Wolf of Wessex

by Matthew Harffy

  “Aedwen?” he said, bewilderment in his voice. “Gytha? What is this?”

  “There is no time to talk,” said Gytha. Despite the obvious urgency, Dunston could not help but notice how the woman had aged. She was, as ever, a handsome woman, and yet she looked as though a decade had passed since last they had met, rather than a few months. “You must flee,” she said. “You are not safe here.”

  “What? Why?” Dunston felt stupid, unable to understand the meaning behind her simple words. The flames behind her seemed to be under control now, the shrillness of the voices in the darkness replaced with determined shouts and commands.

  “There’s no time, Dunston. You must run.”

  “I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “I know that, but Hunfrith is keeping things secret. We think he means you harm.”

  “But why? I have done nothing.” Dunston repeated the sentiment of his innocence, but even as he spoke, he could hear the shallowness of his words. Did he truly believe justice would be done here? He was being held for a crime he did not commit, by a man who would not listen to reason. And here was a girl and woman who had risked much to see him freed.

  Gytha placed a hand upon his shoulder.

  “That fire will not burn for long, Dunston. I must be gone from here and home with my girls before anyone suspects my involvement.” She gripped his arm tightly for a moment. Her face was shadowed, but he could sense her terror of being found here. “You are a good man,” she said, her voice hissing in the dark. “But you must go. Now. Godspeed.” Without awaiting a reply, she turned and ran into the night, away from the now waning blaze. In an eye-blink she was swallowed by the darkness.

  An instant later, his mind was made up. He trusted Rothulf’s widow. She was a clever woman, honest and true, and if she had taken this action, there must be good reason. Casting about for his belongings, he saw none. That could not be helped. He would have to make do with what the forest provided. He wished he had a knife at least, but he would manage. He began to make his way around the barn, away from the noise and tumult surrounding the fire. Aedwen followed at his side.

  Wheeling on her, he hissed, “You cannot come with me, child. Go after Gytha. You will be safe with her.” He made to turn, but her small hand gripped his arm, pulling him back.

  “No. I will go with you.”

  “By Christ’s bone’s, girl, do what you are bidden.” He felt exposed out here. If someone should look in this direction they would see him arguing with Aedwen, lit up against the side of the barn by the dying flames of the fire.

  “No,” replied Aedwen.

  By God, the girl was infuriating.

  Dunston was about to snap an angry retort, when a large figure loomed in the darkness. It was a tall man, easily a head taller than Dunston, with a dark shock of hair and a mordant, angular face.

  Without thinking, Dunston shoved Aedwen behind him. She was light and his strength flung her against the barn with a clatter.

  “Well, well,” said the newcomer. “If it isn’t Dunston, the famous warrior. You don’t look so bold now.” He sneered, raising the weapon he held in both hands. The far-off fire gleamed from the familiar silver-threaded axe-head.

  DeaÞangenga.

  His eyes flicked towards Aedwen, who was pushing herself to her feet from where she had fallen. “Oh,” he leered, “after I’ve cut you up, perhaps I can have some fun with the filly. I like them slim and tight.”

  If the reeve’s man had expected Dunston to respond to his taunts, he was quickly disappointed.

  Without a word, Dunston closed with the man. The man’s eyes widened, but he was young and quick. He stepped backward and raised the great axe, just as Dunston had known he would. Dunston did not stop, instead he increased his speed, forcing the man to react. Dunston knew that most men will think twice before dealing a killing blow, especially against an unarmed man. He hoped to keep him off balance, but his adversary was no peasant and it seemed had no qualms about striking an opponent who bore no weapon.

  He raised DeaÞangenga high in the air and swung a huge blow downward aimed at Dunston’s head. If the axe had connected it would have killed the older man as quickly as lightning striking from a summer storm. But, Dunston was a veteran of many battles, and, unlike his enemy, he had used DeaÞangenga, the long hafted axe, in combat so often that he knew its heft intimately. He knew that such a powerful swing would slay any man, but he also understood that if it were to miss, the wielder would be unable to halt the weapon’s progress.

