Wolf of Wessex

by Matthew Harffy

  Wolf of Wessex

  BY MATTHEW HARFFY

  The Bernicia Chronicles

  The Serpent Sword

  The Cross and the Curse

  Blood and Blade

  Killer of Kings

  Warrior of Woden

  Storm of Steel

  Fortress of Fury (June 2020)

  Kin of Cain (short story)

  Wolf of Wessex

  Wolf of Wessex

  Matthew Harffy

  AN IMPRINT OF HEAD OF ZEUS

  www.ariafiction.com

  First published in the UK in 2019 by Head of Zeus Ltd

  Copyright © Matthew Harffy, 2019

  The moral right of Matthew Harffy to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN (HB): 9781838932817

  ISBN (ANZTPB): 9781838932824

  ISBN (E): 9781838932848

  Head of Zeus Ltd

  First Floor East

  5–8 Hardwick Street

  London EC1R 4RG

  WWW.HEADOFZEUS.COM

  For Elora and Iona,

  daughters of a dreamer.

  Contents

  By Matthew Harffy

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Place Names

  Map

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Historical Note

  Acknowledgements

  About the author

  Become an Aria Addict

  Place Names

  Place names in Dark Ages Britain vary according to time, language, dialect and the scribe. I have not followed a strict convention when choosing the spelling to use for a given place. In most cases, I have chosen the name I believe to be the closest to that used in the ninth century, but like the scribes of all those centuries ago, I have taken artistic licence at times, and, when unsure, merely selected the one I liked most.

  Bathum

  Bath

  Briuuetone

  Bruton, Somerset

  Briw

  River Brue, Somerset

  Cantmael

  Queen Camel, Somerset

  Carrum

  Carhampton, Somerset

  Centingas

  Kent

  Ceorleah Hill

  Chorley Hill, Bruton, Somerset

  Cernemude

  Charmouth, Dorset

  Cornwalum

  Cornwall. The westernmost part of the older kingdom of Dumnonia. The people of Cornwalum were known as the Westwalas (West Welsh) by the men of Wessex.

  Defnascire

  Devon. The people of Devon were known as the Defnas.

  Denemearc

  Denmark

  Dyfelin

  Dublin, Ireland

  Éastseaxe

  Essex

  Ellandun

  Wroughton, Wiltshire

  Exanceaster

  Exeter, Devon

  Frama

  River Frome, Somerset

  Hengestdūn

  Hingston Down

  Íraland

  Ireland

  Langtun

  Langton Herring, Dorset

  Mercia

  One of the kingdoms of the Anglo-Saxon Heptarchy. It centred on the Trent valley in what is now known as the English Midlands.

  Scirburne

  Sherborne, Dorset

  Sealhwudu

  Selwood Forest. An ancient forest that ran approximately between Chippenham in Wiltshire and Gillingham in Dorset.

  Somersæte

  Somerset

  Spercheforde

  Sparkford, Somerset

  Súpseaxe

  Sussex

  Súþríeg

  Surrey

  Tantun

  Taunton, Somerset

  Tweoxneam

  Twynham (modern-day Christchurch, Dorset)

  Wessex (Westseaxna rīce)

  Kingdom of the West Saxons. In the ninth century, Wessex covered much of southern Britain, including modern-day Wiltshire, Somerset, Dorset and Hampshire. During the reign of King Ecgberht, Wessex conquered Surrey,

  Sussex, Kent, Essex and Mercia, along with parts of Dumnonia. Ecgberht also obtained the overlordship of the Northumbrians. Supremacy over Mercia was brief however, with Mercian independence being restored in 830.

  Wincaletone

  Wincanton, Somerset

  Witanceastre

  Winchester

  Map

  Anno Domini Nostri Iesu Christi

  In the Year of Our Lord Jesus Christ

  838

  One

  It had been a good morning until Dunston found the corpse.

  When he’d left the hut, there had been nothing to suggest the grisly secret that was hiding deep within the forest. The weather was fine. A misty haze lingered in the folds of the land and along the winding course of the River Frama. There was a crisp bite to the air, but Dunston knew from the experience of many years that the mist would burn off as the sun climbed into the summer sky.

  Sparrows scattered, bursting forth from the bracken as Odin, Dunston’s rangy merle hound, sped off into the undergrowth. To see the dog run always lifted Dunston’s spirits. The dog was close to seven years old, but seemed to think it was still a pup, such was its vigour and energy.

  Dunston stretched his right leg and grimaced. Straightening, he winced as his back popped and cracked. He wished he could forget that he was no longer a young man, but his body would allow him no such fantasy. He’d suffered too many injuries, pushed his frame to the limits of endurance too many times for his muscles and joints not to protest. He ran his thick fingers through his beard and sighed. Sometimes he almost forgot the passing of the years. Each day was similar to the countless days before. But then he would catch a glimpse of himself in the polished plate that Eawynn had hung on the wall of his home and he would see that where his beard had once been as black as a winter’s night, now it was streaked with silver frost. And the hair that had grown so thick and wavy was now thinning, receding back from his weather-lined brow.

