Wolf of Wessex

by Matthew Harffy

  “The meat will be ready soon,” Dunston said. “Better?”

  She nodded.

  “Yes, I am,” she said. “I can scarcely believe I slept so well in such a shelter.”

  “The body does not need much to be happy,” Dunston said. “But it is the things we do not need that cause us most pain.”

  She pondered his words.

  “What do you mean?” she asked, at last.

  He turned the squirrel. Its flesh was dark now, sizzling and bubbling fat dropped into the embers making them flare and flash.

  “Men always strive for what they do not have. But to reach the object of their desire does not make them content. When a man attains his goals, he merely looks further to the horizon, for the next prize. It is why men will never be happy and why we will never know peace.”

  Aedwen’s brow furrowed. Dunston’s bleak words made her sad.

  “Do you truly believe that?”

  Dunston nodded.

  “The Norsemen see our lands and come to steal our riches, and so we fight.”

  “But they are pagans. They know not the love of the Lord. I pray that one day the Norse will become followers of Christ, and then surely we will know peace.”

  Dunston snorted and his amusement at her words angered her.

  “Does not the Christian king of Wessex seek to control Mercia?” he said. “Do not the Christian Wéalas fight us Anglisc for our land and our livestock? No, the priests may say that Christ is the God of love, but He does not make men content with their lot in life. Perhaps one day the Norse will worship Him too, but if they do and even if they live in peace with us, others will come, seeking what the Vikingr once sought – land and riches. Just as our forebears came to these lands to take the land from the Wéalas.”

  He lifted the squirrel from the fire and cut a small sliver of meat. He proffered it to her, skewered on the tip of the seax. She took it, blew to cool it and then placed it in her mouth.

  “It is good,” she said, speaking around the food. She was glad of the change of topic away from Dunston’s dark vision of the world. She could not believe in such a grim future, where nobody was ever contented and war would constantly ravage the land. She needed to cling to the hope that Christ and His mother, the Blessed Virgin, would bring happiness and tranquillity to all mankind.

  They ate quietly. Dunston cut up the squirrel and shared out the pieces between them. The outside of the meat was dark and crisp, but parts of the flesh near the bone were almost raw, pink and still dripping blood. This was no matter to Aedwen. She had been ravenous and chewed the meat until the bones were clean. Then she sucked the marrow from the thicker ones.

  They talked little as they struck camp. There was not much to do apart from see that the fire was safely extinguished. Very soon, with the sun beginning its downward journey into the west, they clambered up through the dense woodland and back onto the road.

  Aedwen held the staff Dunston had given her. It already felt natural in her hand and she walked along beside him with purpose. Despite the cold and wet of the previous night, they were both rested and filled with renewed vigour.

  “If we hear horses on the road, we will hide,” Dunston said.

  Aedwen said nothing, but nodded.

  “Horses,” Dunston explained, “can only mean trouble for us as far as I see it, so it is not worth taking any chances.”

  Aedwen nodded again and they walked on in silence beneath the canopy of beech and oak.

  As it turned out, they neither heard nor saw any horses, or indeed anybody at all, until they left the shadow of the wood. The sun was well into the west now, but still high enough in the sky for them to have ample light left to reach Spercheforde.

  The road led them down between ploughed fields and hedgerows. Strips of farmland stretched out before them. In the distance, a man was busy plucking weeds from between the rows of a crop of wheat.

  A cluster of houses, barns and a small timber church nestled in the valley.

  “I am known here,” said Dunston, breaking the silence that had fallen between them. “I sometimes trade pelts and knives with the folk. We should have no trouble.”

  Despite his words, Aedwen noted how he seemed to grow in stature and how his gaze darted about, as if looking for threats.

  The man halted his weeding, shading his hands to better see who approached the village. Then, he slung his weed hook and stick over his shoulder and set a course that would intercept theirs as they reached the houses. Dunston did not slow his pace.