  Belying his advanced years, Dunston skipped backward, allowing the axe to slice the air a hand’s breadth before him. His attacker was unbalanced. He stumbled as the axe-head struck the earth, burying itself deeply into the mud, Dunston sprang forward. Placing his left hand atop DeaÞangenga’s haft, he drove his meaty right fist into his assailant’s face. The man relinquished his grip on the axe’s handle and staggered back, arms flailing. Dunston had struck him with all his weight behind the blow and was surprised that the man did not fall to the ground. He was a tough one, of that there was no doubt.

  Shouts from the Bartons told of how others had seen the men fighting by the barn. There was no more time.

  Tugging the axe out of the ground, Dunston swung it in a vicious arc, connecting with the blunt side of the iron head with a thudding crunch into the man’s jaw. He dropped without uttering another sound.

  Dunston scanned the gloom. His senses were sharpened now, the battle-fire flooding his body. He felt younger than he had in years. Several figures were approaching cautiously from where the fire was now almost completely extinguished.

  Looking grimly at the collapsed man, Dunston prayed he would live. He had not meant to kill him, but perhaps he had hit him harder than needed. There was nothing for it now. His life was in Christ’s hands.

  DeaÞangenga was warm and comforting in Dunston’s grip. Bending to the man’s immobile body, he tugged the seax from the scabbard that hung from his belt. As he rose, his eye caught on a leather flask that was propped against the side of the barn. No doubt it held ale or mead that his guard had been drinking before the night exploded into fire and chaos. Without hesitation, Dunston snatched up the container.

  Someone shouted out.

  “Hey, you there!”

  Quickly, Dunston decided which way he would run. He knew this land well and the night held no fear for him. He would make his way quickly down to the river’s edge where the water’s rush would mask any noise he made. Then he would head south for a time, away from his hut. In the opposite direction to that which the people of Briuuetone would likely expect. The thought of the tithing-men coming after him turned his stomach. The tithing-men would be simple folk of Briuuetone, doing their duty, as they saw it. Helping to bring a miscreant to justice. The villagers were known to him. He had no quarrel with them and did not wish to face them. He would flee deep into the forest where they would never be able to find him.

  He sprinted into the darkness, the shouts of pursuers growing louder behind him. A moment later, he became aware of the slender shape of Aedwen, running along beside him. He halted and turned on the girl.

  “You cannot come with me. It is too dangerous. You will become a wolf-head.”

  “I know you do not want me with you,” she said, her voice high and trembling. “But think. The reeve’s man saw me. If I stay, they will say I freed you. If I go, they will believe I acted alone and Gytha and her girls will be safe.”

  New voices had joined the shouting now. The crowd had found the fallen guard and from the sound of the yells and insults in the dark, the man’s friends were not happy.

  Dunston stared at Aedwen for a moment, her eyes glittered. She looked like Eawynn when he had first met her.

  “Over there!” came the cry from one of the pursuers.

  Dunston growled. There was no time to argue.

  “Very well then,” he said. “Try to keep up.”

  And with that, he sped into the black of the night and th
e willow-slender form of Aedwen followed.

  Twelve

  Dawn was not even tinging the eastern horizon and Aedwen’s breath was ragged and wheezing. She was utterly exhausted, but she vowed not to admit weakness to Dunston. The grey-bearded man seemed not to feel fatigue as they trudged on into the night. Twice, soon after they had left Briuuetone, he had grabbed her shoulder and pulled her down, indicating for her to be silent. The first time he had done this, they had hunkered down beside the bole of a beech tree, hidden in the moon shadow beneath its boughs. They had remained there for a long time, but Aedwen was unsure of who it was that Dunston believed would hear them. The night was silent save for the breeze-whisper in the trees and the burble of the river, which ran broader and more slowly now they had moved south from Briuuetone. After a time, the light from the moon dimmed and, looking up through the branches, she had seen the darkness swallow up half of the great orb in the sky. She had trembled and when Dunston had followed her gaze, he had frowned.

