Wolf of Wessex

by Matthew Harffy

  “I need to know you are safe,” he whispered to her, “or else I will not be able to protect you.”

  She sobbed and sniffed, and at last she pulled away from him. She swiped at her face, brushing away her tears.

  She mumbled something under her breath. He could not make out the words. Perhaps she was apologising, but his anger still simmered.

  “If you mean to say sorry,” he hissed, “save your words. I need to know you will obey me. When I tell you to do something, you do it. No questions. No arguing. You just do it! Understand?”

  Aedwen nodded, her face a mask of misery.

  “Well, you have chosen to defy me, and now there is nothing for it. I did not want you to see such things, but maybe it is for the best that you do. Perhaps then you will comprehend what it is we are dealing with.”

  Aedwen’s gaze flicked to the oak and its dangling corpses, then she peered, wide-eyed, into the darkness of the hall, as if she wished to see the mutilated corpse in more detail.

  “You think the men who did this were the ones who killed my father?” she asked. Her voice was so quiet it was almost lost beneath the cawing of the crow.

  “Who else?” Dunston replied. “Now, stay close and keep your eyes open.”

  They moved through the steading, searching every building, but the men who had massacred Beornmod’s folk had left. They found two more bodies. A young man, and a girl. The man seemed to have come running from the fields. There was a hoe and two weed hooks near his corpse, but if he had tried to use them as weapons he had clearly been no match for the horsemen. Spear points had pierced his chest, and he had been left to wail and bleed out his lifeblood into the soil.

  The girl had been dragged into one of the storerooms. Her clothes were ripped, exposing pallid skin. Beneath her dark staring eyes, her throat had been opened in a terrible wound. Dunston read what had happened inside the small shed as clearly as if he had been there to witness the atrocious last moments of the poor girl’s life. After the men had done with her, they had cut her like a pig for slaughter. Blood had fountained, gushing and pumping as her heart fought to keep her alive. She had been young and vital and now she was no more than a carcass, cold meat on the packed earthen floor of a storeroom.

  Dunston turned away, closing the door of the hut behind him. He sighed. Christ, to think he had hoped to be done with death.

  Aedwen had grown very quiet and he noted the pallor of her skin. He placed a hand on her shoulder and for a heartbeat, he thought she was going to run from him. But then she trembled, letting out a strangled sob.

  “Sorry,” she said.

  “Come,” he said, ushering her towards one of the buildings that was devoid of corpses. “I’ll light a fire and we can eat and rest.”

  “Here?”

  “It will soon be dark and I don’t think the men who did this will be back.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I cannot be certain, but the tracks of their horses lead south and west. If I am not mistaken, and I rarely am when it comes to reading sign, they are in pursuit of something. Or someone. They were riding hard, pushing the horses.”

  He led her into a small house. Like the hall its walls were whitewashed daub and its roof was thatched. Inside it was comfortably furnished. The small hearth was circled by stools and chairs. Chests lined the walls and ham and sausages hung from the rafters. To the rear, a curtain hung to separate the sleeping quarters from the main space. Thankfully nobody had been slain inside this abode and the riders had not plundered its contents.

  Indicating to Aedwen to sit on one of the carved chairs, Dunston set about kindling a fire on the hearthstone. The ashes were still warm and there was dry wood in a basket. Dunston found a flint and steel in a small wooden box beside the basket of logs and in moments, he had a small blaze burning.

  He placed the tinder box in the bag Snell had given him.

  It was dark within the house, but the flickering light from the fire showed Aedwen’s frown well enough.

  “That is not yours,” she said.

  “You are right, of course, but we have more need of it than Beornmod’s folk now, don’t you think?”

  Aedwen scowled, but said nothing.

  “Make no mistake, Aedwen,” Dunston said, “I am no thief. But I will take from these poor people whatever I can to help us. I think that is what they would have wanted. I know I would not begrudge someone taking my things after my death. Especially if they were hunting my killers.”

