Wolf of Wessex

by Matthew Harffy

  But what of the girl? She was innocent in all this. As he had sat in the barrow during the quiet calm of the summer afternoon, his hands nimbly bending and softening the withies to tie up the edges of the bark bag, his mind had turned to Aedwen’s father. For a moment he could only picture him as he had seen him, bloodied and broken, fish-pallid skin splattered with gore. But then he began to imagine the man Aedwen had talked about with such a mixture of emotions – grief, longing, sadness, exasperation, pity, but above all, love. And he had started to see Lytelman as he must have been in life. A man with desires and dreams, weaknesses and strengths, and with the responsibility for the life of a young girl. It seemed to Dunston that when he had stumbled upon the man’s corpse, when he had looked into those unseeing, staring, horrified eyes, he had somehow taken on that responsibility. And he was not one to shirk from his duty.

  “Very well, Lytelman,” he whispered into the night, “I will keep her safe, or I will give my life trying. You can ask no more of me than that.”

  The rain fell heavily then in a squalling gust of wind that shook the boughs of the oaks that grew at either side of the road. Dunston shuddered before nodding at the dark sky. Aedwen glanced at him, peering through the darkness and the sheets of rain. Had she heard him? He could not tell, but if she had, she said nothing, merely pulling her cloak about her, lowering her head against the chill of the rain and trudging on.

  He decided to make camp well before dawn. They were both wet, cold and miserable. Despite her cloak, Aedwen was shivering and Dunston had only his kirtle for warmth. It provided none, as it was sopping and plastered against his skin.

  In spite of the season and the warmth of the previous day, the nights were cool, and the rain fell relentlessly, soaking them and leaching the heat from their bodies. Cold was a killer, Dunston knew. They needed a fire and shelter.

  Leading Aedwen away from the road and beneath the dense canopy of the forest Dunston cast about in the gloom until he saw the familiar shape of a young sallow. The moon was high in the sky now, and some of its silver light filtered through the clouds and rain.

  “We will make camp there,” he said, pointing.

  Aedwen did not reply. She was stooped against the cold, arms wrapped tightly around her in an effort to ward off the chill. Reaching the tree, Dunston pointed to its trunk, beneath the thickest foliage.

  “Sit there. I’ll make a shelter.”

  He went about constructing a rough shelter as quickly as he was able. First he used DeaÞangenga to cut several branches from the sallow. These he then piled up at an angle around the bole of the tree, using the branches there for support. In this way, very quickly he had a steep roof of branches and leaves, that whilst not affording complete protection from the rain, prevented most of it from reaching Aedwen where she sat against the tree’s trunk.

  “Now, help me collect bracken,” he said, offering his hand and, when she grasped it, pulling her up to her feet.

  Bracken grew thick around them and it didn’t take them long to pull up an armful each of the stuff.

  “Pile it up under the shelter,” he said. “It will be our bed, so make it thick enough to keep us off the ground.” She did as she was told. He looked at the small mound of bracken for a moment. “Fetch some more, while I start on a fire.”

  “Fire?” she asked, incredulous. “But how? Everything is so wet and we have nothing to provide a spark.”

  “It won’t be easy in this weather,” he said, “that’s for sure, but with a bit of luck, I’ll get a fire lit.” I had better, he thought. Without the warming heat of a fire, they would get colder as their wet clothes drew the heat from their limbs.

  She set to ripping up more of the ferns, while he took up his axe and quickly chopped into the lichen-covered trunk of a fallen alder. Within moments he had cut a few sizeable logs, splitting the trunk to get at the dry heartwood. Snatching up a couple of the branches he had cut for the shelter, he set to work on them with his stolen seax. It was not as sharp as he would have liked, but it would serve. His hands were numb with wet and cold, and in the dark it was clumsy work at best, but he worked with care. He knew that to rush would be to risk cutting himself, and so he went slowly, slicing into the wood of the branches and cutting along its length. Long curls of wood wound up from the seax blade. When he was close to the end of the branch, where the sliver of wood would be separated from the limb, he stopped, leaving the thin spiral of sap-rich wood exposed. He repeated the process several times until he had created something that resembled a wooden feather which would burn fast and well to get the fire going.

