“Drowned?” asked Dunston, his tone incredulous.
“Yes, sir,” Ceolwald said, again tugging off his cap and screwing it up in his bony hands. “They found him in the river, down by the mill. White as a fish, he was. Nobody saw what happened, but there had been a frost that morning. It seems he must have slipped, maybe banged his head. Still, when God calls your name, it’s your time, and that’s that.”
Dunston frowned and Aedwen could see him thinking hard, pushing the dismay at his friend’s death to one side and fighting to understand what had happened; regaining control.
“When did this happen?” he asked.
“Not two months ago.”
“And he was alone? Nobody saw him fall?”
“No. But it was just his time. Bad luck, that’s all. We held a hall-moot with the new reeve and all these questions were asked, and answered.”
“New reeve?”
“Oh yes, Lord Ælfgar appointed one not a week after Rutholf’s passing. Can’t be long without someone to uphold the law, he said.”
Dunston, face devoid of emotion now, started pushing the cart again. After a moment, Ceolwald joined him and they continued along the path in the last warm rays of sunshine.
Aedwen was silent. Odin padded close to her and she placed a hand on his head, running her fingers through the warm fur of his neck and ears. Despite the warmth of the sun on her skin, and the peaceful gold-licked beauty of the village before them, she pulled her cloak about her and shivered. The river flowed deep and fast beside the road. Its dark waters were high, lapping halfway up the trunks of some sallows that grew on the river’s banks. In the distance she could make out a watermill, its great wheel still now, but able to revolve with the power of the water alone. To think that those same chill waters could grind corn for life-giving bread and also drown a man, pulling him down away from the air and the light until he was forced to take in great lungfuls of liquid, slaying him as surely as a knife to the heart. For a moment, she fancied that she had been caught in the swirl of some invisible river’s flow. Her life had careened away from all she had known and now, here she was, in a village she barely knew, surrounded by strangers.
“What of Rutholf’s goodwife, Gytha?” Dunston enquired. “And the children?”
“They are back at Gytha’s family’s farm. Up Ceorleah Hill way.”
Dunston nodded absently.
“The new reeve has taken up in the hall then?”
“Yes, sir.” They were almost at the first buildings of Briuuetone now. As Ceolwald had predicted, his cattle knew the way and they were trotting towards a gap between two thatched houses. Beyond the houses, cloaked in the smoke of the cooking fires, loomed the shingled roof of a stone building. A crucifix projected from the apex of the roof. A group of horsemen came into sight, trotting their mounts between the cows.
“There were many in the village,” Ceolwald went on, “who were not happy with the treatment of Widow Gytha and her daughters. Rothulf was barely in the ground and they were turfed out and sent packing to make way for the new reeve and his household.”
Dunston said nothing. He stopped pushing the cart, and stepped to the left, all the while watching the approaching riders with his cool blue eyes. Aedwen noted that his right hand rested on the haft of the great axe that was hidden beside her father’s body amongst the sacks on the cart. Ceolwald watched Dunston in confusion for a moment before following his gaze and finally noticing the riders. He gripped his cap tightly before him, fidgeting uncomfortably.
The horsemen had almost reached them now. There were five of them. They came on fine horses, the animals’ Harnesses clanking and jangling, gleaming in the fiery light of the setting sun. The men wore colourful, expensive clothes and boots of supple leather. Their jackets were trimmed with intricate embroidery and their cloaks were held in place with large silver brooches. At the head of the band rode a young, handsome man. His cheeks were shaven and his fair hair was brushed so that it glimmered in the ruddy sunlight like metal heated on a forge. His mouth was partially hidden by a lustrous moustache. He reined in his mount, a well-muscled, dappled grey stallion, and stared down at them for a moment.
Odin growled, low and deep, like distant thunder.
“Odin, hush,” said Dunston, his tone quiet but firm. The hound grew silent, and sat protectively beside Aedwen.
The lead rider raised an eyebrow at the dog’s name.
“So, what have we here, Ceolwald?” he asked, his voice smooth and friendly.