  “What is it?” she’d whispered, but Dunston had shaken his head and held a finger to his lips.

  Moments later, the night had brightened once more and the moon was whole again.

  They had waited so long like that, hushed and cramped beneath the beech that her limbs had become stiff and Aedwen had begun to fall into a doze. But then Dunston had pulled her roughly to her feet and was once again setting such a fast pace that she was barely able to keep up. Her legs were numb from the lack of movement and tingled unpleasantly as the blood flowed back into her abused muscles.

  Dunston had appeared oblivious or uncaring of her discomfort.

  The second time he had caught hold of her, guiding her into the lee of a stand of alder. She had shaken off his touch.

  “What now?” she’d hissed, not wishing to again crouch in the cold and damp while her legs seized up. “And what happened to the moon?”

  He had pulled her down roughly with an unyielding strength.

  She opened her mouth to complain at his treatment, but before she could utter a sound, he clamped a large harsh hand over her mouth. She squirmed, but he held her tightly. She had been contemplating trying to bite his hand when she heard them. They must have been only ten paces from Dunston and Aedwen’s hiding place.

  Several men walked quietly past. From time to time one of them would whisper something, but they were travelling quietly, stealthily.

  After a while, Dunston had released her, and they had both sat in silence for a very long time. Eventually, Dunston had been sure that their pursuers had moved on and he stood.

  “Sorry,” she whispered.

  “Don’t be sorry,” he had replied, his voice the hiss of a blade being drawn from a scabbard. “Be obedient. Do what I say without hesitation and we both might live.”

  She had swallowed back a reply and merely nodded, unsure whether he could see her movement in the dark.

  For the rest of the night they had walked in silence and had no further encounters.

  Aedwen could not tell how Dunston was navigating. They were not walking on any roads or paths she could discern in the dark, and yet he appeared to be leading them with unerring conviction. Though to where, she had no idea.

  She stumbled, her toe stubbing a root that ran across the track they followed. Dunston reached out with uncanny speed, grabbing the back of her dress and righting her. She could scarcely believe what she had witnessed in Briuuetone. Perhaps Gytha’s husband had not been spinning tall tales about Dunston’s prowess in battle. He had dispatched the younger, armed Raegnold in a heartbeat and it had all happened so quickly, she was hardly certain of what had occurred. One moment the tall man had been threatening them, the next he was slumped on the earth unconscious or dead. Dunston seemed to care not which.

  “We will rest soon,” he whispered in the darkness. She noticed with a start that she could make out his features. Dawn was not far off and the wolf-light that came before the sun was beginning to colour the land. Dunston had led them out of the dense woods and across some open grassland. It was colder here, the sky clear of clouds.

  Aedwen’s senses swam. Her legs ached as she climbed up an incline. She was barely awake and had been walking in a daze. Now, she was suddenly afraid.

  “Will they find us?” she asked.

  “Not where I am taking us,” he replied. His voice was soft now, gentle. She nodded in the pre-dawn dark and stumbled along behind him. She believed him.

  He led them to a cave. The entrance was scarcely wide enough for them to squeeze inside, and she felt a tremor of fear at being trapped in the earth. But she was too tired now to worry and so she followed Dunston in to the black gloom. She sensed him moving, as he sat down, propping his back against the wall.

  “You will be safe here, Aedwen,” he said, his voice echoing quietly in the darkness. “Lie down and rest. Nothing will befall you here.”

  His voice was soothing, and the solidity of his presence comforting. She wrapped her cloak about her and sat down on the hard floor of the cave.

  “You can rest your head on me,” Dunston whispered. Without thinking, Aedwen did just that. She lowered herself down and placed her head on the old warrior’s outstretched legs.

  He patted her arm gently. She shivered.

  Aedwen’s mind was filled with visions of fire and blood and a moon being consumed by darkness. The face of her mother came to her as sleep embraced her, and in her dreams she was sure she could feel the warmth of Odin the hound stretched out beside her.

