Aedwen’s eyes had widened when she saw him step from the glade, arms and hands besmeared in blood. He had led her with him to the stream, where he had washed himself as best he could in the bitterly cold water, picking up handfuls of sand and rubbing away the grime. Then he had filled the girl’s bucket and carried it back to the glade.
“Wait a short while more,” he had said when she asked if now she could see her father.
He had wrapped the butchered man tightly in the leather and cloth, shrouding his body from view. He left his face visible, using a scrap of the man’s kirtle dipped in the bucket to wipe his cheeks, chin and forehead clean. Then he cut a long strip of woollen cloth from the cloak and bound it about his head, over the crown and beneath the chin to hold the mouth shut.
Only then, when he was sure he had done all he could to make Aedwen’s father look at peace, had Dunston heaved the man’s corpse up and carried him to the cart. They had cleared the bed of the cart and Dunston had laid the man down as softly as he was able. The girl had gazed at her father’s face for a long while.
Dunston had been nervous, peering into the forest and listening for any sign that the men who had done this thing might be returning. But they had disappeared and now that he had found the girl, he did not regret letting them be on their way. Nothing he did would bring Aedwen’s father back. And men capable of this kind of violence would meet a bloody end themselves one day, of that he was certain. Sweat-drenched and breathless from his exertions, Dunston drank cool water from the bucket while Aedwen cried silently.
They had piled the goods from the cart around Lytelman’s corpse, even placing a couple of sacks, one of feathers and one of smoked mackerel, on his chest. Dunston had said they could leave the contents of the cart hidden and return for it, but Aedwen would not hear of it.
“This is all that is left of my father’s dreams,” she had said, sniffing. “I will not leave it or throw it away.”
Dunston had not replied, merely helping her to arrange the sacks. The cart creaked and groaned and was difficult to coax along the root-snarled paths to his hut, but Dunston understood Aedwen’s anxiety at leaving the things untended in the wood. He had asked about her kin and found she had none. She was an orphan now, and this was all she owned. It was not much, but it was better than nothing at all.
Taking another swig of mead, he looked down at the girl where she slept in the fire-glow. In sleep, her face was soft, trouble-free. How would such a young child survive in this world? Well, that was no concern of his. He would do his duty and take her to Briuuetone. Let Rothulf there find a home for the orphan. Not for the first time, Dunston wished he had not left his hut that morning. Nothing but trouble had come his way. Everything had changed when he’d stumbled upon the blood-soaked corpse of the girl’s father. Well, as Guthlaf had so often told him over the years, there were only two things you could ever be sure of in life: the passage of time and the unexpected. Today, he had been reminded of both. He twisted his head around and his neck gave an audible click. He grunted, feeling his age of close to fifty summers.
Odin let out a suppressed growling bark, dreaming of the shade of some woodland creature no doubt. His legs twitched as he ran in his slumber. The animal was stretched out beside Aedwen and one of his huge paws rested on her arm. Dunston snorted and sipped again from the costrel. He had never seen the hound take to someone in this way. The dog was friendly enough with him, and fiercely loyal, but he usually slept alone beside the fire, or curled up close to the door. He never came close to Dunston’s bed at the rear of the hut.
The foolish beast would miss the girl when they left her at Briuuetone. All the more reason to be done with it. At first light they would set out. He could not have the poor girl weeping and complaining around the place.
*
Dunston awoke with a start. He yet sat in the high-backed chair he had carved many years ago. He made to rise and his spine cried out in agony at having rested so long against the hard oak of the seat. The half-full flask of mead toppled from where it had perched atop his belly. Cursing, he lunged for the falling costrel, sending fresh stabs of pain down his back and neck. Too slow, his fingers brushed the leather and it fell to the packed earth floor.
“By all that is holy,” shouted Dunston, angrily heaving himself to his feet and snatching up the flask before all the mead had been spilt.
Light streamed in through the hut’s open door and at the sound of his voice, Odin padded inside to gaze up quizzically at his master. The sun had risen long ago and Dunston could scarcely believe how long he had slept. The exertions of the day before must have taken their toll on his body more than he had imagined. Thank you, Lord, for yet another reminder of how old he was becoming.
Beside the hearth knelt Aedwen. She had rekindled the flames and was now placing oatcakes on a griddle. The smell of cooking brought saliva rushing into his mouth. They had been too tired to prepare food when they had arrived the previous night and his stomach grumbled now at the prospect of eating.
Odin nudged Dunston’s hand with his cold wet snout. To Dunston, it looked as though the dog was grinning at him.
“What are you looking at, fool of a dog?” he growled.
Aedwen looked up from where she was cooking. Her eyes were red-rimmed and sparkling. Dunston noticed that she had brushed her hair, and it shimmered in the morning sunlight from the doorway.
“You’re awake,” she said. “The oatcakes are almost ready.”
“You should have woken me,” Dunston said, pushing himself up from the chair and stretching. He winced as his body protested. “I wanted to be gone long before now.”
“You looked tired.”
“There’s strength enough in these old bones to get you and your father to Briuuetone.”
She cast her gaze down to the griddle, poking at the cakes with a stick to check whether they were done.
