Wolf of Wessex

by Matthew Harffy

  Dunston didn’t tell the carter how right he was. Instead he asked him about the men.

  “I can’t tell you much,” he answered, lifting the cap he wore and scratching beneath it at his sweaty hair. “They were driving those horses fast and they were past us in a flash.” He thought for a moment and took a swig of ale. “All I can remember really is that they carried spears and I’m sure at least a couple of them had swords. I wondered whether the fyrd had been called, I’ve heard nothing. Have you?”

  Dunston told the man he did not believe that the levies had been called to arms.

  “May God be praised,” the carter said finally, pushing the stopper into the mouth of his flask. “I was worried that perhaps the heathens had attacked again.” The man crossed himself then and the talk of Norsemen had spoilt his good humour. “Well,” he said, “Godspeed to you and your granddaughter. I’d best be getting on my way. Come along, you two.”

  Grumbling, his guards climbed to their feet.

  As the red-faced carter goaded his oxen forward once more Dunston called after him.

  “Have you seen by chance a monk travelling south on the road?”

  “A monk?” the man replied. “No, I can’t say that I have. Good day to you both now.”

  Dunston pondered over the information the carter had given them as they had walked southward.

  “Perhaps Ithamar has already reached his destination,” Aedwen said.

  “Perhaps.”

  They trudged on through the heat of the afternoon. When they passed settlements and steadings Dunston could see the longing for rest in Aedwen’s eyes. But he felt too exposed to stop. It was too dangerous and so they pressed on, hurrying past hamlets and thorpes that Dunston did not recognise. He had seldom travelled this way before and he’d been alone in his forest home for many years.

  They had just left a small settlement behind them and Dunston could sense the reproach from Aedwen. The sun was lowering in the sky and by not seeking shelter at the farm, he had consigned them to another night in the forest.

  “Where do you think Ithamar is?” Aedwen asked suddenly.

  Dunston sighed, wiping sweat from his brow.

  “If nobody has seen him on the road, I don’t know.”

  “Can’t you track him?” she asked.

  He snorted.

  “I can read sign better than most,” he said. “But I’m not a miracle worker. Ithamar is two days ahead of us and this road is too well-travelled to find tracks. No, unless we find something to lead us to him, all I can think of is to continue following the horsemen.” Even as he said the words the idea sounded mad to him. Five armed warriors on horseback. Even if he was able to catch up with them, what then? What good could come of catching this mounted, murderous quarry?

  They walked on without speaking. Dunston brooded. This was madness. If only he had never found Lytelman. He could have been sitting back in his hut, resting after a day of forging or hunting, Odin sleeping at his feet. Now Odin was gone and as likely as not he would be dead soon too. He glanced at Aedwen and for a moment, the shape of her nose, the sunlight picking out the delicate sweep of her eyelashes, reminded him of Eawynn when they had first met all those summers ago. She had been not much older than Aedwen he realised with a start. He sighed. God’s teeth, he had been young then too. How quickly the years washed by, sweeping away loved ones and youth and leaving only fading memories.

  He shook his head and cursed silently at his own foolishness. Not because of the course they now followed, but at his dwelling on the past and bemoaning his decisions. There was no changing the past, just as there was no holding back the water in a raging river.

  The path sloped down into a shaded vale. Alders encroached on the road to either side and it seemed as though a mist hung in the still air. There was nobody on the road now. Nobody apart from the two of them. Anyone with any sense had already sought shelter for the night or had made camp, he thought, with a rueful smile. They should get off the road and find a place to make a fire. He looked up at the sky and the shreds of cloud that floated high, tinged with the pink of sunset. It looked to be a clear night, it would be cold, but they had brought blankets and cloaks from Beornmod’s hall, so they should be comfortable enough.

  They entered the shadows beneath the alders and Dunston wondered about the mist. Could it be so cold down here? Perhaps there was a stream running through the woodland. Mist often formed over cool water, though not on sunny afternoons. He frowned and sniffed the air.

