ‘You told me.’ Luda shook his head. ‘That’s how it goes. Good years, bad years—’

  ‘You don’t have to tell me that.’ Hirel was twisting his matted felt cap in his hands. Thunder growled in the near distance, and the air in the hall was unseasonally close. Hirel could feel sweat beading his forehead and prickling in his beard. ‘Think she’ll notice? The lady?’

  ‘Elfrun? Never – not unless you let something slip.’ Luda squinted at his son-in-law. ‘So mind you keep quiet. She believes everything I tell her. Now the old besom’s down at the minster we’re much safer, believe me. That was a piece of luck.’ He tapped his tablets. ‘Where are the skins now?’

  ‘Still up at the sheepwick. I told you.’

  ‘And when will you bring them to me?’

  Hirel’s scowl deepened. ‘I want my penny first.’

  Luda snorted. ‘I can’t pay you till after I’ve taken them to York and talked to the scribes and the leather-workers. But my cousin should give us a good price.’ He paused, looking at Hirel’s lowering expression. ‘Don’t you trust me?’ He leaned back on his stool and folded his arms.