The Wolf of Allendale

by Hannah Spencer

  Less than fifty paces to go. His fingers were growing white and numb. He painfully flexed his free hand a few times. He couldn’t relax his grip on his staff.

  A metallic tang on his tongue. He dabbed a frozen finger to his lips; it came back smeared with red. His nose was bleeding.

  A twig snapped under his foot. Time froze. His stealth, his disguise, was shattered. No longer a fellow predator, the cysgod-cerddwr now knew exactly what was lurking outside its lair.

  Although, he had the creeping feeling, it had known that already.

  He forced himself to breathe carefully, deeply. The sun was still above the horizon. It couldn’t harm him. Not truly. He flung his hood back, let the feathers flow down his back. Let his soul emblazon itself in front of the cave. Let the cysgod-cerddwr gaze upon its adversary.

  He felt the challenge, and the acceptance.

  He waited as the sun dropped lower. He no longer noticed the vicious cold, nor the needles seeping into his soul. Years of training quelled his automatic fear, the nagging sensation of silent eyes watching him, the illusion of stealthy feet padding toward him.

  When the sun turned from orange to red, he crouched and opened his leather pouch. Pulled out a drinking horn with his free hand. He didn’t dare let go of his staff.

  Numbness crippled his fingers as he tugged at the wax plug, and he struggled not to drop it. He glanced into the empty depths. He could see nothing, yet. He laid his staff down. Felt the tug of loss at once.

  It was a talisman, he reminded himself. An embodiment of the strength he himself had forged. He gripped the horn between the palms of his lifeless hands and tugged the plug free with his teeth. The sickly, metallic smell of blood rose up.

  A black cockerel, killed at dawn. The herald of day had met its death as night had fled, and so the two opposites became twined. The blood would form an impenetrable barrier to all souls of darkness.

  The blood had congealed since that morning, but he managed to lay an unbroken trail of stringy gobbets across the entire cave entrance. The first part of the ritual was complete.

  The cold weakened slightly. Some feeling came back into his fingers as he reached for the bag again. He wasn’t fooled. But he used his advantage to arrange three wax lamps across the mouth, each protected from the wind by a shield of birch bark. He took out the smoldering ember of bracket fungus he’d carried in a piece of horn and lit them. The light flickered tentatively inside the cave mouth.

  It was too easy. He looked into the darkness again.

  Darkness.

  The lights had died.

  The faintest flecks of hoarfrost lingered on the wicks. The flames had been frozen.

  He seized the remaining ember of fungus. White bloom was spreading over the outer surface. He blew on it desperately and a spark of orange flared in the center. He stopped to draw breath and the frost spread farther. He blew again.

  His chest was burning, his lungs almost empty. The ice was waiting.

  A ray of the dying sun touched his cheek. A mote of warmth reached his mind.

  His breath, his spirit, was feeding the flame. Spirit. Fire. They were the same.

  As his lungs ran empty, he tipped the glowing ember into his palm and squeezed his hand shut.

  The searing pain almost made him cry out. He had to grip his fist with his other hand to keep it closed. The smell of scorched flesh filled the air. He fought the pain spreading through his wrist and up his arm. Tried to focus on his breathing.

  One breath. Two. The pain wavered.

  Three. Four. It subsided to a throbbing ache.

  He could concentrate now. Concentrate on the fire within him. Indelible and unquenchable, already trickling through his wounded hand to feed the dying ember. He breathed out and relaxed, letting it flow. His palm grew hot again, but this time with the soothing heat of a healer’s touch. He opened his hand.

  The ember glowed healthy and bright on the weeping, charred blisters of his palm. A fleeting pain as he tipped it back into its container and dropped to his knees in front of the lamps.

  The flames melted the frost into minuscule droplets as he relit them. As he placed them down, white bloom crept up the bowls. The flames wavered.

  His soul, he silently reminded them. Unquenchable.

  They remained firm, melting the frost as it approached. He held them with his mind as he positioned them. Their light trickled into the cave.

