Despite the shroud of sadness that wrapped about her, Aedwen smiled to recall the meal that had followed.
“Where are you from?” Godgifu, the younger of the widow’s daughters had asked, watching with wide eyes as Aedwen hungrily spooned the pottage into her mouth. Despite everything, she was ravenous and the stew, thick with onion, cabbage and peas and seasoned with parsley and sage, was deliciously warming and hearty.
“Let the poor girl eat,” Gytha said.
“I don’t mind,” Aedwen said, dipping some dark bread into the dregs in the bowl and mopping up the last drops. “I am from Langtun.”
“Where is that?” asked Godgifu.
“You don’t know anything,” snapped Maethild, who must have been the same age as Aedwen.
“Well, if you’re so clever, where is it then?”
Maethild frowned at having been caught out by her younger sibling and Aedwen smiled at the bickering rivalry between them. She would have liked to have had a sister, she thought, someone who had always known her, and she had always known. If she had a sister, she wouldn’t be alone now.
Godgifu was taunting her sister though, making Aedwen quickly re-evaluate her idea.
“You don’t know! You don’t know!” sang Godgifu, twisting her face into the contorted features of a simpleton.
“Girls! Enough,” said Gytha in a tone that brooked no argument. “Aedwen has been through enough, without having to listen to your silliness.” The girls fell quiet as Gytha fixed them with a stern stare. “You both know what it is to lose your father,” she said softly. “Remember, Aedwen’s father was killed only yesterday morning. Think about how you felt when you heard the news about father.” The girls looked aghast and Godgifu sniffed, tears welling in her bright eyes.
“I beg your pardon, mother,” muttered Maethild.
“It is not from me that you need to seek pardon,” replied Gytha.
Maethild sat in dejected silence for a time, but Godgifu seemed to forget her self-pity soon enough.
“Is it true that old Dunston found you?”
“Yes,” said Aedwen. Her mind had been in turmoil ever since Hunfrith had accused Dunston of her father’s murder. It was true that she had not seen the killers, but she was sure she had heard many of them. And if it had been Dunston, why would he then tend to her father’s corpse, feed her and bring her here? No, there was no sense to it, and she was certain that Hunfrith knew as much.
When she had seen the reeve, a tremor of fear had run through her. She could not say why, but the man frightened her. And the strangest thing was that she had recognised him. When they had passed through Briuuetone, her father had sought him out. It had been drizzling and she had been tired and so, as she had often done before, she had curled up to snooze beneath the leather cover of the handcart. Her father must have believed she had drifted off to sleep and so he had not disturbed her when he had approached the reeve. From beneath the leather sheet, she had watched as her father had asked to speak to the reeve. She’d heard him say he had urgent tidings for him. From her hidden vantage point in the cart, she had seen the handsome face of the reeve when he came to the door of his hall to listen to her father’s words, though what he’d had to say, she could not imagine. Her father was but a poor peddler after all. Perhaps this was one of his schemes, a new way to get rich quick, she’d thought. But she’d never found out. With a glance back at the cart, her father, seemingly content that she was dry beneath the cover, had entered the hall. The steady drumming of the rain had lulled her to sleep then, and she’d awoken to the movement of the cart as her father pushed it up the hill out of the village.
When the reeve had approached her and Dunston she had recognised the man immediately. And yet, she was equally certain he did not know her. Indeed he seemed to have no knowledge of her existence. She had thought it strange that he had not mentioned to Dunston that he had known her father, that they had conversed at length just a couple of days before. And something had made her keep silent about what she had witnessed. But the more she thought about the events of the last days, her certainty grew that her father’s death was not a random savage act perpetrated by wolf-heads. And after seeing Hunfrith, and hearing the man so quickly accuse Dunston of murder, she was sure the reeve had some part in it. But what, and why, she had no idea.
“They say he eats raw flesh,” said Godgifu, voice filled with terrified wonder. “That he chews on children’s bones in the forest.”
“Who says such things?” asked Gytha, her disapproval clear in her tone.