  For a time the man was lost from sight behind a hedgerow that was a-chatter with sparrows. Then, just as the path sloped down into the shallows of the river, he stepped from a break in the hedge.

  Aedwen held her breath, ready to flee, but Dunston halted, lowering his axe’s patterned iron head to rest on the earth.

  The man was slender and wore a wide-brimmed hat woven from straw like a basket. His sinewy arms were bare, weather-beaten and smeared with mud.

  “Well met, Snell,” said Dunston.

  The man peered at him and then at Aedwen from under the shade of his hat. He sniffed and wiped the back of his hand under his nose.

  “I did not know you had any children,” Snell said, nodding in Aedwen’s direction.

  “She is not my daughter,” replied Dunston.

  “New wife, is she? Got tired of cooking your own pottage? You must get lonely out in Sealhwudu.”

  “No,” replied Dunston, an edge of annoyance in his tone.

  “Thrall then?”

  “She is not my child, my wife or my slave, Snell. Her father was killed. She has nobody.”

  Snell removed his hat and scratched his thatch of curly, greying hair.

  “Oh yes,” he said, replacing the hat and examining something he had found on his scalp, “I heard about that.” He squeezed the nails of his thumb and forefinger together. He grunted, evidently content with the fate he had delivered to the louse.

  “Heard what?” asked Dunston.

  “That you killed a girl’s father and then stole her away and fled justice.”

  Dunston stepped back slightly, perhaps to better swing his axe should it come to that, thought Aedwen.

  “What you have heard is not true.”

  “P’rhaps,” said Snell, looking askance at Aedwen, “but here you are, with the girl they spoke of.”

  “Dunston did not kill my father,” Aedwen said.

  Snell stared at her for several heartbeats, rubbing his chin. He sniffed again.

  “P’rhaps,” he said at last. “Mayhap he did, mayhap he didn’t. Those that came here seemed to think he did.” He turned his attention back to Dunston. “They had nothing good to say of you.”

  Dunston snorted and Aedwen was surprised to see Snell smirk.

  “Who were they?” Dunston asked.

  “Well, I didn’t get all of their names, but they were a rum-looking lot. Said they were sent by the new reeve of Briuuetone. One of them had really been in the wars, looked like he’d fought a Mercian warband and lost. His face was a state – blue and black like a stormy day in January. Swollen too. Though it wasn’t he who did the talking, seems someone broke his jaw when they were escaping.”

  “How many were there and when did they come through?”

  “Five of them rode up this morning asking if I’d seen you and the girl.”

  “And what did you tell them?”

  “Said I hadn’t seen you since before Crístesmæsse.”

  “Good man,” said Dunston.

  “Well, it was the truth.” Snell seemed awkward all of a sudden. He craned his neck, scanning the hills and woodlands surrounding the settlement, as if he expected the riders to return at any moment. “What shall I tell them if they come back?”

  “You can tell them what you wish, but you have known me for many years, Snell and I tell you I am innocent of this crime. All we seek now is to find out who slew this poor girl’s father.”

  “Well, I am sure it were
n’t nobody from Spercheforde. The closest to a killer you’ll find here is Herelufu. Her ale is so strong you feel like death after drinking more than a cupful.”

  Dunston snorted.

  “I do not think the man’s murderer is from here.”

  “So what are you doing here?”

  “We are looking for anyone he might have spoken to. We are hoping we might be able to find some indication of why he was killed.”

  Snell removed his hat again and scratched frantically at his head. He peered at Aedwen. He seemed agitated.

  “What is it?”

  “I remember the girl and her father now. They came through here a few days ago, but he had nothing that the likes of me or Herelufu needed, and so we sent him up to Beornmod’s hall at Cantmael.”

  “That’s right,” said Aedwen. “I remember the hall at Cantmael.” It had been the last time she had felt safe. “It was warm and they let me sleep in the bed chamber with the womenfolk. Father stayed up late drinking. He sold a bolt of linen, but he drank too much of the ale. The next day he was pale and we had to stop several times for him to rest.”