  “Is that what we are doing now then? Hunting these killers?”

  For a while Dunston did not reply. He picked up a split log and placed it carefully on the flames. The truth of the matter was he did not know what they should do next. He was but an old man and Aedwen was a child. What could they do in the face of such ruthless barbarity? But what alternative did they have? If they could somehow unearth the reason for these murders and unmask the perpetrators, perhaps he could return to his life in Sealhwudu. Far from the evil of men. He had seen enough of that for a lifetime and more.

  “What else can we do?” he said at last. “I would wager these are the same men who killed your father, and they are clearly searching for something. I think we will need to follow them. And, with luck, we can find out what they are about before they kill again.”

  “They told Snell they were the reeve’s men,” Aedwen said. “Surely that cannot be true. The reeve’s men would not kill all of these people.”

  Dunston had been thinking about this, and he had his suspicions about what had happened here. He ran his fingers over his thick beard.

  “Perhaps they lied to Snell, or mayhap they are Hunfrith’s men.”

  “But how could that be so? To kill so many…”

  “Maybe the first kill was an accident. But after that first one, the only way to avoid justice would be to kill everyone. I think that is what happened. From the marks in the mud outside, I believe the workers were speared first, then the horsemen, reeve’s men or not, moved on to the others.”

  “And the girl?”

  “Once such men are on the course of blood and killing, they would think nothing of taking their pleasure with an innocent.”

  Dunston glanced at Aedwen and saw she was staring into the flames.

  “Why didn’t they burn the hall with the people inside?” she asked after a time. “Surely that would have hidden the nature of their crimes. And people might have believed it to have been an accident. Fires happen all the time.”

  “True,” replied Dunston, strangely proud of the girl for looking at the situation and analysing the possibilities. “But the smoke would have drawn neighbours, and they might have been caught here and found they needed to answer difficult questions. In this way, they must have hoped that when the bodies were found, nobody would be able to say who had done these foul acts.”

  “Just like my father, killed deep in the forest.”

  “Yes, Aedwen. If there are no witnesses to a crime, it is much more difficult to prove who did it.”

  Now it was Aedwen’s turn to fall silent, as she pondered his words. After a time, she nodded, her face pale and doleful in the firelight.

  “We should bury Beornmod’s people,” she said. “Before we go. We cannot leave them like that.” She shuddered, and Dunston could imagine her thinking of the girl lying cold and alone in the store. The men, dark tongues poking from blue-tinged lips, swinging stiffly from the oak. The other corpses, brutally cut down by savage men. The bloody, mutilated butchered remains of Beornmod himself.

  “There is no time for that,” he said. “If we remain here, we will lose the men who did this. Worse, others will come and blame us for what has happened.” He glowered in the gloom, recalling the madness of being accused of Lytelman’s murder. But without witnesses or those to swear oaths for him, who knew what men would make of him being found in Cantmael surrounded by corpses?

  “But it is not right to leave them…” she hesitated. “To leave them like that.”

>   Before Dunston could reply, a mournful moan came to them from outside in the gloaming. It was a doleful sound, full of pain and torment.

  Aedwen stiffened and horror filled her eyes.

  But Dunston smiled.

  “Do not fear, child,” he said. “That is not a bad sound to hear. Listen.”

  Again came the droning moan and as Dunston saw the truth dawning on Aedwen’s features, he stood and said, “Bring that bucket,” indicating a wooden pail that rested in the corner.

  Outside in the gathering dusk, the sound was louder and clearer. They followed it to its source, Aedwen trotting along beside Dunston. By the door of one of the barns they found the creature that was lowing pitifully as darkness draped the land.

  It was a large cow with twisted horns and distended udders painfully full of milk. Inside the barn, Dunston found a stool and another bucket. He tethered the beast, and set down the stool.

  “We will have fresh warm milk tonight,” he said, smiling in the gloom.

  He could not make out Aedwen’s expression, but he was pleased when she sat and proceeded to milk the cow effortlessly, sending warm streams of liquid squirting unerringly into the bucket. It didn’t take long until the first bucket was full. Dunston passed Aedwen the second pail.