  Still, he was yet hale and strong and he strode off along the path, listening absently to the muffled crackle of Odin’s passage through the leaf litter
and undergrowth. After a few moments, silence fell on the forest and Dunston wondered whether the dog had picked up the scent of a deer. More than likely he would be rolling in some unspeakable dung. By God, if that dog returned covered in shit as he so often did, the stupid animal would be taking a dip in the river before heading home. And he’d be sleeping outside the hut until the stench abated. Christ alone knew what pleasure the hound took in lathering himself in excrement. Perhaps his instincts told him that in that way he would find it easier to stalk prey. Dunston thought it would be hard for any wild animal not to smell the dog’s approach after he’d smeared himself liberally with manure. And yet, no matter how often he rebuked the beast, it never stopped him.

  Dunston pursed his lips, meaning to whistle for Odin, but he paused before making a sound. Something was amiss.

  He halted in a small glade, shaded beneath the surrounding trees and listened. He had lived with nobody but Odin for company for long enough to know better than to ignore his feelings. Breathing silently through his opened mouth, he noted his steaming breath billowing momentarily. There was no wind. He listened to the forest, straining to hear any indication of what might have unsettled him.

  Silence. As absolute as a tomb.

  Gone was the sound of Odin’s bounding gait through the wood. No trees rustled their leaves. The birds, usually filling the forest with their twittering songs, had all hushed. The stillness was disquieting.

  Alert now, Dunston moved stealthily into the brush beside the trail. With barely a glance he made out where Odin had passed. The fresh white wood of a broken twig. A bent fern. There, in the muddy earth between the boles of two gnarled oaks, a fresh paw print, claws dug in deeply where the dog had been running fast.

  With scarcely a sound, the aches in his knee and back forgotten, Dunston followed Odin’s trail. He stepped lithely and as quietly as a shade. He did not hurry, for to do so would be to make noise when he knew that the surprise of silence would serve him well against man and beast.

  There were creatures that dwelt in these lands that it would do well to respect. He sometimes saw the spoor of bears and at times in winter, wolves would cause him trouble, ripping the flesh from the animals he snared. But he was not unduly concerned about bears or wolves. He was more worried that Odin might have stumbled upon one of the old boars that roamed the woodland. To face one openly could well spell death for a dog, no matter how strong. The larger boars had great, dagger-like tusks and he had seen hounds and once even an unlucky man, disembowelled by the furious wild pigs.

  Dunston placed his hand on the large seax that was scabbarded at his belt. He had no spear, and if he was charged by a big boar, he knew the knife would do him little good. But the touch of its antler hilt reassured him. Barely breathing, he stalked forward, as silent as any woodland animal. He paused again, listening and sniffing the air. There was no sound. Surely if Odin had stumbled upon a boar, there would have been a cacophony of grunts and growls as the animals fought. Even the largest boar would not slay Odin without a fight. And yet, there was just the unnerving hush.

  Light sliced through the leafy canopy, dappling the loam and leaf mould. Dunston dropped to one knee, the joint letting out a sharp report. He winced at the sudden sound, loud in the unnatural stillness. He peered at the ground, unsure for a moment what it was he saw. And then, the shapes of the trampled leaves and the scuffed mark on the moss-covered rock by the root of a linden tree all made sense in an instant of clarity. Odin had passed this way, but so too had several men. Large, heavy men, to judge from their tracks. Three of them. No, four. They had been travelling northward. Dunston examined the tracks closely. They were fresh. He did not recognise them. These were not the prints left by any of the men who came to the wood from Briuuetone. He would never mistake the tracks of the charcoal burners, the woodsmen or the swineherd leading his pigs in search of mast under the trees. No, these were strangers, he was sure of it. But what would four men be doing creeping around in his forest? Perhaps they were wolf-heads; men outside of the law, whose oaths were worthless. Such men could be dangerous. They had nothing to lose.

  He pushed himself up and before setting off once more after Odin, he listened again. There was a whisper of a sound and an instant later, the grey, white and black hound loped into the lancing sunlight.

  Odin, tongue lolling, panted. His chest heaved.

  “Where have you been, boy?” asked Dunston in a hushed hiss. His heart soared at the animal’s safe return and he let out a pent up breath, surprised at his own worry for the hound. He reached out a hand and Odin nudged it with his snout, licking his fingers. The dog’s nose was wet and cool. Dunston rubbed absently at the dog’s ear and was surprised to see a smudge of crimson on the beast’s fur.

  Blood.

  He looked down at his hand and saw that it was slick with the stuff. Pushing Odin’s head to one side so that it caught a ray of sunlight, he saw that the hound’s mouth and muzzle were drenched in gore.