“This… this is Dunston,” stammered Ceolwald. “He lives nearabouts. I was just bringing my cows down from the pasture for milking when I came across them on the road.” After a pause he added, “We are not together.” He looked longingly to where the last of the cattle had disappeared between the buildings. Their lowing came to them faintly on the breeze. “I really must be after the foolish beasts. They will make a terrible fuss if they are not milked soon.” The rider looked down at the drover imperiously. “If it please you, lord,” Ceolwald said, dipping his head and twisting his hat so much Aedwen thought he might rip it. The horseman waved his hand. Without looking back, Ceolwald scampered past the riders and ran after his cows.
“Well, well, well,” said the horseman, shifting his attention to Dunston, “so you are the famous Dunston.”
“Dunston is my name,” the old man said. He stood, legs apart and shoulders set. His hand yet rested in the cart’s bed. Aedwen did not think she had seen him standing so tall and straight since she had met him.
To Aedwen’s eyes there was more communication going on between the men than the words spoken. They were weighing each other up, assessing and gauging the threat posed by the other.
“You are modest,” the rider said, smiling beneath his moustache. “Are you not the one known as Dunston the Bold?”
“I have not been called that for many years.”
“No. I can see many years have passed since you were a bold man. Not so much bold now, as old, eh?”
One of his men, a swarthy-skinned fellow, gaudy in blue jacket and red breeches, laughed. The others took up the laughter dutifully. Dunston did not laugh.
“Well, you have me at a loss,” Dunston said, his voice cutting through the riders’ mirth like an axe through soft flesh. “You know my name, and I know not yours.”
The rider’s nostrils flared and he glowered down at Dunston for a moment before replying.
“Ah, yes. I am Hunfrith, and I am the new reeve of the Briuuetone Hundred.”
Seven
“It is not right, Hunfrith,” said Dunston, his voice raising in anger. “I will not allow it.”
Just when Dunston thought this day could get no worse, now the fool of a new reeve was demanding to see Aedwen’s father’s corpse.
“You will show me the body,” said Hunfrith. “I would witness with my own eyes the truth of what you say.” He had dismounted and handed his steed’s reins to the dark-bearded rider in the garish attire. The reeve strode towards Dunston. He was tall, a head or more taller than Dunston. The man’s youth and height only served to further anger Dunston.
The sun had set now, and the sky was a deep pink. The shadows of the buildings grew deeper and cooler. Soon it would be dark.
“Listen,” Dunston said, softening his voice with a force of will. “I will show you the corpse, but not in front of the girl.” He stepped close to the reeve and lowered his voice to a whisper. “I went to much effort to conceal the true nature of her father’s wounds from her. The man was butchered.”
Hunfrith glanced back at the mounted men behind him, as if assuring himself he had the strength of numbers to push his demands.
“Conceal the truth, you say?”
“Only from the child. His passing must have been awful.”
Hunfrith waved his hand, swatting Dunston’s words away.
“I would see the wounds you mean to hide from the girl.”
“By the love of God, no!” For an instant, Dunston imagined
leaping back to the cart for DeaÞangenga. In a past life, when he had been known as bold, he might have done so. But it would have been folly then, as it would be foolish now. He had nothing to hide, and this man was the reeve. He had a right to see the crime that had been committed.
Sighing, Dunston walked slowly back to the cart.
“Quickly, man,” said Hunfrith. “While there is still light.”
Dunston ignored him.
“Aedwen,” he said, staring into the girl’s eyes. They were wide and dark. “Do not look.”
She held his gaze for several heartbeats before nodding and turning her back on the cart.
Satisfied that she would not see the destruction of her father’s body, Dunston turned to the task of unwinding the shroud. He could not risk Aedwen’s father slipping to the ground so, taking a deep breath, he pulled the corpse half out of the cart and onto his shoulder. His back screamed at him, but he did not acknowledge the pain. As carefully as he could, he lowered the shrouded figure to the grass that grew at the verge of the path.