  He took out a paste of honey and ground rowan bark and dabbed it along the boundaries of the light. The pools shrank back, revived, shrank. Unquenchable. He held on to that truth. The barrier was complete.

  He stood in front of the cave. As the sun touched the horizon, he stretched out his arms and channeled its power through his body and into the barrier. He began to intone the words to create an impassable boundary.

  An invisible pressure tested the barrier. His voice didn’t waver. The rhythmic pulse of his words writhed around the cave mouth, formed an impenetrable web that the cysgod-cerddwr could not cross. For now.

  Snow, wind, and frost would eventually wear down his defenses, but it would hold until the full moon. And then he would have to be ready.

  27

  Bert shifted and clasped his hands behind his back, doing his best to appear unconcerned.

  He glanced sideways at Ellen. She was looking more and more agitated. Looking from one side to the other, back toward the door, smoothing her dress to remove imaginary creases.

  Stop it, lass! he cried in his mind. It was just drawing attention to her not-so-obvious but also very-obvious belly. A murmur rippled through the congregation, voicing the thoughts running through everyone’s mind.

  Was he actually coming?

  Bert’s smooth-shaven chin began to itch—he never bothered with shaving in winter—and the irritation niggled at him. After a moment he had to scratch it. He could feel rough patches of stubble. The beast had been out there again, last night. He’d heard nothing, but he’d felt it. Shep had been growling all night. And when he’d gone out this morning, another two sheep were gone. By the time he’d got back in after sorting out the carnage, he barely had half an hour to prepare himself.

  Ellen looked toward him and he forced himself to smile casually. Her lip was trembling as she stared at him, but at last she managed to smile back. Both turned back to their long inspection of the altar.

  He’d better be coming. Bert clenched his fists. Hora fugit. The words on the sundial outside came to him.

  Somebody in the congregation coughed, the sound loud in the silence. It was quickly stifled.

  The back of his leg was itching, but with so many eyes fixed on him he didn’t dare scratch it. It had been years since he’d last worn this suit. Loose in places, too tight in others, with an underlying whiff of mothballs. He was more of an old man than when he’d last unpacked it, he thought with a familiar feeling of passing time. The belt buckle had broken as he’d done it up, and he’d resorted to twine to hold the trousers up. He glanced down discreetly to be sure his jacket disguised it.

  Another shuffle and he recognized little Heidi’s voice. “Mam! How much longer . . . ?”

  A muffled slap on the legs and a gasp. He concentrated on picturing Maud’s stern face behind him.

  A creak from the ancient hinges and a gust of icy wind blasted into the church. Ellen’s face split into a smile of utter relief. Bert thought she was going to rush down into her soon-to-be husband’s arms.

  Felton swaggered down the aisle, conscious of all eyes on him. His best man, a blond, shiny-faced boy Bert didn’t recognize, didn’t appear any less contrite.

  Felton smiled at Ellen, possessive and dominant. Not loving in the slightest. Bert was now wishing he hadn’t bothered to come, but Ellen was gazing into his eyes like a lovelorn puppy.

  At least he looked quite respectable. It was always worth making the effort—a wedding suit could last a man most of his life.

  Felton nodded to him and smiled hesitantly. Bert didn’t smile back.
Felton dropped his gaze. The vicar cleared his throat and they all turned to face him.

  The ceremony was soon over, then the congregation gladly filed out of the cold, uncomfortable church toward the Hare and Hounds.

  As Bert opened the door, the wall of noise struck him forcibly. Maud followed him in, the wrist of a pouting child gripped in each hand, her mouth a thin line. Heidi had a twig in her hair and a smear of mud on her best frock. They were hauled toward the kitchen.

  The room was stiflingly hot after the church. He stood in the doorway and looked around. He could hear shouting men, the hysterical giggle of a young woman, a girl’s squeal. It sounded almost like Heidi. Had she escaped her mother’s clutches already? He looked back longingly at the peaceful heights above the town, then sighed and shut the door.

  The dim light and close atmosphere closed around him. He could feel his throat tightening. He tugged at his collar but there was no way to loosen it. A thousand itches began under his shirt and his trousers were digging in around his waist. Oh, to be in his normal clothes again. But he’d probably only wear this suit once more, and then he wouldn’t be in a condition for it to bother him.