  “Poor girl,” he said, patting the cow’s shoulder. The beast had stopped lowing now, and was content to be milked, relieving the pressure from her udders. “Looks like we’ll have more milk than we can drink,” he said.

  “Perhaps you could spare some for me then,” said a voice from the darkness behind him.

  Aedwen leapt up, overturning the stool and spilling the milk from the half-filled bucket.

  Dunston spun around, dropping his hand to the small seax he yet carried in his belt. By God, how could he have been so foolish as to leave DeaÞangenga back in the house next to the fire? Pushing himself in front of Aedwen, he tried to discern the features of the newcomer.

  The figure stepped closer and Dunston’s eyes widened in surprise.

  Eighteen

  Aedwen sipped at the still-warm milk. Its creamy richness coated her mouth and throat. The flavour was comforting and she could feel her body relaxing in the glow of the hearth fire.

  Across from Aedwen, face lit from beneath by the flames, sat a girl not much older than her. When she had approached them in the milk shed, Aedwen had been terrified that the men who had murdered the residents of the farmstead had returned. Dunston had pushed himself forward, crowding the girl who had stepped from the gloom and Aedwen had thought how lucky the girl had been that he had not thought to carry his huge axe with him. He was as taut as a bowstring and Aedwen wondered whether he would have been able to prevent himself from killing the girl where she stood, if he had borne the weapon in his hand. As it was, he soon realised this was no killer striding from the dusk, rather a timid, slender and frightened young woman. Her hair was dark and her face had angular cheeks and a pointed chin that reminded Aedwen of a fox. Her skin was smeared with mud and grime.

  Nothgyth was her name and she said she was one of Beornmod’s house thralls. They had made their way back to the house, where Dunston placed more wood on the fire. Aedwen noted how he positioned himself beside the door, but not with his back to the opening. He placed his silver-threaded axe within easy reach.

  Nothgyth had quickly produced wooden trenchers, some cheese, hard bread and some ale from the shadows in the hut. She unhooked the ham from where it hung from a beam and sliced off thick slabs of salty, greasy meat. She clearly knew where things were kept and soon the three of them were seated around the fire, eating food that until that day had been destined for Beornmod’s folk’s bellies.

  Dunston drained his cup of milk and then refilled it with ale. He took a deep draught, grimaced, and then emptied the cup again before pouring yet more ale. He sat back, stretching his legs out before him. He winced slightly as he straightened his right knee.

  “So, Nothgyth,” he said. “What happened here? How is it that you alone survived?”

  Nothgyth stared into the fire for a time, chewing a morsel of bread which eventually she washed down with a mouthful of milk. Dunston waited patiently for her to answer, but Aedwen had begun to wonder whether the woman had heard the question by the time the thrall spoke at last.

  “I hid. Under the store.” The store shed where they had found the murdered girl was raised from the earth on wooden posts in an effort to keep rats away from the grain and food stored within. “I was round the back picking some fresh summer sætherie when I heard them come. The number of them and how they came on horses frightened me. I’ve never seen so many riders before in one place.” She gazed wistfully into the flames. Her eyes glimmered.

  “So you hid,” prompted Dunston.

  “Not at first,” she replied, as if he’d awoken her from a dream. “I just stood there listening to start with. Wanted to hear who they were. Thought they must have been the king’s men. Perhaps the king himself had come to the master’s hall.”

  “There were so many of them?” asked Dunston.

  “Oh, many riders. Must have been five at least.”

  Dunston frowned, but nodded.

  “So what happened?”

  “They talked for a moment to Frithstan. I couldn’t hear what they said. Something about a peddler. It made no sense.” She grew silent then. She nibbled on her bread, lost in her memories of that afternoon’s chaos and violence.

  “What happened next?” Aedwen asked.