  His mouth slowly stretched into a grin. By the rood and all the saints, he must be tired not to have realised what it was that he saw in the valley.

  “What is it?” asked Aedwen.

  “If my nose does not deceive me, we will not be cold this night and we will not camp alone.”

  Aedwen lifted her head and scented the hazy air.

  “Smoke? Do you think it is safe for us to camp with other travellers?”

  “That is smoke,” he replied, with a broad smile. “But not from a traveller’s campfire. Now, there should be a path somewhere into the wood. Come. Quickly, before it is too dark.”

  He led her on at a faster pace. The gloom under the trees grew thicker, as did the haze of smoke. It drifted across the road in a fug.

  “Here,” Dunston said at last, peering down at the ground and looking at the tracks in the mud where a path led off from the road into the shadows of the forest. He stood, with a slight frown on his face. Could that print of a soft leather shoe be from the same wearer as the track he had seen at Cantmael? Possibly. But it was getting dark and he could not be sure. He stepped over the muddy patch.

  “Careful,” he said, “don’t step there.”

  “Where are we going?” asked Aedwen.

  “Quiet now,” he said, holding a finger to his lips. He held DeaÞangenga before him, just in case he was wrong. “Stay behind me,” he whispered. “And with luck we will soon enough have warmth and company for the night.”

  He saw her questioning look in the gathering dark, but chose to say no more. He turned and walked silently into the woods, towards the source of the billowing smoke that now stung their eyes, and filled their throats.

  Twenty-Two

  Aedwen followed Dunston further into the forest. The boles of the trees loomed in the smoke-hazed darkness like giants. She hardly dared to breathe as she walked behind the old man. He moved without a sound, like a wraith flitting through mist. Despite her youth and slender form, she felt clumsy. With each step she snapped a branch or her cloak snagged on a bramble.

  It was dark under the trees, and a feeling of dread seeped into her as they crept stealthily away from the road. If only at that last steading they’d passed they had asked the goodwife for some food and a warm place to sleep for the night. The portly woman had been friendly and had waved to Aedwen as they passed. She had been taking in the clothes she had left to dry on the bushes outside her neat, thatched house. Aedwen thought they could have been cosy by her hearth for the night. But no, Dunston had made them carry on and now it was dusk and they were deep in the forest, surrounded by smoke. She had no idea where it came from. For a moment, she thought of a great wyrm, coiled and waiting in a forest glade, breathing out acrid clouds of smoke, its feral eyes gleaming in the darkness as it lay in wait for its prey to come to him, lured from the road with promises of warmth and shelter.

  A sound came to her then. A strange sound, that for a time, she could not fathom. A lilting warble accompanied by a rumbling thrum. The noise rose and fell and seemed to echo all about them, as if it emanated from the very smoke itself.

  Dunston had almost been swallowed up by the haze and the gloom and with a start she realised she had stopped walking. Quickly, she sped after him, uncaring now whether she made a noise or not. The thought of being alone and lost in this smoky darkness, surrounded by the eerie music, filled her with terror.

  Music.

  Yes, that is what it was. She suddenly understood the sounds, and all at onc
e she could hear more than one voice. And there were words too. Words of love and loss. She caught up with Dunston. He turned to her with a grin.

  “Listen,” he whispered.

  They stood still and silent there in the forest and listened to the song. She did not recognise the melody, but it was achingly beautiful, as if the forest itself was singing of its loneliness. There were deep, bass tones, and higher counterpoints, but against it all, there was the throb of a chanted song of lovers, destined to be ever apart and only united in death.

  When the singing ended, she found her face was wet with tears. Dunston cuffed at his cheeks, and placed a hand on her shoulder, leading her forward. It was almost full dark now, but she fancied she could make out a glow between the trees ahead.

  “Hail, the camp,” said Dunston in a low voice.

  After a brief moment of silence, a voice came to them.

  “Who goes there?”

  “Friends,” replied Dunston. “Just me and my granddaughter.” Aedwen glanced at him, but he did not return her gaze. “We heard your singing. One of my favourites. I have always loved the lay of Eowa and Cyneburg. We seek shelter for the night.”