“Well, I thought it best if I fed you first. Neither of us ate yesterday, and you’ll need to keep that strength up.” She decided that the cake closest to the flames was ready and prised it from the metal and scooped it onto a wooden platter. Dunston recognised the plate as one he had made. She handed it to him and, after a slight hesitation, he accepted it. The oat cake smelt good. He broke a piece of it off and the warm fragrance wafted up to him. He tested it with his tongue. It was hot, but his hunger got the better of him and he popped it into his mouth. The crisp outer shell broke under his bite, exposing the steaming soft centre. Gasping, he breathed through his mouth, waving his hand to indicate he was burning.
Aedwen smirked and handed him a wooden cup of ale.
He filled his mouth with the cool liquid, sighing as it lessened the scalding and dissolved the mouthful of oat cake.
“You’ve certainly made yourself at home,” he said, frowning.
“I thought you would be happy for me to cook. It is the least I can do. You have been kind to me.”
Dunston grunted and took another bite of the cake.
“These are good,” he said grudgingly, taking a second draught of ale.
“My mother taught me,” said Aedwen, before falling silent. She busied herself with the griddle, flicking more of the oatcakes onto another plate.
“I’ll have another,” Dunston said, suddenly awkward. “And I thank you.”
Aedwen beamed and slid two more cakes onto his plate. Then she nibbled one herself and nodded, seemingly content with her handiwork.
“Do you live here alone?” she asked.
Dunston nodded.
“Just me and Odin.” At the sound of his name, Odin raised his head. Dunston glowered at the dog for a moment, before breaking one of the cakes in two and tossing half to the hound. Odin caught the offering and in a heartbeat the food had vanished.
Aedwen watched the dog, a small smile tugging at her lips despite the horror and loss she had suffered.
“You have no kin?”
For a moment, Dunston chewed in silence. He glanced over to where the girl
had laid out the cooking utensils neatly beside the hearth. Everything was just so, ordered and tidy. How long had it been since a woman had been in this hut? It seemed like a lifetime. His gaze flicked to Eawynn’s silver plate, hanging on the far wall, where it reflected the light from the fire.
“I have a brother,” Dunston replied at last. “But I have not seen him since Michaelmas this past year.”
“Nobody else?”
“No. No one else, damn your nosiness, girl.” He crammed the rest of the oat cake into his mouth and chewed sullenly. The girl said nothing, but her eyes brimmed with tears as she finished her food and set about clearing the things away.
“I am sorry,” Dunston said. “You are right, I was tired. And hungry.”
“It is no matter. Father was always ill-tempered in the morning before he broke his fast.”
“Ill-tempered, am I?” he said, unable to keep the smile from his face. “I suppose I am at that. I am not used to having company.” He wiped his hands through his beard. “And what of you, do you have kin…” he hesitated, “… beyond your father?”
The girl’s face crumpled, her lower lip quivering. She stood, picking up the soiled cooking things.
He felt a pang of guilt at her reaction. Damn his clumsiness. He understood as well as anyone the anguish of grief.
“I do not wish to cause you more pain,” he said, stumbling over the words, unsure of himself. “I have never been good with words.” He held up his hands. They were thick-fingered and callused. “I only have skill with these,” he said. “It has ever been so. Whenever I speak, I cause offence.”
“What do you make?” Aedwen said, her voice small.
Dunston was confused. He grunted, leaning his head to one side. Surprisingly, Aedwen grinned.
“What is so funny, girl?” Dunston said, suddenly annoyed once more.
Aedwen bit her lip.
“I beg your pardon, it is just…” her voice trailed off.
“Just what?”
When she did not reply immediately, he continued. “You had better tell me. One thing I like worse than waking up late are secrets.”
Aedwen took a deep breath, but still she hesitated.
“Well?” he said, his voice taking on an edge of iron.
With a sigh, Aedwen said, “The way you looked at me just then, with your head to one side, you looked just like Odin.”
For a long while Dunston stared at the girl. To his surprise and her credit she held his gaze, until at last, he allowed himself to smile.
“Like Odin, you say?” The hound looked up at him and cocked its head at an angle. Dunston let out a guffaw and he was pleased to see that Aedwen was laughing too. “Well,” he said, through his chuckles, “it would seem I have been too long in the company of this hound. As we walk to Briuuetone you will have to teach me once again the ways of mankind.”
They laughed together as they cleaned the plates with some of the water from a barrel by the door. For a moment it was almost as though the previous day, with its blood and terror, had never happened. But when they returned to the hut, they both looked upon the shadowed shape of Aedwen’s father, wrapped in the makeshift shroud.
“Have you any inkling of who the attackers were?” he asked, unable to avoid returning to the dark subject of her father’s murder.
“No,” she said, “I thought they must be wolf-heads.”
Dunston nodded, saying nothing of the cart laden with goods that had been left behind.
“But I have been thinking about that,” she continued. “Men living outside the law would be desperate for anything of value. They would never leave the cart.”
Dunston said nothing. The girl impressed him. She was sharp and thoughtful.
“In answer to your question,” she said, “I have no close kin. My father had two sisters, but they married and moved away before I was born. I know nothing of my mother’s family. She never talked of them.”