  “The men spotted Wynflaed. And they said things about her. Bad things. Frithstan grew angry and shouted at them, and one of them struck him. That is when Eohric and Tilwulf came back from the lower field. Eohric told the men to be gone…” Nothgyth’s voice trailed off, as she relived the moment. “One of them speared him, without a word. As if Eohric was an animal. He didn’t even have time to scream. He just fell into the mud and was dead. One of them laughed then, even though the others were angry with him.”

  “Angry?” asked Dunston.

  “Yes. They said they weren’t supposed to kill them. I couldn’t hear much of what they said then though, because Wynflaed was screaming. A couple of them pushed her inside the store. For later, they said.” Nothgyth’s voice caught in her throat. “They bound her and left her there while they went to the hall. That is when I hid. I could see their feet and the hooves of their horses, and I heard how they hanged Tilwulf and Frithstan and the screams from the hall were so loud. But all the while I could hear Wynflaed crying just above me. I should have helped her,” a sudden sob racked her. “I just hid there. Even while they…” Tears streaked through the dirt on her cheeks.

  “No, girl,” said Dunston, his deep voice soothing in the darkness. “You did what you needed to do. You could not have saved her and what good would it have done for you to suffer her fate too?”

  “Perhaps God kept you safe for a reason,” said Aedwen.

  “Truly?” asked Nothgyth, her tone pleading and desperate.

  “Truly,” replied Aedwen. Surely God and the Virgin must have some purpose in all this. To think otherwise was too much to contemplate. “We mean to find these men,” she continued, “and see they are brought to justice. God must have spared you so that you can help us.”

  “Help you?” Nothgyth looked terrified. “How could I do that?”

  “You can tell us all you know about them,” said Dunston, leaning forward, so that his jutting beard shadowed his face from the firelight. His eyes shone in the gloom.

  “I know nothing,” she wailed. “I was hiding.”

  “Think, tell us all you heard. Did you hear any of their names?”

  Nothgyth furrowed her brow and took another sip of milk. Slowly, she shook her head.

  “I don’t know. I just heard them shouting at my master. And then I heard them laughing while Wynflaed screamed.” She shuddered.

  “If I am able, Nothgyth,” Dunston rumbled in the dark, “I will see these men killed for what they have done. Men wh
o do such things do not deserve to live. Now,” he reached over and gripped her arm. She flinched, but he held firm, looking directly into her eyes. “What can you tell us about who they were or what they were looking for.”

  And then, her eyes widened as a fresh memory came to her.

  “I don’t know who they are, but I know where they are going.”

  “Tell me,” Dunston said, his voice cold and hard.

  “They have gone after Ithamar.”

  Nineteen

  Dunston forced himself to loosen his grip on Nothgyth’s arm. The girl was frightened enough without her fearing him too.

  “Who is Ithamar?” he asked.

  “A monk,” Nothgyth said, her tone implying that everybody knew who Ithamar was.

  Dunston frowned.

  “And what did these men want with a monk?”

  “I don’t know. One of them was shouting at my master over and over. They were both yelling, but I didn’t really understand what they spoke of.”

  “What were they saying?” Dunston asked, willing his tone to remain calm.

  Nothgyth took a sip from her cup of milk, lifting it to her lips with trembling hands.

  “They were asking about the peddler.”

  Dunston glanced at Aedwen. Her eyes were shadowed, but she was staring intently at Nothgyth.

  “What about the peddler?” Aedwen asked, her voice rasping in her throat.

  “I couldn’t hear. I don’t know.” Nothgyth hesitated and Dunston began to wonder whether they would learn anything of value from this poor, frightened girl. “It made no sense to me,” she went on. “They just kept asking him how the peddler had known.”

  “Known?” said Dunston. “Known what?”

  “I do not know,” exclaimed Nothgyth. “I told you, it made no sense to me.”

  For a time they sat in silence, each thinking of what they had witnessed that day and of Nothgyth’s tale of torture and murder. A log shifted on the embers and sparks drifted upwards to wink out amongst the rafters and the hanging meat.