“Everyone. Wulfwyn’s mother told her that if she didn’t go to sleep when she was told, old Dunston would come down from his forest lair and eat her!”
Gytha shook her head.
“Wulfwyn’s mother was always a foolish girl. Dunston is no monster of the woods. He has never been anything but good to us. He was your father’s friend.”
“His dog scares me,” said Maethild.
At the mention of Odin, Aedwen had begun to weep.
Now, lying in the hushed darkness, with the body warmth of Maethild and Godgifu pressing either side of her, tears rolled down her cheeks again as she remembered what had befallen the merle hound. The dog had padded beside her, every now and then glancing over its shoulder at its master. Dunston, flanked by a couple of the reeve’s men, had trudged along head down and silent. They had been some way behind the mounted Hunfrith.
They passed houses, their shadows puddled cold around them like dark skirts. Ceolwald’s cattle lowed from the animal pens she could just make out in the gloom. The village had the mingled scent of cow dung, woodsmoke, roasting meat and boiling vegetables.
Upon reaching a grand hall, Hunfrith had dismounted, throwing the reins to one of his men. Aedwen had needed to trot to keep up with the reeve and she was puffing. Odin matched her pace, mouth agape and tongue dangling between sharp white teeth.
“We cannot have the girl stay here, Raegnold,” Hunfrith said to his mounted companion. “I don’t want my rest interrupted by her snivelling. Take her to Widow Gytha. She will take the child in.” He looked sidelong at Aedwen. “Until we get to the bottom of all this.”
Raegnold, the tallest of the riders, with hair of crow black and a face as sharp as a seax, dismounted. He shot a furious look at Hunfrith’s back, but quickly seemed to resign himself to becoming the child’s escort. Snatching up a spear that stood propped by the hall’s entrance, he set off southward, using the spear’s haft as a walking staff.
Aedwen, dazed and shocked at the recent revelations, mutely followed the tall man up the hill as the dark drew the night about them. Odin seemed to have decided he would be her protector, and he shadowed them as they walked past gloomed houses and the silent mill, leaving the silhouette of the church and the moaning of the cows behind them.
“Get away,” Raegnold shouted at the dog, angered by the animal’s attention or perhaps taking out his annoyance at Hunfrith on the dumb beast. Odin flinched, turning its head askance to better see with his one eye. After a moment, the dog continued to follow them.
The man grew angrier and scooped up pebbles from the road. He flung one at Odin, but the stone missed, skittering away into the shadows. His second stone found its mark, hitting the dog squarely on the snout. Odin cried out in anguish, shaking his head against the sudden pain. But he was soon once more walking in their wake.
“I said get away,” shouted the man, throwing another stone, which made Odin jump back a pace, wary now.
Aedwen could not bear to see the beast hurt any more.
“Go home, Odin,” she said. At the sound of her voice, the dog cocked its head to one side, gazing at her with its one deep thoughtful eye.
The man used the moment of distraction to leap forward, lunging with his spear. The thrust would have spitted the hound, had it not been for the speed of its instincts. Odin jumped to the side and the sharp blade tore a gash down his flank. The animal yelped and snarled, snapping its jaws towards the spear that had ca
used him such pain. Blood ran down its side and soaked its fur black in the dusk.
“Odin!” Aedwen cried out.
The dog locked its great maw on the spear’s ash haft and shook its head with all the strength of its muscled neck. The man clung onto the spear with difficulty, unable to dislodge the animal.
“Odin, no!” Aedwen screamed. “Run, boy! Run!”
For the merest moment, the dog’s eye looked directly at her. And then, as if it understood her words, it heaved the spear out of the man’s grasp. An instant later it dropped the weapon with a clatter and darted into the shadows of the trees that grew further up the slope. The hound did not look back and it ran effortlessly, as though it were the start of a new day; as if it had not been wounded. It did not cry out as it ran, and Aedwen began to wonder if the cut was shallower than she’d imagined. Surely it had just been a scratch.
