She gave him a thin-lipped smile, tinged with bitterness. “May the Lord keep her womb empty. That Felton will do little enough to support them, mark my words. She’ll have to scrimp and slog to feed and clothe them herself.”
Bert stared at her. He couldn’t believe she’d say such a thing. But then, widowed with two small children, it was very difficult for her.
“Come what may, things will come right in the end.” He hoped he was right.
They sat in silence for a moment. He looked across at little Katie, sitting quietly on a bench, hands folded, legs swinging, a pink ribbon in each pigtail.
“Katie looks like a little doll,” he said. He felt sorry for her as he traced her envious gaze to the other romping children.
“Her name is Catherine.” Maud smiled, taking his comment as a compliment, as he’d suspected she would. She stood up.
“Tea, Bertram?”
He agreed, and she glided through the crowd to the table. Samuel Gatesby dropped into her seat.
“Heard the news? His lordship’s bringing in some hunter, a big game hunter, to try and kill this wolf. He met him in a club in London. He’s hunted wolves, tigers, even elephants. They’re saying he’ll make short work of it.” He chewed his thumbnail. “I hope they’re right. It’s left my sheep alone the last week, but it could be back at any moment.”
Bert felt a familiar sense of hopelessness. It wouldn’t help. Of course it wouldn’t. No one could do anything, except him. And he’d failed bitterly.
“You don’t think it’ll work?” Samuel read his expression.
“Does he know these fells, this hunter? Does he understand the lay of the land, the way the spoor lies on the grass, the movements of the winds? Does he know every trail, every spring and drinking spot, every place the deer lie up? No, he doesn’t. No one does but us. And we’ve searched and found nothing. He’ll not stand a chance.”
Samuel nodded slowly. “But something has to be done.”
Bert knew that. But he’d tried the best he could, and he had no idea what to do next.
29
“Hiding away as usual, when you should have been here!”
Judging by Coll’s face, he’d been seething for hours. Bran strode past him through the gates. Fearn was standing in a quiet huddle with a few of the other men. Not enough to indicate anything serious had happened.
A flicker of movement and he saw the silhouette of Mintana keeping watch on the wall.
“What’s happened?” he asked Fearn.
He’d known as soon as the village came into view that something had occurred; torches lent an orange glow to the night air and a hum of voices betrayed the men’s wakefulness, despite it being well past midnight.
“A party of the invaders came, a few hours before sunset,” Fearn answered. “They wished to trade for food.”
“You spoke with them?”
“They do not speak a civilized language!” Coll appeared in front of him. “Their savage tongue no one can understand but themselves! As regimented and unnatural as the men themselves.”
Bran struggled to remain patient. “Then how . . . ?”
“They had an interpreter. One of the southern men, who has taken to their ways. He speaks their language perfectly and made their case for them.”
“A treacherous leech he was, too. I sent them away. I told them we have no food or anything else to spare for feeding dogs.” Coll spat the last word.
Bran raised an eyebrow toward Fearn, who shook his head slightly. “We have little enough to spare, that’s true,” the hunter said. “But it may be better to cooperate for now, else they may return with more men and simply take what they want.”
“No! We treat them like the dogs they are. The Cailleach is reminding them whose land they are in, and they are not to forget it!”
“Sometimes, Coll, a little thought is needed preceding important matters.” Bran’s voice was icy, and clear enough to be heard by all those loitering in the shadows.
The other man froze, and Bran could feel the anger and resentment rolling off him. He held his gaze in the dim light and dared him to speak again.
“The invaders have gone, anyway. They wanted to reach the fort at Coria before dusk,” Fearn interjected. “But their interpreter remains here. He understands our ways, of course, and he said he would speak to the Pennaeth when you returned.”
“I told him he would have a long wait. The Pennaeth of the Pridani has far more important matters to attend than listening to the half-baked pleas of traitors and foreigners.” Coll was looking up at the half moon as he spoke, a trace of bitterness in his voice, and Bran allowed himself an inward smile. Despite his failings, the smith’s loyalty toward his people was unquestionable.
“So where is this man now?”
Fearn gestured toward the Meeting Hut. “He is waiting, anxiously.” He chuckled mirthlessly.
Bran pushed aside the hide covering and ducked inside, the other two men following.
The man jumped to his feet and turned to face him. His back was to the hearth so Bran couldn’t see his features clearly. He crossed to the other side of the hearth, forcing the man to turn. Now illuminated by the firelight, Bran could study him closely.
He was dressed warmly in the normal wool and fur garments. He hadn’t adopted the ridiculously impractical and inadequate garb that the invaders were reported to wear, Bran noted with both satisfaction and disappointment. He’d been hoping to see their clothing close up. At first glance, he looked no different to any of them.
But still, there was something different. A sense of regimented order in his demeanor and general appearance. His hair and beard were carefully trimmed, his cloak held by an unnecessary number of toggle fastenings. There was a definite sense of order about him, the obvious influence of the invaders.
“I am Belinus,” he said when no one else spoke, his eyes flickering over the raven’s feathers, which danced orange in the firelight. He licked his lips. “I am working on behalf of the Romani, who want to trade with the Pridani.”
