Wolf of Wessex

by Matthew Harffy

  More than once, she had needed to help him, lending her small weight to his considerable bulk to heave the cart over a thick tree root, or around a boulder jutting into their path. Not once did she say a word to him, instead doing what was necessary, and then resuming her brooding; an ill-tempered shadow trudging in his wake.

  They saw nobody else all that morning. The forest was teeming with wildlife. Magpies chattered and wood pigeons cooed in the canopy and once Odin frightened a partridge from where it rested in the bracken. The bird burst from the undergrowth in a fluster of beating wings and narrowly avoided becoming the hound’s meal. But despite the numerous animal denizens of the woods, no humans crossed their path.

  Dunston led them unerringly through barely visible deer tracks until they eventually reached the road. Aedwen began to understand how lucky she was that Dunston had found her. Without his aid she would have surely been lost forever in this dense world of twisted trees and clinging brambles. Again she thanked the Virgin for sending him to her, and like someone going back to scratch at an annoying nettle rash, she once more pondered how to have the man do her bidding.

  The sun was high in the sky when they came to a fast-flowing brook that the road crossed over by way of a simple timber bridge. The cart clattered over the mossy boards of the bridge and on the far side, Dunston eased the cart’s shafts down and stretched, reaching his hands to the small of his back. He grunted as he massaged at his aches and he winced as he bent his right knee to sit with his back to the cart wheel. His forehead was beaded with sweat, but he seemed hale enough. She produced the remainder of the oatcakes from where she had stored them in a bag and handed him one.

  He nodded his thanks, broke off a piece and chewed for a time before washing it down with water from a leathern flask. She ate in silence, and accepted the flask from him. The day was warm, and she was thirsty.

  Odin gnawed contentedly at a bone he had found somewhere in the depths of the wood.

  “I understand that you are filled with anger at the men who did this to your father,” Dunston said, breaking the hush that had fallen over them. “But it would be madness to chase after them as you wish.” He took back the water bottle from her and drew another deep draught.

  “I cannot bear the thought of those men roaming free.”

  “If I could track them, what then? A girl and an old man against four men.”

  “You are not so old,” she said, a glimmer of mischief in her eye. “You look like you would be able to defend yourself in a fight.”

  Was that a slight smile nestled within his beard? He snorted.

  “Defend, perhaps. But to seek out a fight with men like that would be foolhardy. As I said, I am no longer young and I am no warrior.”

  She had been watching him closely all that morning, the way he carried himself. Walking lightly on the balls of his feet, his blue eyes never missing anything. She had noticed that his muscled forearms bore many scars, a pale cross-hatching of lines against the tanned skin. She tried to imagine how he might have come across such wounds and could only conclude they were from cuts delivered by enemies standing against him in a shieldwall. Then there was the large axe he had picked up and placed into the cart before they had left his hut. It was a broad-headed, wicked-looking thing; a weapon more than a tool used by a woodsman, she thought. The axe’s dark iron head was swirled with intricate patterns of silver, which had been cunningly forged into the metal, and the long ash haft was carved with runes and symbols. The lower end of the shaft was tightly bound in old, worn leather.

  He had said nothing when he had fetched it from a trunk. It had seemed almost as an afterthought. But he handled the hefty weapon as if it weighed nothing and as he had strode from his hut, axe-head gleaming in the morning sun, a sudden chill had run through her. He was certainly not young, but he looked like a warrior to her.

  More than that, he looked like a killer.

  She reached out her hand for the water flask again and he tipped it up to show her it was empty. Pushing herself up, she made her way down to the water’s edge. It was cool in the shade of the bridge and the water was clear and cold. Silver daces darted and snaked languidly beneath the surface. She plunged the flask’s neck into the water and watched the stream of silver bubbles gurgle up from the opening.