  Aedwen carried over more bracken and placed it in the shelter. And then she sat on the leaves, out of the wind and rain and watched him. It was dark and he could not see her face, but her eyes glimmered in the moonlight.

  Positioning himself in the wind shadow and partially under the sheltering branches, he reached inside his kirtle for where he had stored his fire-making items, wrapped in linden bark against the wet. He prayed they were dry enough. It would be nigh impossible to create a flame with wet tinder and wood.

  Carefully opening the small packet, he withdrew the fire-lighting utensils he had fashioned the previous morning. He placed a sliver of wood on the ground and atop that, a larger flat piece of linden that would serve as the hearth. Then he took up a straight stick, as thick as his thumb and cut to a rounded point. He knelt, using his body to further protect the wood that would hopefully give them a fire. Holding the wooden board on the ground with one of his feet, he placed the dowel in the darkened groove that was already there from where he had created an ember to light the fire the previous day while Aedwen had slept. Placing the stick between the palms of his straight-fingered hands he began to rotate it rapidly. Rubbing his hands together with the stick between them, he pushed downward, forcing the dowel into the darkened depression.

  The stick rotated against the wooden board as his hands descended. When they reached the bottom of the stick, Dunston quickly pulled his hands to the top and repeated the motion. Before long, his palms were warm. He carried on, more vigorously.

  Was that smoke he smelt?

  He knew not to stop too soon. This was a delicate process and on such a night as this, he could easily lose the precious ember after all his efforts. He continued until he was sure. A tendril of smoke rose from the depression where wood dust had accumulated and he detected a tiny glow, like a ruby in a distant cave. Quickly, careful not to lose it, he lifted the hearth block, discarded the stick and picked up the sliver of wood and its glowing ember and smouldering wood dust. With the utmost care, he gently tipped the ember onto the grass and lichen he had carried within the bark parcel.

  Tenderly, he wrapped the tinder about the ember, like a father swaddling a tiny baby. Raising it to his lips, as if he were going to kiss it, he blew gently. Softly, he breathed life into the ember, blowing and then pulling the tinder ball away from his face. Then, blowing again, and a third time. The ball smoked profusely now and he knew the instant the flame would come.

  After the fifth lungful of air that he offered the spark enshrouded in its grass and lichen, the ball of tinder burst into flaming life. The flames lit Aedwen’s pale face. Her eyes flickered, reflecting bright tongues of fire. With haste he placed the burning tinder on the earth, positioning the first of the feather sticks over it. He held the stick delicately, dangling the wooden feathers into the hottest part of the new flame. They smouldered and blackened and for a sinking moment Dunston thought that perhaps the wood was too damp, that the tinder would not burn for long enough for the larger feathers of wood to catch. And then, just as it looked as though the tinder flame was about to die, a sudden brightness leapt up from the feathered wood. The flames crackled, giving off varied hues as the sap caught.

  Dunston let out a long breath. By Christ, how a fire lifted the spirits.

  He placed the second feather stick on top of the first, feeding the newborn fire’s insatiable appetite. When it was burning hot
, he carefully added some twigs and slivers of wood from the boughs he had cut down, before finally adding one of the logs. The fire was not large, but it was burning well now, and it would not be extinguished easily, as long as he continued to feed it.

  Rising, he stretched, working out the aches from his back and rubbing his fingers into his stiff right knee. Being careful not to disturb the fire or to topple into the shelter’s sloping roof branches, he slid in beside Aedwen. She was half asleep, but she moved enough to make room for him, and then rested her head on his shoulder.