Unwrapping the corpse was not easy. It was stiff now, and the cloak and leather he had used to swaddle the body were sticky and rigid from blood and ichor. Dunston suppressed a shudder as his fingers brushed the man’s face, revealing the blotchy pallor of the cheeks that he had wiped clean in the clearing where he had been murdered. The poor man’s eyes were open, staring accusingly at Dunston in blind reproach for disturbing him.
“Turn him over.”
Dunston flinched. He had not noticed Hunfrith coming so close. The young reeve leaned over the cadaver, eyes gleaming, mouth open with expectation. A couple of his men had also dismounted and crowded around to witness the grisly spectacle.
Dunston drew in a deep breath. This was wrong. The man should be left in peace, not stripped and uncovered for men to gawp at.
“Do it,” snapped Hunfrith.
Dunston sighed. There was nothing for it. Perhaps when they saw the terrible wounds the man had suffered, they would feel compelled to seek justice.
Reaching out, Dunston gingerly rolled the man’s corpse over onto his front. One of the men gasped at the horror of Lytelman’s back. Dunston had made no effort to close the wounds, but he had bound the shroud tightly about him, and now, released from the constraining material, the split ribs yawned open slowly, like the maw of some unspeakable beast of hell. The butchered lungs and innards oozed and seemed to writhe as the body settled. Someone let out a nervous laugh. Another swore, turning away to spit.
Dunston gazed down at the ruin of the girl’s father and felt anew his anger at the man’s killers being allowed to roam the land after committing such an atrocity. It had been folly to think of pursuing them with the girl, but perhaps he could help Hunfrith and his men to track them. He had wished to return directly to his hut and be done with the girl and her troubles, but looking down at her father’s corpse he knew that he could never turn his back on Aedwen. He could almost hear the sound of Eawynn’s shade laughing at him for even considering such a thing. She had always known him better than he knew himself. And she had always seen the best in him.
“By God,” said Hunfrith, his voice breathy, “you truly did a job on the poor bastard, didn’t you?”
“I did my best to shroud him with what I had to hand. I knew not what else to do.”
“Shroud him?” replied Hunfrith, taking a step away from the gore-smeared corpse. “Oh, I am sure your wrapping of his corpse was good enough. I was talking about the blood-eagle. To rip the man’s lungs out like that. You must be a true savage.”
Dunston’s mind reeled.
“I did not do this thing to him,” he said, his tone flat and shocked.
“What murderer admits his crime?”
“I am no murderer!” Dunston took a step towards the cart. Two of the reeve’s men blocked his way. Their hands rested on the hilts of their seaxes. He halted. “Why would I do such a thing? It is madness.”
“Most would call this madness, it is true,” replied Hunfrith. “But what about one who worships the heathen gods? Would not a man who names his own beasts after the father of the old gods also require blood sacrifice? And look, the man is killed in the manner of the Norse.”
Dunston looked at the shadowed faces of the men around him. Was this some form of jest? How could they think he had done this? But their faces were sombre and serious, with no sign of humour.
“I did not do this,” he said, and he was angered to hear the note of panic in his own voice. “Ask the girl.” He looked over to where Aedwen yet stood beside Odin. She had turned to face them and her features were pale in the gathering gloaming. Dunston was pleased to see that the cart blocked her view of her father’s corpse. That was something at least.
“Well, child,” said Hunfrith, walking towards Aedwen, his countenance and voice soft with compassion. “Did you see your father’s killers?”
For a long while Aedwen looked from Hunfrith to Dunston.
“Tell me the truth, child,” Hunfrith encouraged her. “Did you witness your father’s slaying?”
“No,” she answered at last.
Dunston let out a breath.
“And so it could have been this man who killed him, could it not?”
Tears trickled down her cheeks.
“But he helped me. It makes no sense.”
Hunfrith stepped close to her. Odin snarled, his hackles raised.
“Odin, no,” said Dunston, acutely aware of how his use of the name would sound to the listeners. “Lie down, boy.”
The dog grumbled and growled, but slouched down to lie beside Aedwen.
“You are safe now, child,” Hunfrith said, reaching a hand out to touch the girl’s shoulder.
