Dunston shifted again in the straw and groaned at the ache between his shoulder blades. The pain was in just the place where Lytelman had been hacked open.
What was happening here? Dunston felt like a child watching a game of tafl being played. He knew strategies were in place, could feel the shift and slide of the pieces, but he did not understand the rules of the game.
There was some dark contest afoot here, something that he was not aware of. Nothing else made any sense. The manner of Lytelman’s slaying, and then Hunfrith’s instant accusation. And what of Rothulf? Was his death somehow connected to all this? Perhaps there was no link. Dunston could certainly see none. But he was sure that the recent events he had become embroiled in held some dark secret.
He could barely believe that Rothulf was no longer alive. The old reeve would have known how to approach this problem. He was an astute man, able to unravel the most tangled of problems. Dunston sighed. By God, he would miss him. He had looked forward to their meetings. They would sit up late into the night drinking and talking of the past. And yet, while much of their chatter had been reminiscing over years gone by, they often spoke of the present and the future. Rothulf travelled widely and he listened wherever he went. And so he had become Dunston’s only source of tidings of the lands beyond Briuuetone and Sealhwudu. Dunston had chosen to hide himself away from the day-to-day life of Wessex, but it would not do to completely shut himself off from the world.
He wondered now at the state of the kingdom. He had heard from Rothulf of the increasing frequency of raids from the Norsemen in their dragon-prowed ships. As the king’s ally in Frankia, King Louis, had become embroiled in a vicious civil war with his sons, so the Frankish ships had ceased to patrol the waters that surrounded Britain. This had soon led to the Norse becoming emboldened, and not a year went by without some of their number striking along the coast, snatching what treasures and slaves they could, and then fleeing before the fyrd could be assembled and brought to the defence of the realm.
Only two years previously, Rothulf had recounted to Dunston how thirty-five Vikingr ships had landed at Carrum. The king had gathered his hearth warriors and the fyrds of the local hundreds and set upon them. The men of Wessex had been crushed, the king fleeing westward leaving the heathens to sack the lands there about with impunity.
Dunston had been saddened by the tale. Could this be the same King Ecgberht who had defeated the Mercians at Ellandun? The proud and wise man who had expanded Wessex to encompass the people of the Centingas, Éastseaxe, Súþríeg and Súpseaxe. Who had even taken the oath of Eanred, king of the Northumbrians, making Ecgberht the ruler of all of the Anglisc?
Dunston pulled up his knee and massaged it, wincing as his probing fingers pressed into the joint. No man remained young for ever. Even kings grew old.
Even warriors who once basked in battle-fame and were renowned as being bold.
From outside the door, came the muffled sound of voices. Earlier, one of the reeve’s men had brought him a bowl of pottage and a hunk of dark, gritty bread. Perhaps he had been just outside ever since and was now, halfway through the night, being relieved of his duty.
The barn was stoutly built from planks of oak and the door was barred from without. But it seemed Hunfrith had taken the extra precaution of having his men guard the exit. Dunston thought on his situation for a moment. Would he attempt to flee if he could? Again his mind turned to the trials he might face, and the uncertainty of being judged by this new reeve and the people of Briuuetone without the guiding hand of Rutholf who was not only wise, but as honest as any man Dunston had known. Yes, Hunfrith was probably right to guard against his escape. Dunston knew he could survive in the forest for the rest of his days, he was not so sure of the outcome of the moot.
Perhaps his chance to run had already passed; the moment when he could have yet fought his way out, standing face to face with the reeve and his men. He was old and stiff, it was true, but armed he was still dangerous. He could have slain them and fled, he was certain. But Aedwen had watched on and she might have been hurt.
And he was innocent.
He had only ever fought his king’s enemies. He was, or had been, a warrior, not a murderer. No, he would face the justice of the moot and pray that the people of Briuuetone would vouch for him.
The voices outside became louder. One laughed, a jagged harsh sound in the stillness of the night. Dunston strained to hear what was being said.
“… sliced the great bastard open like a…” The voices became muffled once more, then louder again. “… almost bit me… got my spear instead. Jaws like iron.” Dunston didn’t breathe, waiting for confirmation of what he was hearing. After a few more words that he was unable to make out, the louder of the two said, “No. The one-eyed beast was as fast as the Devil. It ran off, but I cut it good.”
They must have moved further from the door then, for their words became unintelligible.
Dunston lay in the darkness and thought of interpretations of the words he had heard. He could think of none save that the bastards had cut Odin, and badly from the sound of it. He wondered whether the dog had attacked them. Had he been trying to protect Aedwen?
For a long time Dunston imagined the many ways he would hurt the man who had struck Odin. Whatever secrets were being hidden by the death of the peddler, and no matter the outcome of the moot, Dunston swore a silent oath in the darkness that he would make the man pay for hurting his dog.
At long last, with thoughts of vengeance spiralling in his mind, the fatigue from the day finally took its toll, pulling him down towards the welcome respite of sleep. His eyes closed and he was beginning to snore, when a sudden loud shouting woke him with a jolt.
“Fire!” screamed a woman’s voice, splintering the still of the night.