But when Raegnold retrieved his spear from the ground the blade was smeared dark and Aedwen had seen splashes of blood in the mud of the path.
The house grumbled its timbered thoughts around her and Maethild muttered something in her sleep, rolling over and then becoming still. Aedwen’s tears soaked into the blanket the way Odin’s blood had soaked into his fur. By the Blessed Virgin, she prayed the dog was safe; that it had found its way back to its home in the forest.
But what of the dog’s master? The last she had seen of Dunston, they had been leading him to a barn near the cattle pens. What would become of him? She could not dispel the image of his bearded face from her mind. He had taken care of her since her father’s death and she was sure he was not his killer. And what was Hunfrith’s part in all this? What did he gain from locking Dunston away and bringing him before the moot?
Her confused thoughts beat inside her head, as ever-changing as a murmuration of starlings. She wiped away the tears that had grown cold on her face.
For a long while she lay there, hoping that sleep would claim her. Perhaps she would awaken and find it had all been a nightmare. But the warmth and the soft sounds of the night did not lull her to slumber. She could not escape the terror of having to face the morning alone once more. Her mother and father had both been so cruelly snatched from her. And now, when she had found someone to guide and protect her, he too had been taken away. Gytha and her daughters had been good to her, but Aedwen knew she could not stay here. She could work for her keep, but even if they were able to spare the food, would she just begin a new life with these strangers?
Why not? What else could she do? She was young and alone. If Gytha would have her, to live here in Briuuetone on this steading would be better than almost anything she could have imagined.
And yet her thoughts kept on returning to Hunfrith. What had her father told him? And why had he kept his knowledge of Lytelman silent? And what did he hope to gain by accusing Dunston of this crime?
At last, resigning herself to a night of wakefulness, she rolled out of the bed, careful not to wake the girls who yet slept peacefully.
The cottage was cool now that the fire had died down and Aedwen picked up her cloak from where she had left it. Wrapping it about her shoulders, she tiptoed towards the hearth, hoping to glean some heat from the embers. As she neared the fire, small flames flowered and the coals glowed as someone blew life into them. The light flickered red on Gytha’s face where she sat at the edge of the hearth, a blanket wrapped about her shoulders.
“You couldn’t sleep either?” the widow asked in a whisper. The shadows from the flames contorted her features. Aedwen could not make out whether she was smiling or scowling in the gloom. “Come, sit,” Gytha continued, patting the stool near her. Aedwen sat.
“I am not surprised you are unable to find peace,” Gytha muttered. “You have been through so many trials these past days. Poor child.”
“I cannot stop my thoughts,” replied Aedwen. Her voice threatened to choke her, and she fought back the tears that suddenly welled in her eyes.
Gytha smiled sadly.
“Whosoever could do such a thing as keep themselves from thinking would be able to find peace indeed,” she said.
Aedwen frowned in the darkness. It seemed to her only death would release her from the burden of her thoughts and fears. But she had no desire to join her parents.
“I keep asking myself questions. Questions about the reeve. About my father’s murder. About Dunston. Questions that I cannot hope to answer.”
Gytha gazed at her in the darkness, unspeaking for a long while, her flame-lit face haggard.
“I too have been pondering how all of this makes sense. Something is not right. I feel like the world shifted when my Rothulf died and now I do not stand on steady ground.” Gytha’s voice cracked and Aedwen realised they were not so different. Separated by many years of age, but they both grieved and the two of them were sitting awake and confused in the dark marches of the night.
Aedwen took a deep breath then and told Gytha about her father’s meeting with Hunfrith and how the reeve had kept the meeting secret.
Gytha stared at her, the embers reflecting red in her dark eyes. After what seemed a long while, she spoke.
“We need to talk,” she said.
Nine
Dunston tried to make himself comfortable. But no matter how much he stretched and turned, he could not find a position that would allow him to rest. His back was stiff and despite the hay and straw he had piled up to lay upon, his spine cried out if he lay flat on his back. When he turned on his side, his knee was agony, twisting if he bent it, and seizing up if he straightened it. In the dark of the barn he sighed to himself, a grim smile playing on his lips at the irony of his predicament.