  The laughing entrance of the newlyweds was greeted with cheers. Felton’s arm was possessively around Ellen’s waist. Any minute he’d throw her over his shoulder like he’d won a pig at a fair. Bert edged away.

  He glanced up at the clock. Nearly five hours until sunset. Five hours until his daily nightmare began.

  He pushed through the throng to the trestle table, nodding to a few people, and got a piece of bread and butter. He chewed mechanically as the throng eddied about him.

  “She’s pregnant, you know.”

  A woman’s voice in the crowd. The bread turned to ashes in his mouth.

  He searched the crowd and spotted Hilda Pinkerley, her hand conspiratorially on another woman’s arm. Mary Berry, the farrier’s wife. Crumbs fell to his plate under his tightening fingers.

  Mary’s eyes lit up with gleeful excitement. “Really? Now that’s a surprise.”

  Anger rose in him. He felt like pushing his way over, knocking the teacups from their hands.

  “So soon after the last, too.” Hilda shook her head with exaggerated concern.

  Bert let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. They weren’t talking about her.

  “The bairn can’t be more than six months old. She’ll never manage, you mark my words. It’s this fancy milk powder that’s done it. You don’t fall when you’re feeding, my mother always said.”

  “But she couldn’t feed him herself, could she? Ill, she was. Got the fever after the birth. Look, there she is now.”

  He followed the direction of the two gossips’ eyes. Alison, Scruffy Joe’s wife, was making her way toward the women.

  “Alison! Wonderful news you’re expecting again!”

  He saw Joseph was helping himself to bread and butter, his hair uncharacteristically tamed. He began to thread his way toward him. Bert braced himself.

  Whatever Joseph had to say, Bert could tell he wasn’t going to like it.

  28

  “Four ewes, three yearling lambs. A half dozen more gone without trace.” Joseph shook his head. “I’ve never known anything like it.”

  Bert shut his eyes for a second. “I’ve lost twice that number, this week alone.”

  Every night, it was there. He’d put up lanterns, set traps, stayed out all night with Shep. But it always came. It was a small mercy that it only came in the night.

  “What are we going to do about it?”

  Bert couldn’t think of an answer.

  Ellen waltzed up to them and he forced himself to smile. He couldn’t let his worries mar her day.

  “Uncle, you must have some of Maud’s cake; it’s delicious! You, too, Joseph. I’ve brought extra big pieces.” She handed them both china plates.

  As Bert took it she placed her hand on his arm. “Don’t worry so, things will work out.” She looked at him pleadingly. “Try and forget about this wolf for a while, or you’ll make yourself ill. I want you to be happy today.”

  He should have known she’d see straight through his smile. She was too sharp by half.

  “I am happy, lass.”

  He held her at arm’s length and this time his smile was genuine. She looked bonny, she really did. Forget-me-nots, her dress reminded him of, and it barely showed the swelling of her belly. “I’m so happy for you.”

  “I knew you saw the good side in Jack. He’s a good man; he really is.”

  Was that a statement or a wish? She looked earnest for a second before the overjoyed, nervous, and slightly bewildered look of all brides returned. He squeezed her hand.

  Joseph coughed. Bert looked at him and saw his eyes were fixed on her belly. Their eyes met and Joe’s eyebrow twitched before he busied himself with picking cake crumbs from his plate.

  Bert wished for a moment he could take her away, protect her from the prying eyes and gossiping whispers. It wasn’t fair. Women shouldn’t be subjected to things like this.

  But there was nothing he could do now. She was married, no longer an Allenston. And Felton had done the honorable thing. Eventually.

  He tried not to think about the coming birth. As always, his Janet’s ravaged face swam into his mind before he forced it back with trembling worry.

  Heidi charged past, squealing, another girl just behind, and both men had to step back. A couple of boys were chasing them. One caught Heidi’s pigtail and tugged the ribbon free. She squealed even louder. There’s jam on your skirt, and butter on your sleeve, he thought. Bed without supper for you tonight.