Dunston pushed himself up with a groan. Through the cracks between the planks that made up the barn’s door, the crimson flicker of flames was clear.
Ten
“I cannot believe Dunston is a killer,” said Aedwen. Her voice quavered as once more the pain of her father’s death washed over her.
Gytha gently placed a small log onto the fire, careful not to disturb the embers. The fire-glow painted her features the hue of fresh blood.
“Oh, he is a killer all right.” She sat back in her chair and gazed at the tongues of flame that licked hungrily at the dry wood. “Or he was.”
“He was a warrior?” asked Aedwen.
“One of the deadliest ever to walk the earth, Rothulf used to say. Though my husband was prone to exaggeration and he loved Dunston like a brother.” Gytha fell silent for a time, perhaps thinking of the husband she had lost. “Still, Rothulf had seen the old man fight, years ago. They stood together in the shieldwall at Ellandun and Rothulf always said he had never seen a man so destined to slay others as Dunston. As men do when they are in their cups, he had boasted of how the corpses of the Mercians lay heaped before Dunston that day. How his axe had scythed through their ranks as if they were so many ripe heads of barley. To listen to Rothulf you would think nobody else had fought that day. But many brave men gave their lives on both sides.”
Gytha looked wistfully into the fire, lost in the past and the sadness of remembered loss.
The flames and embers swam before Aedwen, and she cuffed angrily at the tears that brimmed in her eyes. It was as she had surmised when she’d seen Dunston standing beside the cart with his hand on his axe. If he was a great warrior, a slayer of countless foe-men, then surely he could have killed her father without a thought. She shuddered. Had she been so wrong?
As if the girl’s movement had awoken Gytha from a dream, the widow started and turned her attention to Aedwen.
“Dunston may not have been the hero my Rothulf liked to brag about, but he was a killer. Of that there is no doubt.”
Aedwen sighed.
“But make no mistake, child,” Gytha continued. “I do not believe for one moment that Dunston slew your father. Woe betide any man who crosses
him, even now, but the old man is no murderer.”
Aedwen sighed again, but now with relief, not despair.
“Who do you think killed him?” she asked.
“I know not. But I think you are right to question Hunfrith’s part in this. I fear that what your father spoke of with the new reeve was what led to him being killed.”
“But what could they have talked about? My father knew nobody in these parts. This is the first time we have travelled this way.” Aedwen didn’t mention how she had argued against the trip. How she had warned her father against the folly of this new scheme of his. If only she had been more persuasive. But nothing could change the past.
“I do not know,” said Gytha rubbing her fingers distractedly against her temples. “But I can only think that their meeting and his murder are connected in some way.”
“Could it be that Hunfrith ordered my father to be slain?” Aedwen whispered, scared to voice her fear.
Gytha thought for a moment.
“I do not know,” she repeated. “But Briuuetone has changed these past months. Nothing is as it was. It no longer feels safe.”
“Why? What has happened?”
“Two things. First my husband drowned and then Hunfrith moved in as the new reeve.”
Aedwen stared at the widow, sensing a deeper meaning in her words.
“You think Hunfrith murdered your husband,” she said.
“Quiet, girl,” Gytha hissed, as if the very sound of the words stung her. For a time, they were both silent. Aedwen watched as Gytha composed herself, smoothing her dress over her thighs. At last, Gytha nodded, the movement barely visible in the dim light from the embers. “I have no proof, and I have not spoken of this to anyone.” She let out a long breath. “I fear for my girls.”
“Why do you think Hunfrith would do such a thing? He is the reeve.”
Gytha sighed.
“I have long thought on these matters. It is like a riddle that I cannot unravel.” She looked down at her hands. She was rubbing them as if seeking to rid them of dirt. “Something had made Rothulf anxious, and he was not a nervous man. I asked him about it, but he said he would not talk of it until he had spoken to Lord Ælfgar.”
Aedwen frowned.
“What tidings were so unsettling, so important?” she asked. “And why not tell you?”
“I know not,” replied Gytha, her voice catching in her throat. “I like to think he was protecting us. He travelled to Ælfgar’s hall, and then… I never saw him alive again.”
Aedwen understood.
“You think his death was no accident?”
Gytha drew in a deep breath, as if girding herself for what she was about to say.
“I fear he was murdered.” She sighed and smoothed her dress over her thighs. “There, I have said it.”
“But why? What could Rothulf have said to Ælfgar that would have got him killed?”
For a moment, Gytha was silent, perhaps thinking whether she should continue.
“I have heard rumours,” she said at last.
“Rumours?”
“That Hunfrith was born out of wedlock.”
“I do not understand.”
“Ealdorman Ælfgar appointed Hunfrith to be reeve of this hundred. Hunfrith is very young for such a post. He has no experience.”
Aedwen thought for a moment, trying to deduce the meaning of what Gytha was saying.
“Ælfgar is his father?”
The widow nodded.
“That is what some say.”
“You think Rothulf heard this rumour. That it was these tidings that he took to Ælfgar?”
“Maybe.” She sighed. “But it makes no sense. Such a thing is not uncommon. There must be dozens of bastards in every hundred in every shire in the kingdom.”