  “I understand,” she called back to Dunston. “This is not your fight. Why would you put yourself at risk for me…”

  “Do not besmirch me as a craven, girl,” the old man growled. “To what end would we hunt these men? To slay them, you say. Even if we could do such a thing, you will find no peace from revenge.” He heaved himself to his feet with a grunted groan of pain. He tested his knee, flexing it and grimacing at what he felt. “Trust me on this. No,” he said, once more lifting the shafts of the cart and setting off again southward. “We will go to Rothulf, the reeve. He is a friend and a wiser man than me. He’ll know what to do. Besides, justice is his job.”

  Aedwen drank deeply, the cold water doing nothing to dampen the anger she felt. Refilling the flask, she hammered the stopper back in place with the heel of her hand and followed behind Dunston, once more too upset and disappointed to speak.

  Five

  They barely spoke for the rest of the day and the sun was low in the sky when finally they saw the cluster of houses known as Briuuetone. They had followed the course of the River Briw as it wound its way towards the settlement. As it progressed downhill, the river grew ever faster, its water changing from a burbling stream to a churning torrent. The Briw was ever fast-flowing, but after the recent rains, it was a raging, white-frothed deluge by the time it reached Briuuetone.

  A few times during the afternoon Dunston glanced at Aedwen and was unsurprised to see her face set, her lips pressed tightly together in an expression of disapproving anger. If her situation had not been so dire, her childish rage might have amused him. As it was, he was saddened. He understood her desire for vengeance. She must feel lost and impotent in a world that had suddenly become frightening and more violent than she had ever known. But he was sure of his decision. To chase after the men who had slain her father would have been madness and almost certainly would have spelt his and Aedwen’s deaths.

  For his part, he did not mind walking in silence. The path grew smoother as they approached the village, but it was still hard work to push the cart over the rutted track and he had little inclination to talk. Besides, he was accustomed to the hushed voice of the forest. The creak of tall linden and oak when the wind caught their highest boughs. A far-off cry of a sparrow hawk. The chatter of sparrows and finches. Odin’s panting breath when he ran past, flitting in and out of the undergrowth. All of the natural sounds of woodland life calmed him, giving him time to listen to his own thoughts. He pondered again who might have done this thing. He was convinced now that it could not have been Norsemen. It made no sense for such a small band to be here, deep within the kingdom of Wessex. But then why mutilate the man’s body in such a horrific fashion? What sort of men committed such an act if it were not in the name of their heathen gods?

  Dunston walked on, brooding on that, his mind filled with dark memories of blood and screams. He knew all too well what sort of man took pleasure from torture and killing. He had believed he would never again need to face such men. Well, after he’d got the girl and her unlucky father to Rothulf, he would return to his home and try to forget this fresh horror he had witnessed. He knew Aedwen’s father’s blood-slathered and broken body would plague his dreams, just as so many other corpses did. Each pallid face of the dead had its own place in his nightmares. Lytelman was another innocent to join their ranks.

  Aedwen stumbled. She was tired. It had been a long, hard day.

  “We are almost there,” he said, making his tone soft.

  The girl glared at him, still refusing to speak. With a flick of her hair, she turned away and strode with renewed determination down towards the smoke-wreathed settlement.

  Despite himself, Dunston smiled. Eawynn wo
uld have liked the girl. They were both haughty and stubborn as mules when angered. With a grunt of effort, Dunston set the cart to moving faster to keep up with her. He thought about calling for her to slow her pace, but thought better of it. He would have to shout over the roaring rush of the river that flowed alongside the path. And anyway, she was heading in the right direction.

  The road twisted around an outcrop of rock up ahead. Without looking back, Aedwen disappeared from view. Dunston felt an unexpected twinge of anxiety. Foolishness, he told himself. They were almost in the shadow of the thatched houses of Briuuetone. He could smell the woodsmoke from the haze of cooking fires. These were Rothulf’s folk. Good people. Nothing could befall the girl here. Surely.

  As if he too felt nervous to have lost sight of the girl, Odin burst from the brush beside the path and sped past Dunston, running around the bend in Aedwen’s wake.

  The Briw, fast and deep, churned and crashed over boulders. Dunston could hear nothing over the river’s rocky roar.