“So they can build more forts and take the land that is ours?”
Bran was aware of Coll nodding, his massive arms folded deliberately across his chest.
“A peaceful compromise that is of benefit to all.” Belinus glanced at Coll and licked his lips again. “They bring foods, cloth, spices, and wine from their faraway land. They build fine roomy houses.”
He faltered. Obviously he wasn’t convinced by his own pitch. Their houses, as Bran well knew, were hopelessly inferior to their own, suited as they were to their balmy southern climate.
“They bring trade,” Belinus tried hopefully, “and build roads.”
Bran snorted. “All the better to spread their plague. We have no need for these cursed roads.”
Belinus’s eyes flickered from him to the other two men, waiting in the background. “So what is your answer? Are you prepared to trade?”
“It’s nearly a moon since the Long Night. We barely have food enough for ourselves.”
Coll smiled grimly and took a step closer. “You have your answer; now get out.”
The interpreter hesitated, still watching Bran. “And in the future? In the spring, and the summer?”
Bran looked at him for a long moment. The room stilled as everyone waited for his answer.
Yes, and they would become like cowed dogs, ever obedient to their masters’ whims. No, and war, devastation, and death would be followed by the exact same outcome.
Could they ever fight these invaders? Could they ever live with them? The firelight flickered and danced.
“Yes,” he eventually said. “We may be willing to trade.”
“What?!” Coll pushed around to face him and Belinus recoiled. “You cannot sell us to these leeches! We will not submit to their demands. I will not let it happen!”
His face was mere inches from his own, and Bran’s vision was filled with flaming red hair, framed by the glowing firelight behind.
“
You have no idea how to lead the people, Bran. You have no idea about anything.”
Fearn made to step between them but Bran waved him back. “I’m telling you, this is our only option. The only way we will survive.”
He held Coll’s gaze. He could feel his breath on his cheek.
“Tomorrow, a meeting. For all the village. They will decide for themselves whether my decision is right.”
Coll nodded slowly and stepped back. “That they will indeed. They’ll want to hear a better story, too. And that they will as well!”
He turned and strode away, flinging the drapes aside and disappearing into the night. The room seemed immediately empty.
“Belinus, you require shelter for the remainder of the night?”
The man shook his head. “I will leave now. There is moon enough to travel, and as soon as I reach the road it will be very easy going. Wonderful things, these roads are.” He flashed him a sly look.
“Thank you for your hospitality, Pennaeth of the Pridani,” he continued formally. “I will pass on your answer. I’m glad you’re wise enough to make the right decision. You won’t regret it.”
That was debatable, Bran thought tiredly as they walked together to the gate. “Safe journey,” he said as they went their separate ways.
30
The Christmas meal was presented with a flourish. The lamb tasted champion—tender and succulent from a lifetime on the hills, seasoned with rosemary and wild garlic and smothered with rich gravy. The only sound now was the scraping of knives and forks on plates.
“You’ve surpassed yourself this year, Helena.” Bert mopped at the last of his gravy with a piece of potato.
His daughter-in-law beamed and Guy squeezed her arm. “All thanks to you, Dad. It’s you that rears the lambs so well. And Thomas as well, now.” He glanced at his son and the boy grinned self-consciously.
Bert leaned back. The children had gathered sprigs of holly to decorate the room, and the berries glowed a warm red in the firelight. The candles flickered and danced. He felt his worries floating away on the smoky haze. The attacks had lessened slightly over the last week. Only four sheep gone in five nights.
Three-year-old Sophie was rocking on her stool, impatient for the rest to finish. Bert could feel the table wobbling. He began to twist his fingers into shapes to amuse her. A grin spread across her face.
“And how about young Ellen? I wonder how she’s found her first two weeks of married life.” Helena’s tone suggested she knew exactly the answer.
“I have serious doubts about that young man,” said Guy as he carved the second helpings.
“Yes, but in her situation—”
“What situation, Mam?” Claire and Rebecca both looked up. The sixteen-year-old twins already had a woman’s infallible nose for gossip.
Helena didn’t answer. She was a rare jewel in that respect.
“Mam? What?”
A blast of wind crashed into the window. Sophie screamed. “The monster! It’s coming!”
“Sophie! Sit still! Of course there’s no monster!”
“What’s this about a monster?” Bert asked her with an indulgent smile.
“It’s Micky Pinkerley,” Thomas explained. “He’s been telling everyone stories about the demon in Hell’s Mouth that they’ve let escape. He says that’s what’s been killing the sheep.”
A candle guttered and died. In the eddy of smoke, Bert thought he saw a pair of eyes looking at him. Everyone knew the stories about what was trapped in Hell’s Mouth. Everyone had always avoided the place, reminded by regular reports of hovering lights, spectral screams and legions of marching soldiers, until someone from away discovered it was full of lead ore.
Did the stories link to the beast? His grandfather hadn’t known. It suddenly seemed very likely, although the revelation would be of little use to him now.
“Micky’s saying it got out when they were blasting. The rock came down and there it was. Massive, black, fangs like razors. It could have eaten him.”