  “We will go and speak to Beornmod and see what he can tell us.”

  “You had best tread with care, Dunston.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The reeve’s men asked the same questions as you. Asked who the girl’s father had spoken to. I sent them to Beornmod’s hall.”

  Dunston frowned.

  “The hall is not far from here, and they are mounted. With any luck, they will be gone by now.”

  “I’ve been in the field all day and no riders have come back down the road.”

  Seventeen

  Dunston knew something was amiss before they could see the hall. The sky was a flat, iron grey, but behind the clouds the sun was low in the sky. Long shadows trailed out from the ash trees that lined the path and the hill that dominated the skyline was huge and foreboding. Some long-forgotten men had sculpted out steps into the hillside, creating terraces in the grass and lending the mound a strange, unnatural quality.

  Cantmael was not far from Spercheforde and so they had not tarried long there. There had still been enough light in the day for them to reach Beornmod’s hall and so, after convincing Snell to give them a bowl of the pottage that he had left simmering over the embers on his hearth, they had set off once more.

  Now, as they approached the steading in the lee of the looming, stepped hill, Dunston halted and held up his hand for Aedwen to do likewise. He shrugged off the hemp bag he now carried slung over his shoulder. He had persuaded Snell to part with it and also an earthenware pot in exchange for the promise of forging him a knife when all this was done.

  Snell had smiled grimly, clearly wondering how likely Dunston was to be able to fulfil his promise, but he had agreed without quibbling. Dunston had thanked him. He knew it was no small thing to trust a man at his word, and he was grateful to the wiry ceorl.

  In the cool shade of the great hill at Cantmael, Dunston sniffed the air. Smoke and manure, and rain somewhere far off. Nothing untoward. And yet…

  He took a few more steps towards their destination. The hall and its outbuildings would be visible when they rounded the next bend in the path he knew. He halted again, listening, straining to hear anything that might suggest to him what to expect at Beornmod’s hall. He crouched in the path, examining the furrows and tracks in the mud, turning his head this way and that in order to pick out anything unusual in the churned surface.

  Several horses had come this way recently, and earlier in the day, oxen had pulled a cart with a wobble in the rear left wheel. There were prints from the shoes of ceorls going to and from the fields. He could clearly discern where the men had jumped over the numerous puddles, where they had placed their feet close to tussocks of grass, trying to keep dry. Two dogs, large ones, had padded along the path too, but unlike the men, they had cared nothing about muddying their paws.

  He saw no indication of the horsemen returning along this path.

  Without a word he handed the bag to Aedwen.

  “Go there,” he indicated a hawthorn that was flanked by huddled downy willows, “and hide. Wait for me to call or to come for you.”

  “What if you don’t come back?” she whispered, terror in her voice.

  For an instant he was going to lie to her, to tell her that of course he would be back. But then he thought of the girl’s father, and all of the man’s broken promises. He pictured Lytelman’s back split open like a butchered boar. He would not lie to Aedwen.

  “If I do not return, wait till nightfall and then make your way back to Snell. He is a good man and he would help you.”

  He could see she did not much care for his answer, but she merely nodded and scampered away into the undergrowth. After a moment, she was hidden from sight.

  Glancing down at the muddy path once more, he saw again the indentations made from the clawed, padded paws of the two hounds. His breath caught in his throat and for a moment, he thought one of the dogs might be Odin. He bent to get a closer look and realised his mistake. These were not the tracks of his dog. Odin was surely dead somewhere in the forest where he had run after being injured.

  Dunston set his jaw and, gripping DeaÞangenga tightly, he walked down the incline and around the bend in the path. The shapes of the buildings came into view. All was still and with a jolt Dunston realised what had alerted him that something was not right. This was the end of the day, when thralls and servants would be bustling about the steading, preparing for the evening meal. The last chores of the day should be under way. The small hall, barn and two outbuildings should be abustle with activity.

  And yet there was no sound. No movement at all.