  By Christ’s bones, what had Odin discovered? Had he perhaps brought down a fawn? Odin was a good hunter and would often chase and slay animals. But somehow Dunston knew that this blood did not belong to any animal. The fresh prints of the men told him that much. That, and the unnerving quiet of the wood.

  For the merest of instants Dunston considered turning away and walking back to his hut. A small voice whispered to him that he wanted no part of whatever it was Odin had found.

  Later, on more than one occasion, he would regret not listening to that voice.

  Yet as surely as he knew he wanted nothing to do with the strangers that were in his forest, nor to discover where the blood had come from, so he understood that it was not in his nature to walk away.

  He sighed, blowing out air slowly so that his breath billowed about him for a moment in the early morning cool.

  “Stay close, boy,” he whispered. “Show me what you’ve found.”

  Odin looked up at him, its one eye dark and thoughtful, bearded mouth red and straggled. And then the dog spun around and padded silently back into the undergrowth. Dunston hurried behind, less concerned now with remaining silent as with finding the source of that blood.

  It was closer than he had imagined. A few heartbeats later, Odin led him into a clearing surrounded by densely leafed linden trees. In the centre of the glade lay a corpse. He did not need to approach the body to know the man was dead.

  The clearing was awash with blood. The man had been slain atop a fallen oak, the wood long dead and crumbling. The tree trunk was slimed with gore. The delicate white flowers of the dog rose that grew along the edge of the rotting tree were splattered with crimson. The moss that clung to the wood glistened darkly. Blood had spattered and smeared much of the clearing’s green carpet of snakeweed and ivy. The corpse had been stripped to the waist. Where his skin was not daubed with his lifeblood, it was pallid; the blue-tinge of death. Dunston could not see the dead man’s face. He had been left face down on the log. His greying hair dangled down, lank and blood-streaked, brushing the earth beneath his hanging head.

  Dunston had seen death before. But the savagery of this man’s slaughter made his breath catch in his throat. This was more than a murder, or a robbery of an unlucky traveller. There was evil here.

  Dunston shuddered.

  Odin padded forward into the glade.

  “Stay,” Dunston ordered, his voice harsh; a knife cut in the stillness of the forest.

  The dog whimpered, but halted and sat on its haunches. Absently, Dunston reached out and placed a hand on the hound’s head. The dog’s warmth was comforting.

  Dunston stroked the soft, warm fur behind Odin’s ears, but all the while, his gaze remained fixed on the scene of slaughter before him.

  The slain man’s back had been split open. His ribs had been pried apart and his offal pulled from his flesh and splayed upon his back. Dunston did not need to get any closer to know that the bloody mess either side of the great wound in the centre of his back was made up of th
e man’s lungs. They had been draped like crude, blood-drenched wings on the man’s shoulder blades.

  Dunston had heard of such things, but he had thought them the tales of scops to frighten children. Though why they felt the need to make the Norsemen any more terrifying than they were, he had never understood. In his experience, the men who came from the sea aboard the beast-prowed sea-dragons, oars beating as the wings of some giant bird, were fearsome enough. There was no need to invent stories of human sacrifice and ritual killings in the name of their one-eyed god.

  Could it be that the tales were true? Had raiders landed nearby in their sleek ships, on the Frama perhaps? Surely the river was not large enough here to carry fighting ships? Were Norsemen even now creeping through the forest in search of prey?

  And yet he had only seen the tracks of four men. And it was not the way of those heathen Norse to sneak around murdering men in the dark of the woodland. The people of the coast lived in constant fear of the coming of the dragon ships, he knew, but here? And why so few of them?

  Whatever the truth of it, the remains of the poor man told him one thing. Danger was close.

  Dunston dragged his gaze from the gory spectacle and cast around the clearing. Clothing was strewn about. A tawny-coloured cape. A ripped kirtle, tattered and flecked with dark stains. A single leather shoe. Dunston flicked his gaze back to the dead man and noted his left foot was bare.

  An unusual shadow caught his attention. There was something large just beyond the clearing. He took a couple of steps towards it. His hand rested on his seax handle and once again he was moving with the silent stealth of a woodland hunter. Two more steps and he was able to discern what the object was. A handcart. A simple, two-wheeled affair that could be pulled by one person. Walking to the cart, he tugged back the greased leather that covered its contents. He was surprised to find several sacks, a wooden box and a couple of small iron-hooped kegs, nestling safely and seemingly untouched beneath the cover. Teasing open one of the sacks he found long white goose feathers inside. A second, smaller bag held leather pouches. Each of the pouches was tightly tied, but they were not sealed well enough to disguise the heady aroma of pepper, cinnamon and mace. Dunston’s head swam with the powerful scents of the spices. These were not the things that would bring Norse warriors battle-fame and have their names sung of in the halls of their northern lands, but the stuff was valuable enough. Pulling the leather back over the cart, he looked about him.