  Warmth from the fire washed over him. He had sat thus, enjoying the heat from a campfire in the wilderness countless times before, but it was something that always filled him with pleasure and wonder. To conjure the flames from nothing was a special magic and when it was cold a fire was not only a balm for strained nerves, it was life-giving warmth.

  They sat in silence for a long while, staring into the ever-changing dancing tongues of flame.

  Aedwen’s shivering slowly abated.

  “I am glad you know how to make fire from nothing,” she said, her voice thick with sleep.

  He gazed into the flames, enjoying the movement and randomness of them. Their vitality.

  “So am I,” he said at last. He recalled sitting in just such a shelter as this so many years before that he was uncertain whether he truly recalled it, or if he had created the story for himself, to think of on lonely nights. Still, the memory was vivid and it always pleased him. He remembered sitting beside a thickset man. Dunston had been a child then, and the man had placed his arm about his thin shoulders. They had sat in pleasant silence and watched the flames that the boy-Dunston had kindled. The man of his memories was grey-bearded and broad-shouldered; old, but wise and still powerful. Dunston smiled. He must look the same to Aedwen.

  “My grandfather taught me how to kindle a fire,” he said. He sighed, stretching out his hands to capture the warmth from the flames. Christ, he had loved that old man. “I could teach you, if you’d like.”

  Aedwen did not reply. After a moment he looked down at her and smiled ruefully. The firelight gave the girl’s face a ruddy glow. Her eyes were closed and she was sleeping peacefully.

  Around them, beyond the glow from the small fire, the night was impenetrable. The forest whispered and rustled out there in the dark. Somewhere far off, a vixen shrieked. A tawny owl lent its haunting voice to the forest music. Leaning forward he placed a fresh log on the flames and settled back next to Aedwen.

  He was sure that nobody would be on the road now, and the glow from the fire would not be visible. But he knew that the smell of the smoke would be noticeable from quite some distance. Still, there was nothing for it. The fire would keep them alive. Tiredness engulfed him with its heavy, silent cloak and Dunston’s eyelids drooped. He rested his right hand on DeaÞangenga’s haft and offered up a prayer that nobody would stumble on them while they slept. Then, placing another chunk of wood onto the fire, he allowed sleep to overcome him.

  Sixteen

  Aedwen awoke when the sun was high in the sky. She stretched and was surprised to find she was warm. She had become so cold in the long wet miserable night she had thought she might perish. Her teeth had begun to chatter and her head had ached by the time Dunston had made the shelter in the shadow of the sallow tree.

  She opened her eyes and saw that the fire was still burning and there were more logs piled nearby. There was no sign of Dunston. For an instant she felt panic rise within her. What would she do if he had left her? But just as quickly as the fear of being abandoned had come upon her, so it fled; dispelled by the warmth from the small campfire. She sat up and found that Dunston had covered her with a thick layer of bracken. The old man was surly at times, and he scared her, but no, she was certain he would not leave her to her fate alone in the forest.

  The fire was burning low, so she took one of the logs and placed it carefully onto the embers. The rain had ceased falling but the sky was heavy and overcast. The day was hushed and the woodland dripped and murmured.

  Aedwen’s stomach grumbled. She hoped Dunston had gone in search of something to eat. He seemed to be able to find food anywhere. She picked up a twig and poked at the fire. She frowned to think of the cold nights she had spent with her father on the road. If only they’d had Dunston for a travelling companion, they would never have been hungry or without warmth. She thought of his huge axe and how quickly he had felled the man in Briuuetone. If Dunston had travelled with them, she thought, her father would probably still be alive. The questions around why he had been killed still plagued her thoughts, but she pushed them aside with an effort. She could not bear to spend the day gnawing on the same bones of ideas. They had plucked all the meat from them and they would glean no further information by chewing over them again. She hoped they would learn some useful piece of information when they spoke to those who had traded with her father as they had made their way northward. Until then, she vowed to try to think of happier things than her father’s murder.