  Ellen patted the little rosette of flowers in her hair. Yellow gorse, which looked striking against her red hair. He remembered the old saying, Kissing is only permitted when the gorse is in flower. Of course, gorse flowered year-round.

  “Ellen, pet! You look amazing! That’s a beautiful dress. Did you make it yourself?”

  Alison came up and kissed her cheek. They plunged into an animated conversation about those things only women were interested in or understood. He caught Joe’s eye and they shared a wry smile.

  Felton approached and hesitated. Bert stepped back to make room for him. A silent look passed between them.

  “All right, lad?”

  Felton pulled the lapels of his new suit together, pushed his hands into his pockets, immediately removed them. Bert took a bite of cake. Ellen was right, it was very good.

  “Mr. Allenston, um . . .” Felton looked awkward, then blushed.

  Bert glanced at Ellen. The women were poring over the cuff of her dress. He heard “turned lace” and “loop stitch.”

  “Mr. Allenston, I just wanted to say . . .” Felton met his eye for a second then focused on the floor. “You were right, you know. I’ll look after her. I promise.”

  “Make sure you do.” A statement, an encouragement, a threat, he wasn’t sure.

  Felton looked at him, obviously wondering the same. He fidgeted for a moment, then backed away into the crowd.

  Ellen had been watching the exchange, Bert realized. Did she know what had been said? He hoped not. He awkwardly concentrated on his cake. Alison went off toward the teapot.

  A volley of hoots and cheers across the room. Felton was gulping down a brimming tankard, surrounded by a group of young men. Ellen looked over as well. She was no longer smiling.

  “He’s a rum ’un,” Joseph said quietly. “Pity she let him have his way with her.”

  Bert felt a rush of protective anger. Angry with Joe, angry with Ellen, angry with Felton. Angry with the rapidly disintegrating world.

  “She’s only a lass, Joseph! He’s the one to blame. She could have done better, I know, but she’d be worse off in the poorhouse.”

  Joseph raised his hands in apology and Bert regretted his outburst. Ellen joined the group of lads and Felton slipped his arm around her waist. He pulled her to him as he laughed with the others. Ellen gazed up at him, almost blushing at
the brazen contact, but he didn’t look at her. She said something but he pulled away and took another proffered tankard.

  Bert pushed his way over and took hold of the tankard. The ale sloshed over the side.

  “Your wife’s talking to you. You ought to be listening.”

  Felton looked bemused. They stared at each other for a moment, and then Felton let go of the tankard and threw his hands up. “All right, come and dance, darling.” With a sullen backward glance he pulled his wife away.

  Several people had fallen silent. Bert handed the tankard to the another man and pushed toward the door.

  The square was deserted. Everyone was in the inn. He leaned against the wall, glad of the space and fresh air. A flurry of sparrows descended to squabble over some spilt corn on the muddy cobblestones. He watched them for a minute. He ought to go back soon. He shuddered at the memory of last night’s carnage, despairingly wondered what he was to witness tonight.

  He could stay a while longer, although Lord knew he didn’t feel like it. As the sparrows fluttered away, he sighed and turned back to the door.

  Maud was sitting primly upright just inside, hands clasped in her lap in a perfect decorous posture. He supposed he ought to be polite.

  He sat down next to her, then deliberately slumped back and stretched his legs out. Maud looked at him with disapproval.

  “Her father wouldn’t have approved, of course. Edward scrimped and saved to put money aside for her betrothal. His one wish was to see his daughter decently married. He’d turn in his grave if he knew.” She sighed. “Those years without a mother, I fear. A girl needs a strict guiding hand, something a man cannot give. I told her the Allenstons didn’t marry the likes of the Felton family, but she wouldn’t listen.”

  Bert looked at the throng. Maud was quite right, but the lass still deserved support.

  “I wonder when she will bear a child?”

  He looked at her warily. Was she alluding to Ellen’s unborn? He wasn’t sure. She’d married late—she’d been well over thirty—but she’d had children of her own. She must have noticed the signs.