  “Not many know our songs or would spend time with us,” replied the voice. “What is your name?”

  “My name is Dunston, son of Wilnoth.”

  Whispers in the darkness.

  “Approach,” said the voice.

  They walked towards the glow. As they stepped from the forest path into a wide, open glade, Aedwen saw that the light came from a small fire, upon which hung a metal pot from a wooden tripod. The fire was much too small to have created all this smoke. Around the fire were several figures. Beyond them were five huge shadowy mounds and for a fleeting instant she thought again of the great coiled dragon lurking, awaiting its prey. Perhaps the creatures around the fire were the dragon’s servants. Nihtgengas, night-walkers, for surely they could not be men.

  They were black-garbed and black-skinned. Their eyes and teeth flashed bright in the dark. She shuddered, a terrible fear gripping her. What were these beasts? Why had Dunston brought her here? Was he in league with these goblins of the forest?

  Dunston stepped forward and offered his hand to the nearest of the dark-skinned creatures, who was standing before the fire. His teeth showed as he smiled and gripped Dunston’s forearm in the warrior grip.

  The firelight fell on the goblin’s smiling features and, in an instant, she felt her face flush at her own stupidity. These were no monsters. They were but men, blackened and grimed with soot and ash. The glade was thick with smoke that oozed from the mounds and she finally understood. These men were charcoal burners, outcasts from the world. They lived together, in their hot, smoke-filled world, tending the charcoal piles. Charcoal burners had the reputation of being devils, stinking of smoke and living surrounded by fire, as if in their own personal hell on earth. She had never seen any charcoal men before, and she felt trepidation at being here at night, surrounded by them.

  But Dunston was smiling and slapping the man on the back.

  “You are well come to our glade,” the black-smeared man was saying. “We have cheese and we have ham.”

  “Smoked!” shouted one of the others, receiving a roar of laughter from all of the men. Aedwen could not believe this was the first time they had made this jest, but they laughed uproariously and she could not help but chuckle too, feeling the tension draining from her.

  “We don’t get many visitors here,” the leader of the charcoal burners continued, “and then we have two in as many days. If this continues, we will have to send someone in search of more food.”

  “Or start charging for the pleasure of sleeping here!” shouted the jester, again receiving riotous guffaws in response.

  “We share our camp and our food freely, Dearlaf,” said the leader, with a scowl of reproach. “Come, sit with us, and tell us your tale. We are ever hungry for tidings of the world.”

  “We thank you,” said Dunston. “We carry a small amount of provender and will gladly share what we have. Tidings too.”

  The men shuffled apart, making space for them by the fire and Aedwen sat beside Dunston. Grubby hands passed them food and a cup was thrust into her grasp. She sniffed at the liquid, but could smell nothing over the all-pervading stench of charcoal smoke. She drank and found it to be ale, bitter, and with an unsurprisingly smoky flavour. It was good.

  After they had eaten some of the offered food, Dunston said, “You said you had a visitor a couple of days ago? That wouldn’t have been a monk, by any chance, would it?”

  The leader of the charcoal burners, whose name was Smoca, gaped at Dunston, eyes wide and bright.

  “How did you know? And how is it you know of our songs and are unafraid to sit, eat and drink with us?”

  Smoca was wary now, as though he was afraid he had allowed a predator into a flock of sheep.

  Dunston swallowed a mouthful of the smoked cheese. Aedwen had thought the charcoal man to be jesting about all the food being smoked, but it seemed he had been in earnest.

  “Those are two different questions,” Dunston said, after he had washed the food down with a mouthful of ale. “In answer to the second question, I have often spent time with the charcoal men in Sealhwudu, where I live to the north of here. They have ever been kind and have never seemed like devils to me.” He gave a wry smile. “I know many consider you less than them, as you are blackened by your fires, but I know that beneath the soot you are but men. And I need what you produce for my work.”

  “You are a smith?”

  “I have a forge, yes. I produce blades and tools for the folk around Briuuetone.”