  Running her fingers through her hair, she felt tangles and knots. When was the last time she had given it a proper brush? Could it be only the night before last? Maethild and Godgifu had both combed her long tresses, each plaiting her hair into long braids. Aedwen had revelled in the soft touch from the sisters’ delicate hands, missing her mother terribly with each pull of the antler comb. At some point in the nights and day since then, the leather thongs they had used to tie her hair up had worked loose and she had lost them. The hair fell around her shoulders now in an unruly mess. She dreaded to think of how she must look.

  She smiled to herself. Her mother had always despaired at Aedwen’s lack of care with her hair and appearance in general. She would fuss about her, rubbing Aedwen’s face with a cloth until her cheeks were red and smarting. And when she had finished with her hair and face, she would go to work on her hands and nails. Aedwen had always complained, trying to escape her mother’s clutches at the first opportunity, to flee out into the fields, or woods, or to run along the beach, where she would quickly undo her mother’s work.

  She sniffed at her kirtle. It stank of woodsmoke, sweat and fear.

  How she longed for a bowl of hot water and a linen cloth with which to clean herself. And how she missed her mother.

  A quiet rustle in the trees made her think that a breeze was picking up. But a heartbeat later, Dunston stepped into the clearing. She noted that his limp seemed less pronounced than the day before. He carried his axe in one hand and in his other there dangled the carcass of a squirrel.

  He smiled at her through his wiry silver-streaked beard.

  “Awake at last, I see,” he said. “How are you feeling?”

  “Well,” she said, “thanks to you. I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

  He shrugged, but said nothing. Pulling the seax from his belt he set about skinning and gutting the squirrel.

  “You have brought us food again,” she said, her voice filled with awe. “I do not know how you do it.”

  “I have learnt the ways of the forest. She will feed you well enough, if you know where to look.”

  “How did you catch the squirrel?”

  He grunted as he pulled the skin from the animal, as though it were a tight-fitting jacket. The flesh that was left looked long and scrawny, but Aedwen’s stomach groaned at the thought of roasted meat.

  “I found where the animals travel and I placed a snare there. I did not have to wait for long.”

  Working deftly and with the alacrity that comes from many years of experience, Dunston tugged the entrails from the game and began threading the animal onto a spit of wood. Aedwen watched carefully, trying to remember everything.

  “After we’ve eaten, we should carry on to Spercheforde,” Dunston said. “I have been up to the road and know where we are. We will be able to reach the settlement before dusk.”

  “Do you think someone there will be able to help us?” she asked.

  “I
do not know,” said Dunston, placing the spitted squirrel over the fire’s embers. “But you said you and your father had travelled through, so someone might have spoken to him. Perhaps the meeting with Hunfrith was not the only thing he kept from you.”

  His words held no reproach or judgement and yet Aedwen felt a keen stab of an emotion she could not define. There was no doubt that her father had been holding a secret from her. A secret that might have got him killed. And the fact he had not told her hurt her more than she cared to admit, even to herself.

  Dunston stood and inspected his handiwork.

  “There is a stream down there, if you would like to drink or wash.” He pointed beyond a copse of alder. “I’ll keep an eye on this.”

  She must indeed look terrible if the old man who lived alone in the forest thought she should wash.

  “Is it far?” she asked, anxiety gripping her.

  “No, Aedwen,” he replied, his voice softening, “it is not far. And that way is away from the road. You will encounter nobody.”

  She let out a breath and nodded.

  Aedwen shook off the rest of the bracken that covered her legs and made her way past the alders. The stream was nearby. Fast-flowing, clear water flowed over a bed of shiny pebbles. She drank and the water was sweet and fresh. Then, scooping up handfuls of water, she scrubbed her face and did her best to wash the grime from her hands and arms.

  When she returned to their camp, the smell of cooking meat was strong. Her stomach complained at its emptiness once more, and she swallowed the saliva that flooded her mouth.