  The cart’s left wheel caught on a protruding chunk of flint. Aedwen’s father’s shrouded body began to slip. Dunston lashed out a strong hand, hauling the corpse back onto the bed of the cart, where it nestled amongst all of Aedwen’s possessions. Dunston spied the leather-wrapped haft of DeaÞangenga and briefly he placed his hand upon it. He wondered what had made him pick up the great axe. He had scarcely touched it since Eawynn’s passing. Whenever he saw the weapon, it reminded him of why he had never been good enough for her.

  “In love with your king and killing,” she had said to him once. He’d argued with her, unable to accept her words. But now, looking back across the dark frontier of time, he admitted she had been right.

  He frowned. Pushing aside his memories, he turned his attention once more to the cart and with a great heave it was over the stone that had impeded its movements and was once again trundling on.

  At last he rounded the bend in the road and brought the cart up short. It was quieter here, the outcrop and its encompassing blanket of sedge, nettles and butter dock muting the river sound to a rumble. Before him, several stocky kine were lumbering down the lane. The cattle lowed and rolled their huge bovine eyes at Odin, but the hound seemed oblivious to their unease, and he trotted along beside them, ignoring their baleful stares.

  Behind the cows walked a slender man with a hazel switch that he used to goad the beasts forward. Aedwen walked close by and it appeared the two of them were deep in conversation.

  “Hail, Ceolwald,” said Dunston, raising his voice more than he’d intended.

  The slim drover turned and stared at Dunston. Placing his hands on his hips, he halted, waiting for him to catch up. The cart was cumbersome and it took Dunston some time to reach them. Neither Aedwen nor Ceolwald offered to help him.

  “It’s early in the season for you to be down this way, Dunston,” said Ceolwald. “It’s not even St Vitus’ Day yet.”

  “I know what day it is, and what day it isn’t,” growled Dunston.

  The drover nodded, as if that explained everything.

  “Well,” he said, “this young lady tells me she is walking to Briuuetone. I was just saying as to how she has just about reached there. We don’t often get visitors unless it’s a holy day. Funny you are walking that way too. I suppose we might as well all walk together.” He looked disappointed.

  “The girl and I are travelling together,” said Dunston.

  “Oh.” Ceolwald looked from Aedwen to Dunston and back again, as if he were trying to understand something unfathomable. After a moment, his gaze settled on the cart and its gruesome burden. His eyes widened, and he snatched off the woollen cap he wore, wringing it in his hands. “What’s this then?” he asked.

  “The girl’s father.”

  “Oh,” the drover said and made the sign of the cross. “You taking him to Godrum for a proper burial?” Before Dunston could reply, Ceolwald looked over his shoulder at the cows that were now some distance away. “Whoa there, girls,” he called, but the animals ignored him and continued trudging along the muddy path.

  Shaking his head, Ceolwald said, “They know the way to the Bartons right enough. If we stand here dillydallying they’ll be there long before me and they won’t be happy. This time of year they need milking before they’re put out for the night. They’ll make a devil of a noise if they don’t get milked sharpish.”

  He set off to hurry after the beasts. Dunston sighed and pushed his weight into the cart, getting it rolling again. His knee ached and a fresh pain lanced down his back. He grimaced, but said nothing. He would be there soon and he could be done with this burden and the troublesome child. Let her talk to the idiot drover all she liked.

  But Ceolwald had only walked a few paces when he halted and came back to Dunston.

  “Let me help you with that,” he said. “Otherwise, you’ll still be pushing it down the path come nightfall and all the kine’ve been milked.”

  And you would have missed the gossip about the dead man and his daughter, thought Dunston. He offered the drover a thin smile of thanks and moved to one side to allow him room to add his weight behind the cart. With the two men shoving the creaking cart along, the going was much smoother and Dunston was pleased for the easing of the pressure on his joints.

  After a brief spell, Ceolwald asked, “Well, are you?”

  “Am I what?”

  “Taking him,” he indicated with his chin at the shrouded corpse on the cart, “to Godrum? It’s a good time for a burial. The ground is soft and easily dug.”