  Smoca nodded at Dunston’s rune-decorated axe, where it rested on the earth by his right hand. The firelight glimmered on the silver threads that ran through its head.

  “Your work?” he asked.

  “Alas, no,” replied Dunston. “I took her from the dead hand of a Norse warrior.”

  “So you are a warrior, as well as a smith?”

  “I was, once.”

  “What do the carvings mean?” Smoca asked, gazing in wonder at the intricate runes and sigils on the haft.

  Dunston shrugged.

  “I do not know and I didn’t think to ask the original owner before I sent him on his way.” He lifted the axe and Smoca tensed. Dunston smiled and patted the weapon. “I cannot read the runes, but I named this beauty, DeaÞangenga.”

  Smoca swallowed. His eyes never left the blade as Dunston turned it to catch the flickering light.

  “An apt name,” the charcoal burner said. “I am sure death never walks far from that axe.”

  One of the other charcoal burners, a cadaverous man with a bald head and skin as wrinkled and tough-looking as leather, leaned forward, peering at Dunston through the dancing flames of the fire.

  “Are you the Dunston? The one they called ‘The Bold’?”

  “I have been called that,” Dunston replied, with a sigh. “Long ago.”

  “You don’t look so bold now,” said one of the other men. He was much stockier than the rest, and younger. He was the loud one who seemed always quick to jest. This time none of the men laughed.

  But Dunston let out a bark of laughter.

  “No, I don’t suppose I do,” he said. “If I am honest, I am not sure I ever truly warranted the name. But once a name is given to you, it often sticks and is impossible to shake off.”

  “How did you come by it?” the jester asked.

  “Ah, that is a long story. Perhaps I will tell it later.”

  The young charcoal burner looked set to press Dunston for an answer, but the old man glowered at him, his eyes shining from beneath his heavy brows and the man clamped his mouth shut.

  For an awkward moment, they all stared into the fire. One of the men leaned forward and added a log to the embers. Another coughed. Out in the forest, a vixen shrieked.

  “You knew our song. You must have spent a lot of time with our kind to hear them s
ing.”

  “Yes, I have spent many nights over the years with them. I consider them my friends.” He fell silent and took another sip of ale. Aedwen thought he would offer no more about his time with the charcoal burners when he said in a quiet voice, “I owe them much. They gave me my best friend.”

  “Your best friend is one of us?” asked Smoca.

  “No,” replied Dunston, offering the man a sad smile. “He is – no – was, a hound. I called him Odin.” A couple of the men crossed themselves and Aedwen thought it strange that people thought of these men as heathen devils.

  “Odin?”

  “He only had one eye, you see. Like the god of the Norsemen. He was the runt of a litter, a tiny thing. Somehow he had scratched one of his eyes and it had grown putrid, full of pus. His mother had left him to die. And he would have done, had it not been for the charcoal men. They nursed him and tended to his eye. One of them walked for a day to my hut to ask for milk from my goat.” He smiled at the memory. “By God, we all loved that pup. We fed him milk from the corner of a cloth dipped in the fresh milk. He was so small, we never thought he would live, but there was something about him, a look in his good eye. We just refused to let him die. And in a few days he began to put on weight and grow strong. When I eventually made my way back home, he followed me.” Dunston held out his cup and one of the men filled it with ale. “I hadn’t known it, but I was lonely, and Odin made a wonderful companion. He grew strong and spirited. A great hunter and a faithful friend.”

  Dunston fell silent, gazing into the flames as he drank from his cup.

  “He sounds like a worthy companion for Dunston the Bold,” said the jester, his tone now reverential.

  Aedwen thought of the rangy one-eyed hound, and could scarcely believe he had once been a sickly puppy. Looking at the taciturn, gruff old man who had led her southward these last days, she also found it difficult to imagine him tending to a defenceless animal. And yet, had he not done the same with her? Like Odin, she had been alone and in need of succour. It seemed that Dunston, beneath his hard shell, would not turn away from a lost orphan.