He could almost hear the voice of Guthlaf speaking to him through the veil of time.
“The best trait of any warrior is to be able to sleep anywhere and anytime,” the grizzled warrior had said to him. “You, Dunston, are deadly with a blade, but your ability to sleep in an instant makes you a truly great warrior.” They had been resting beside a cracked old Roman road. They’d marched for two days already and Dunston had been exhausted. It had seemed as nothing to sleep on the verge, even as rain fell and thunder rolled over them.
Now, despite the relative comfort of the straw beneath him and the shelter provided by the barn’s roof and walls, he was unable to find the relief of sleep. Guthlaf would have not thought him such a great warrior if he could see him now. But Guthlaf was long in his grave, and it had been many years since Dunston had considered himself to be a warrior.
He had never thought of himself as great.
Sighing, he rolled over onto his back, staring up into the blackness of the roof space.
Again he regretted finding the corpse and the girl. If only he had chosen a different path, he would now be asleep in his hut, far from here and the machinations of men. And yet, would he truly wish for Aedwen to have been left, alone and defenceless in the great forest of Sealhwudu? She might have survived, he supposed. Perhaps she would have even found her way back here, to Briuuetone. But then what? What would have become of her?
He snorted in the darkness. What had become of her anyway? Yes, he had seen her safely here, but she had been taken away and here he was, locked inside a barn, with no prospect of freedom for at least three weeks.
Three weeks!
He ground his teeth in the gloom as he recalled Hunfrith’s words.
“You will remain in my care until the next meeting of the Hundred-moot,” he’d said.
“When will that be?” asked Dunston.
“The next meeting will be on the feast of Saint John the Baptist.”
“But that is nearly a month from now,” Dunston had raged.
“Indeed. Do not fear, you will be fed. No harm will befall you.”
Dismissing him then, Hunfrith had left three of his retinue to lead Dunston to this barn. They had opened the door and ushered him inside, and after a moment’s hesitation, he had entered without further complaint.
He had already begun
to think of ways in which he could prove his innocence. Who would swear oaths for him before the moot? Would Aedwen speak out in his favour? Would anyone listen to her. She was a stranger and a child. If he was found guilty, he would need to face the trials by ordeal. Which did he believe he might survive? He had shuddered to recall others tried by the ordeal of iron, forced to grip a rod of glowing hot metal. This was then wrapped and, if after three days the wound was not healing well, the tried man was found to be guilty. Dunston was a smith of some renown and worked his forge on most days, so he had suffered many burns. But he doubted there was justice to be had from seeing how quickly such wounds healed or whether they became elf-shot.
Still, fire and iron he could face. The ordeal of cold water, where the accused was thrown into the river after drinking holy water, terrified him beyond anything he had ever confronted. If the accused floated, he was deemed to be guilty. If he sank, he was found innocent. Dunston was no swimmer. He imagined the cold water washing over his face, his breath running out and his lungs burning, while he prayed frantically that he would be dragged from the water and saved.
No, he must prove his innocence. He was no coward, but the thought of facing the ordeals filled him with dread.
Left alone in the dark, Dunston’s mind had turned to Hunfrith’s last words to him. He had not thought that he was in any immediate danger; that he had weeks to think of the means to secure his release and prove his innocence. That was until he heard those words. Now he was not so sure.
“No harm will befall you.”
Why say such a thing? Unless…
By the bones of Christ. Three weeks cooped up in here. And what of Odin? The dog had gone with Aedwen. Dunston hoped she would feed him. Still, the hound could take care of himself. He was a good hunter. But what would happen to Wudugát, his goat? He had left the poor creature tethered. There was plenty of food and water for her for the time being, but he had never intended to be gone for more than a couple of days at most. Dunston’s mind turned then to the snares left untended in the forest. His heart twisted to think of the animals that would be caught, only to die lingering deaths and then have their carcasses consumed by foxes and other carrion feeders. What a waste of good skins.
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