  Thirteen

  Dunston opened his eyes slowly, as if he were scared that the lids would ache like the rest of his body. Light lanced through the open doorway of the mound. He had not meant to sleep, but he supposed it had been foolish pride to think he would be able to stay awake for the whole night. Gone were those days of youth when he could ignore the desire for sleep and still be fresh and alert the next day.

  During the night, he had sat for a time, the warm weight of Aedwen’s head against his leg, and his mind running ceaselessly over recent events. Like Aedwen, he had been shocked at the moon partially vanishing in the sky above them. He had seen similar before, but had never understood the meaning of such things. Omens, he supposed. But of what, who could tell? Unable to answer any of the questions swarming in his mind, he had, at last, drifted into a deep sleep.

  He looked down at where Aedwen slept. She had curled up on her side, resting her head on her arm now rather than his thigh. Her face was serene. Dirt smudged her cheek and her hair was dishevelled, but she slept with the carefree abandon of the young. At some point in the night she had placed her faith in him completely. He knew that she looked to him for protection and he felt acutely the weight of that responsibility. She should have stayed with Gytha. By Christ’s teeth, what had Rothulf’s widow been thinking? Now both he and the girl were outlawed. He would never be able to return to Briuuetone. Still, he supposed there was not much for him there now that Rothulf was gone. He could find a new place to live, somewhere in the forest where nobody would find him. He would be content to live alone, with Odin for company.

  With a pang of pain, he remembered that Odin was gone. He had wished to ask Aedwen about the hound the night before, but he had pushed the thought away. It was not the moment to converse. There would be time enough in the daylight for speaking, and waiting a while longer for tidings of Odin’s fate would change nothing.

  Aedwen stirred, mumbling something under her breath before growing still once more.

  With an effort, Dunston pushed himself to his feet. His knee was a burning agony and his back popped and clicked painfully as he stood. To think that for a moment in the night he had thought he’d felt young again, able to fight and wield DeaÞangenga as though the last twenty summers had not passed. By God, who was he trying to fool? He gazed down for a moment at the sleeping girl. He had forced them to walk fast all night and she had done well, keeping up without complaint. Now, as his joints cracked and his muscles throbbed, he wished he had not p
ushed them so hard. If he was not careful, he would be the one unable to keep up the pace.

  He snorted, looking to his side for where Odin usually stood. He stopped his hand as he reached for where the dog’s head would have been. Stupid old man. It would take him some time to grow accustomed to living without the company of the dog.

  Shaking his head, he moved silently to the entrance. He glanced back at Aedwen before he stepped out into the daylight. What was he to do with the girl? Perhaps he could take her to her distant kin. But where did the aunts she had mentioned live? And would they take her in if he found them?

  Frowning, he held his hand over his eyes and scanned the horizon. The sun was high in the sky and the day was blessedly warm and dry. Thin trails of smoke rose in the distance to the north, but there were no other signs of men.

  Setting off down the hill, he checked that the seax he had taken was still tucked in his belt. In his left hand he carried DeaÞangenga. His body’s pains began to lessen as he walked. He would have to give some thought about what their next steps should be, but first, they needed water and something to eat. There was nothing to be gained from worrying about the problems of tomorrow.

  Fourteen

  Aedwen awoke to the smell of woodsmoke and for an instant she was back in Briuuetone in the dark, the fire Maethild and Godgifu had lit in the handcart spouting flames and billowing clouds of thick smoke. She sat up quickly, staring about her in fear. Where was she? It was dark, but sufficient light washed in from the entrance of the cave that she could make out the details of her surroundings well enough.

  The walls and ceiling were too straight to be a cave. This was no natural cavern, gouged from the rock by aeons of rainfall and the flow of underground streams. The stone surrounding her was smooth, fashioned by man.

  She saw Dunston then, looking much less like a warrior of legend and more like the old greybeards who sat hunched over their hearths in the long winter months. He was leaning over a small fire, feeding the flames with twigs.