  Dunston glanced over at Aedwen and noted her downcast gaze. Her eyes shone.

  “Have care with your words,” he snapped. “You are talking about the child’s father.”

  “I beg pardon,” Ceolwald replied, bobbing his head and swallowing. “Well, are you?”

  Dunston sighed. He rarely visited Briuuetone and when he did he barely spoke to its inhabitants. Save for Rothulf and his family, he had no friends in the village. They liked him well enough to accept his furs and knives in trade, but he didn’t think they missed him when he went back to his solitary life in the forest. At times, when the winter wind bit the skin, and food was scarce; when the nights were long and the days short and brittle with ice and snow, Dunston would ask himself if he had chosen the right path for his life. Wouldn’t he have been better off finding a new wife to tend to his needs? At moments like that he yearned for the company of others. Now, listening to Ceolwald’s inane and incessant chatter, he was sure he had chosen wisely when he had made his home amongst the trees of Sealhwudu.

  They pushed the cart along and Dunston did not reply. Perhaps it would have been better to have pushed the cart alone.

  “Well?” Ceolwald asked again.

  At last, Dunston capitulated.

  “He will need a Christian burial,” he said, pausing to wipe the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. Ceolwald nodded, as though he had been proven right in his answer to a particularly twisted riddle. “But,” continued Dunston, finding himself increasingly irritated by the drover’s demeanour, “I do not plan to take him to the church first.”

  “Well, you’ll not be burying him anywhere else than in holy ground,” he laughed at the idea, before growing suddenly grave. “Or is he such a sinner that he cannot be laid to rest with the good folk of Briuuetone?”

  “My father was a sinner, like all men,” said Aedwen, wheeling on the drover, her eyes ablaze. “But he was a good man and he will be given a Christian burial.”

  Ceolwald swallowed, unable to meet Aedwen’s glare. Again Dunston thought how the girl reminded him of Eawynn.

  “Of course, maid,” Ceolwald said, “I meant nothing by it.” They walked along in silence for a few moments before he spoke again. “So what is it you plan for him?”

  “I am taking both Aedwen and her father to Rothulf, that he may determine the correct course of action. The girl is without kin now, and her father was slain most cruelly. The killers will need to be cau
ght and brought before the moot.”

  Ceolwald was looking at him with a strange expression. He opened his mouth to speak and then snapped it shut once more.

  “What is it, man?” asked Dunston.

  Again the drover made as if to speak, but then hesitated.

  “Speak, man,” growled Dunston. “You want to say something, so say it. God knows until now nothing has stopped you from uttering the first thing that pops into your thought-cage.”

  “Well,” said Ceolwald, his voice uncertain now, sweat beading his brow, “it’s just that you won’t be taking him to Rothulf.”

  Dunston gave the man a sharp look. He felt a scratch of unease down his spine.

  “Why is that?” he asked.

  Ceolwald’s throat bobbed as he swallowed.

  “He is dead. That’s why.”

  Six

  Aedwen could see the tidings of the reeve’s death had rocked Dunston. Tears welled in her own eyes. She was angry that he had not chosen to do her bidding and seek revenge on her father’s killers, but in that very act of defiance to her, Dunston had shown her he was in control. He had a plan and she had fallen into step with him, allowing him to lead. She had argued at first and then shown him her displeasure with her stubborn silence, and yet she had been comforted by his commanding presence. In response to her ill temper, the old man had ignored her, marking a fast pace through the forest without offering her a word. She could cope with his brooding silence. But now, she saw his face contorted in confusion and grief and this show of weakness frightened her.

  The sun was touching the top of the trees across the river now. The thatch of the buildings was aglow with the golden light, stark shadows heightening the details in everything in the last rays of the day.

  “How?” Dunston asked.

  “It was the damnedest thing,” Ceolwald said, seemingly torn between the need to maintain a dour expression at the dire news he was imparting, and wishing to grin at bearing that most compelling of gossip: a death. “He was drowned.”