“That’s enough, Thomas.” Guy glared at him. “You’re scaring Sophie even more. I’ll have to have words with that boy.”
“I was just saying . . . !”
“Quiet, all of you. Not today.” Helena stood up to begin clearing the dishes. Claire and Rebecca leaped up to help. Bert pushed his thoughts aside and found himself checking Helena’s body for signs of yet another pregnancy but was relieved to see none. He always had several worry-filled nights around her confinements. It had been three years now, and she was nearing forty. Perhaps her childbearing days were coming to an end.
He remembered the relief when Thomas arrived after four girls. And when the next three had also been girls, Thomas became the pride of the family. When Guy had had to forfeit his future, Bert had found himself wondering if he was to be the last of the line, but his grandson had changed all that.
Eight was a fair brood, and all surviving infancy as well. But then, the Allenstons had always been prolific. He himself had been the youngest of nine—six older brothers and two sisters—and his father had been one of thirteen. People used to ask, very seriously, what the old man liked to do with his spare time. Bert realized his father also had six elder brothers. He’d never noticed that before, but it made him the seventh son of a seventh son. It had quite a ring to it.
He thought about Janet then. She’d be so proud to see this brood, the legacy of her life.
“Dad? Pudding?”
Bert realized everyone was looking at him. “Er, yes, please.”
Guy was looking at him, his brow furrowed. “It’ll be all sorted out, when this lion hunter chap gets here. Stop worrying so much.”
Bert nodded silently. With an effort he forced himself to concentrate on the plum pudding. Guy pushed himself up and began to hobble toward the hearth. Claire jumped to her feet.
“I’ll do it, Dad. You sit down.”
Guy squeezed her shoulder and turned back to the table. His leg was always bad in cold weather.
“Thomas will be finishing school soon,” Bert said. “He’ll be coming to work with me, then?”
It was posed as a question, although the boy’s future had been decided long ago.
“He’ll do you proud, Dad.”
Guy’s confident smile was tinged with sadness, Bert noticed. Their eyes met and Guy rubbed his leg.
“All my family have done me proud,” Bert said quietly.
“What do you say to that, Thomas?” Helena prompted.
The boy shuffled on his chair and looked at his plate. “I was wondering . . .” He scraped up a trace of pudding. “Maybe I could work on the railways or something.”
The room grew still. Even little Sophie was quiet. Guy glanced at Bert.
“Of course you can’t. And where do you think the money’s going to come from for a position like that?”
“You need to get these fancy ideas out of your head,” Helena admonished. “Be grateful with what you’ve got. A good, secure future, like many boys would dream of.”
Thomas was scarlet. Bert had to smother a smile. He’d heard it so many times before. That was school, he supposed. They learned to read and write, and they thought they could do anything.
“Tommy looks like those red apples!” little Sophie giggled.
The tension was broken. Everyone laughed.
“Have the last helping of pudding, Dad.” Guy threw a final glare at his son.
As he chewed he bit something hard. He pulled the silver sixpence from his mouth.
“Make a wish, Grandpa! What are you going to wish for?” All the children were looking at him eagerly.
He thought of the past, and the future. He looked around at ten members of his family. Eight of them were to live their lives in this new century, where the world he knew would be swept away. What would their lives hold in store for them? He looked at Thomas, wishing he could see what was to be.
“I wish . . . ,” he said. “I wish . . .”
31
&nb
sp; The wind was vicious today. As Bert surveyed the broken wall, it whipped around him and drove deep under his clothing. He could see consecutive swathes of wind hurtling across the fell side toward him, bowing grass, heather, and trees as they passed.
Thomas came up beside him, hands deep in his pockets and his chin tucked into his jacket, a futile attempt to defend himself against the snarling teeth of the fells.
“Don’t you ever hate this weather? I can’t wait for spring.”
“No use complaining about it, lad. You can’t change it, so just get on with it. Moaning gets you nowhere.”
“Don’t you ever wish things could be different?”
“Things are the way they are. That’s just the way it is.”
Bert twisted to keep his back to the wind. It didn’t help. Maybe he needed a new, thick jersey. He’d still not got his boots sorted either.
But like he’d just said, no use complaining. He looked across the fells. Where was it? It was out there somewhere, taunting him with its absence.
“Grandpa? What are we going to do?”
Thomas jerked his head toward the stone blocks strewn on the frosty ground. Bert had forgotten for a moment what they were doing there.
“It needs repairing, of course. It blew down last month.” He stamped his feet and blew into his fingers.
Thomas nodded. “I remember that gale. It took the slates off Widow Jenkins’s house. Left a great big hole in the roof, it did.” He jiggled about. “Why haven’t you mended it before? Weren’t you worried the sheep would get out?”
Bert shook his head. “This is their boundary, the edge of their territory. They’re hefted to this part of the fell.”
“‘Hefted’? What does that mean?”
“It means wherever you take them, they’ll always find their way home.”
The wind blasted a spattering of grit against Bert’s face. He bent and heaved up one of the biggest rocks. It was painfully cold on his hands. “To work then, lad. Soonest started, soonest finished.”
The Wolf of Allendale Page 13