“It seems we are both alone,” he said, feeling a stab of pity. It was one thing for a man of his age to look at a future devoid of companionship and family, but for one so young… Aedwen must be terrified of what her life would be now.
“You are not alone,” she said. “You have Odin.”
Dunston grunted.
“And I am not truly alone,” she said. “While I was hiding in the forest, I prayed.” Aedwen’s voice grew wistful. “I prayed to the Blessed Virgin.” Her eyes burnt with a new passion. “And the Mother of God answered me. She sent me you.”
“I don’t know about that, girl,” said Dunston, uneasy at the thought of being part of some sacred plan.
“The Virgin Mary sent you to help me.”
“Well,” he said, lifting up one of the sacks that belonged to Aedwen and carrying it out to the waiting handcart, “I am happy to help you to reach Briuuetone. You will not be alone there. The reeve will know what to do with you. His wife is kindly and he has daughters too. Perhaps you can stay with them.”
She followed him out into the warming daylight.
“I do not wish to go to Briuuetone. I have been praying and I believe you were sent to me for a purpose.”
Dunston did not like the sound of this, or the direction that the conversation was headed. He returned inside for another sack. Aedwen followed him.
“And what purpose would that be?” he asked, unsure that he wanted to hear what this child would answer.
“You are adept at following tracks in the forest, are you not?”
He dropped the sack into the bed of the cart and its timbers creaked.
“I am a hunter. I can see where beasts or men have trod,” he allowed.
“And you are clearly a strong man. A warrior.”
Dunston bridled, not liking one bit the turn this morning had taken.
“I am no warrior,” he spat and stalked back inside.
Aedwen ignored his protestations.
“I think you are,” she said, “and I think the Virgin answered my pleas by sending you, and in the night, while you slept, I understood what we should do next.”
“We?” he said, his tone incredulous. “There is no ‘we’, girl. I will take you to the reeve at Briuuetone and then you can pray to the Virgin all you want. But whatever you pray for, think not that I will be part of your prayers.”
“I do not believe you are a man who would allow something like the brutal murder of my father to go unpunished.”
“It is not my place to seek justice. I am not the reeve and I am no warrior.”
“And yet you have not denied my words. You would see the men who killed my father punished.”
Anger began to bubble within Dunston. The girl’s words raked through the embers of his ire at seeing her father’s ripped and savaged corpse.
He bent to lift the heavy form of the dead man onto his shoulder. He noticed how blood had soaked through the cloak. The burden was cumbersome and his back once again cried in pain, but he wrestled the corpse up and walked stiffly towards the sunlight and the cart.
“Of course I would have the men who did this thing brought before the moot and tried,” he gasped, breathless from the exertion. “But I am but one old man.” The words threatened to catch in his throat, but he knew the truth of them. He knew that years before, he would have swung the corpse up and onto his back with barely a thought. Now his bones and joints screamed out in protest. “What would you have me do?”
Aedwen placed a small hand on his burly forearm. He halted and looked into her limpid eyes.
“I would have you track the savages who did this to my father. You say you are a hunter. I want you to hunt them. And when you find them, I want you to kill them all.”
Four
They walked in sullen silence.
Aedwen watched as Odin bounded before them, flitting into the trees and then returning sometime later, tongue flopping, tail held high. She wished she could be as carefree. It would be wonderful to be content to run through the forest, in and out of the pools of suns
hine that dotted the path beneath the trees. But her mind was a turmoil of emotions. After the initial fear and horror of her father’s death, she had set to thinking and praying. She had awoken deep in the darkest part of the night and had been sure she had the solution. She had lain there and listened to Dunston’s snoring, comforted by the sound that reminded her of her father. She had tried to turn her thoughts away from her father’s body, shrouded, still and stiff in the hut, but no matter how hard she prayed, her mind kept on going back to her father’s corpse. She had cried then, silent tears rolling down her cheeks in the darkness, but when the first light of dawn drew a grey line beneath the door of the hut, she had been resolved. She knew what she must do and she had been certain that the grey-bearded man who had found her would accept her challenge.
How wrong she had been.
They had barely spoken since his refusal to seek out her father’s killers. He had said that her idea was foolish. He would stick to his plan to take her and her father to Briuuetone and then he would leave. She had felt the fury building within her, like the tension in the air before a thunderstorm. She had been about to scream her anger at Dunston, but something in the set of his jaw and the furrow of his brow, gave her pause. She recalled the last time she had raised her voice to father. She could barely remember what she had been angry about, but her ire had been sudden and terrible. When she had calmed down, father had said something she would never forget, and she thought on those words now.
“I am your father, and I love you. But make no mistake, if you speak to others the way you have spoken to me today, things will go badly for you. Only kin will put up with that kind of foolish rudeness and even then, a father’s patience has its limits.”
And so, rather than scream and yell at Dunston, she had fallen into step behind him, sour and bitter resentment washing off her like a stink. For his part, he had seemed to be pleased not to speak, conserving his energy for pulling the heavy cart that creaked and groaned over the rutted ground.
Wolf of Wessex Page 3