  A crow croaked from where it was perched, dark and brooding, in the grizzled old oak that gave shadow to the ground between the buildings. It was the first bird he had heard or seen since arriving here, and its doleful call made his skin prickle.

  And then he saw what the crow was resting upon.

  Two men in simple clothing dangled from a high branch of the oak. Ropes had been thrown over the bough and secured around the bole. The men’s faces were mottled, dark swollen tongues protruding from fish-pale lips. Their breeches were stained where they had soiled themselves in death. Dunston sighed and spat. Would he never be free from death and killing? He yearned to be left alone, to live out his days in peace.

  The crow cried out again and to Dunston it sounded like a harsh bark of laughter.

  The moment he had found Lytelman, his chance of a straw death, growing old and dying in his bed, had fled. Everywhere he turned now, he stumbled on more blood and murder. He felt his anger brimming within him. He fought to keep it in check, but he recognised the call of the old beast. It had been sleeping within him for such a long time that he had thought it was gone, but it seemed all it had been waiting for was the right food to give it strength once more.

  Strength and purpose.

  Skirting the hanging men, he moved stealthily towards the hall. There were no sounds from within. No smoke drifted from the hole cut into the thatch. The stillness was unnatural. This was the pure quiet of a tomb. All he might find here were ghosts.

  Close to the hall’s open doorway lay the corpse of a large tan-coloured dog. Its head had been almost severed from its neck, its mouth pulled back in a defiant snarl from its white, dagger-like fangs.

  Hefting DeaÞangenga, Dunston took a deep breath and stepped through the dark maw of the hall’s door. Inside was gloom-laden, the air stale. Cold soot, sour beer, the acrid scent of shit and, beneath it all, the metallic tang of blood.

  Squinting and blinking against the darkness, he looked around the hall. It was a modest building, with a high table that would sit four and enough room at the benches for perhaps twenty men in total.

  Three women and an elderly man lay dead on the floor near the cold hearth. They had been cut down by swords or long seaxes. Great gashes had opened their flesh and their blood had
soaked the rushes black.

  The other dog was dead beneath its master’s feet. It must have tried to defend Beornmod, but it had been pierced by spears and then hacked into a mess of muscle, bone, sinew and fur. And blood, so much blood. The huge pools of the stuff mingled with the gore that had run from the board where Beornmod’s corpse was draped.

  Dunston instantly recognised the handiwork of Lytelman’s murderer. Beornmod lay face down on the board, blood-splattered arms hanging down, flaccid and mottled in death. The man’s kirtle had been torn asunder and it was the sight of his back that brought the gorge rising in Dunston’s throat. The ribs had been shattered and wrenched apart and the man’s entrails and lungs draped on his back, like wings of offal.

  He turned away from the corpse. Beornmod would tell them nothing. They had come to this hall hoping for answers and instead they had found more death.

  “Is that how my father was slain?” said a voice. It was small and empty-sounding, but it was loud in the complete still of the hall. Despite himself, Dunston started, letting out a tiny sound of alarm.

  “I told you to stay hidden,” he said, his voice harsh and as brittle as slate. “God, girl, you promised to do as I said.” He grabbed hold of her shoulders, spun her round and shoved her out of the doorway, away from the mutilated remains of Beornmod. “It could have been dangerous.”

  Outside, she turned to face him. Finding an outlet for his anger now, his ire bubbled up and he jabbed a finger into Aedwen’s sternum. She staggered backwards with the force of his stabbing blows. He was only using his thick forefinger, and yet she was unable to hold her ground.

  “What if the men who did this were still here?” he asked, his finger prodding out the beat of the words.

  Aedwen’s eyes filled with tears, and they started to roll down her cheeks. She let out a sob, and as quickly as they had been kindled, so the flames of his anger were doused. After a moment of hesitation, he pulled the girl close to him with his left hand. In his right he held his great axe and all the while he scanned the other buildings for signs of danger. Aedwen shook and trembled against him.