“Do not fear, Aedwen,” said Dunston. The look of abject dismay on her face filled him with sadness. “All will be well. You know I did not do this.”
“But it seems she really knows no such thing,” said Hunfrith.
“Well, I know it, and there are many here who will vouch for me; who know me to be a man of my word. Men will swear oaths for me.”
“Good. I hope for your sake things are as you say. But you will need to appear before the moot and there you can explain how it is you came to have the butchered sacrifice to a heathen god on a stolen cart.”
Dunston’s rage boiled up within him. His eyes narrowed as he took in the positions of the men around him. He could disarm the man closest to him, taking his seax and then moving on to the next. From there, he could snatch up DeaÞangenga and lay about him. With only a small amount of luck he would put an end to this madness and be done with it. But after that? What then? He would become a wulfeshéafod, a wolf-head, cast out from the law, to be hunted and shunned for the rest of his life.
Many years ago, he had been one of the feared Wulfas Westseaxna. He could become a Wolf of Wessex once more; dispatch these fools and be gone into the forest. But why do such a thing? To not stand before the men of Briuuetone and declare his innocence? Surely enough men would come forward to swear oaths to his good character. There was no plaintiff after all. Nobody could speak against him and his word was respected. All he had to do was attend the moot and declare his innocence and all would be well.
But what if he were made to face the ordeals? He had seen enough of them in his time to know they did not rest in any divine power. A chill ran through him.
Hunfrith, perhaps sensing Dunston’s building anger, put his arm about Aedwen’s shoulders. Dunston noted how the reeve’s other hand dropped to rest on the handle of his seax. The threat was clear.
“I cannot have you free to flee from justice or to commit any further acts of violence, Dunston,” Hunfrith said, almost apologetically. “You understand that, I am sure. So will you surrender your weapons and yourself without causing trouble?”
Dunston glowered at the man, for an instant imagining how easily DeaÞangenga would split his pretty skull. And yet he knew he would not risk Aedwen’s life, even if he wished to risk hi
s own. Besides, what of the promises he had sworn to Eawynn? He could not throw away his oaths so easily. He let his shoulders slump. Pulling his sharp seax from its scabbard, he tossed it without warning at the closest man. Caught unawares, the man fumbled the catch, dropping the blade to the ground with a curse. As the man stooped to retrieve the knife, he sucked at a finger where the blade had nicked him. Dunston smiled grimly at the small victory.
“I will go with you, Hunfrith, but this is wrong. While you waste your time with me, the real killers are free and surely travelling further from Briuuetone as we speak.”
“We shall see,” said Hunfrith. “We shall see.”
And with that, the reeve went to his horse and swung effortlessly into the saddle.
Dunston left it to Hunfrith’s men to deal with the cart and the corpse and in the closing gloom of dusk he looked to Aedwen. She walked along behind the horses. Her head was lowered and she moved like a beaten cur, defeated and broken of spirit. He knew how she felt.
She did not look at back at him.
“Do not fear, girl,” Dunston called to her, as the men herded him towards the village. “All will be well.”
The wind picked up, whispering secrets in the trees and Dunston shuddered. He wished he could believe his own words.
Eight
Aedwen lay in the absolute darkness and listened to the night sounds of the house as it settled its wooden bones. There was rustling in the thatch somewhere above her and she wondered whether there were mice dwelling in the roof. She was warm, but she found herself shivering beneath the blankets Gytha had placed over her and the other girls. Either side of her, Gytha’s two daughters, Maethild and Godgifu, had finally fallen asleep. They were friendly and had welcomed her into their home and even their bed, and Aedwen had basked in the warmth brought by unexpected kindness. The world was a place filled with evil and despair, and yet, here were complete strangers treating her as one of their own family.
When the reeve’s man had brought her to the widow’s door, the woman had been wary, fearful of what might bring one of Hunfrith’s bullies out to the farm after nightfall, but when she had heard the girl’s tale and seen Aedwen standing there, pale and trembling from shock and exhaustion, she had shooed the man away and pulled the girl into the cosy interior of the cottage.
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