“But why then kill Rothulf?”
Gytha shrugged.
“All I know is that my husband went to Ælfgar with some news that had troubled him. The next day, he was dead. And then, Hunfrith came.”
“What do you think Hunfrith will do with Dunston?”
“I know not, but I do not believe he means him well. Perhaps he will put him before the moot, as he says. But without you as a plaintiff, I see no point.”
“But if Hunfrith killed Rothulf and my father. He could mean to slay Dunston too.” The thought terrified her. Was it possible that a reeve could be so evil, so corrupt? A man trusted to dispatch justice by the lord of the shire and, through him, by the king himself.
“We have not one jot of evidence that Hunfrith had anything to do with my husband’s or your father’s deaths.”
“But why not say that he knew my father then? Why keep that secret?”
Gytha shook her head in the gloom.
“And why,” Aedwen went on, anger tinging her words, “lock up Dunston when he has shown me nothing but kindness?”
They went around and around these questions, circling and herding their thoughts the way dogs round up wayward sheep until there was nowhere else for them to go.
After a time, they grew silent and listened to the soft night-time hush. The crackle of the fire; the quiet snoring of one of the girls; the creaking of the timbers as a gust of wind shook the house.
Gytha got up and walked silently to a chest that rested beside the small table where they had eaten. She opened it and brought something out and returned to Aedwen beside the fire. She carried a flask and two wooden cups. She handed a cup to Aedwen, unstopped the flask and poured liquid into each vessel.
Aedwen sniffed the contents and was surprised to smell the pungent bite of strong mead. She had only sipped mead before, at the end of the Crístesmæsse fast.
“I do not like mead,” she said quietly, not wishing to appear rude to her hostess.
“Neither do I,” replied Gytha with a bleak smirk. “But I think we could both use some fortification if we are going to do what I think we must. So drink it down, and let us get on with preparations, before I change my mind.”
With that, the widow tossed the liquid into her mouth and swallowed it down with a grimace.
Confused, Aedwen raised the cup slowly up to her own lips and hesitated, unsure of whether to sip it, or just to swallow it quickly as the older woman had done.
“But what is it we are going to do?” she asked.
“It seems we have convinced ourselves of Dunston’s innocence and Hunfrith’s guilt, at least in keeping a secret, and at worst of having a hand in my husband’s death and your father’s murder.”
“But what are we to do about that?” Aedwen asked, tentatively sipping a tiny amount of mead into her mouth. It was sweet and she was surprised to find it not unpleasant. It was warm as it trickled down her throat.
“Why, we are going to free Dunston, of course,” said Gytha.
Eleven
Dunston snapped instantly awake. He pushed himself to his feet, his aches and pains forgotten as the sounds of alarm from outside grew more intense and increasingly insistent. A hollow clangour echoed in the village as someone beat on something, an empty barrel perhaps. Shouts and yells of anguish drifted to where Dunston stood. He bunched his hands into fists, forcing himself to remain calm, despite the blood rushing through his veins. He recognised the sensation of his skin tingling, his limbs thrumming with tension. This was how he had always felt before battle.
But was there a battle taking place outside? Or was this something less dire? An abandoned rush light, or a stray ember tumbled from a hearth on the dry rushes of a floor perhaps. He breathed deeply, taking in the night-cool air that smelt of straw and dust and the animals that had previously inhabited the barn. Underlying these scents, he half-imagined he could detect the slightest trace of smoke.
Just outside the barn door, his guard called out to someone.
“What is that?”
Dunston could not make out the reply muffled as it was by distance, the barn’s timber walls and the noise of many people hollering in the night.
Could it be that the
village was under attack from the Norsemen? Was it possible that the blood-eagling of Aedwen’s father had presaged the arrival of the sea wolves this far inland? Were the people of Briuuetone even now being slaughtered by savage heathens? By Christ, if that were so, what would befall Aedwen? And Gytha and her daughters?
Dunston trembled. How he wished he had hold of DeaÞangenga. The axe’s sharp blade would make short work of this wooden gaol.
“What is happening out there?” he bellowed. No answer came to him.
He stumbled to the door in the gloom and placed his ear to its rough-hewn oak. Men and women shouted. Dogs barked, loud and insistent in the night. For a fleeting, sad moment he thought of Odin. There was no clash of metal on metal. The constant echoing drum beat had ceased.
He knelt and peered through a knot hole in the planking. Shadows flitted before the light of flickering flames. But he was unable to make out any details of the events beyond the door.
Standing, he beat on the door with a fist.
“Hey! Let me out of here. I can help.”
He paused to listen for a reply.
To his amazement, he heard the bar being removed with a clatter. The door swung open, letting in the noise and light of the night. The cold air was redolent of smoke. Dunston blinked, trying to make sense of what he saw. Some distance away, in the Bartons, the alleys that led to the animal enclosures, a fire was raging. Long, dark shadows danced from the men and women who had flocked about the flames and were doing their best to douse them.
In the doorway, shadowed by the distant conflagration, stood two figures. After a moment, their shapes became clearer to him, their features limned by the silvery light of the full moon.
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