Wolf of Wessex

by Matthew Harffy

  They walked on in silence with none of the relaxed companionship they had enjoyed earlier that day. They were wary now, uninterested in the tracks of animals. All they cared about was that they were on the correct path and that they did not stumble upon Hunfrith’s men.

  The sun was low, glaring in sudden flashes from between the trees, when Aedwen saw the track. She might not have noticed it, if not for the angle of the sunlight. All that afternoon they had followed the fresh, deep prints of the horses, and there had been no other sign to follow. Any impression Ithamar’s light tread might have made in the earth was trampled and obliterated by the passing of the five horsemen.

  But just as they reached the top of a steep incline, where a lightning-shattered elm stood, she saw a strange shadow in the corner of her vision.

  “Dunston,” she whispered, still afraid to speak out loud, lest the horsemen might hear. She knew it was foolish, as they were surely far away by now, but fear had gripped her since the men had passed them. The old man halted and returned to her. “Is that Ithamar’s print?” she asked, pointing at the slightest of marks in the mud.

  Dunston squinted at the ground and then whistled quietly.

  “You will be a better tracker than I soon enough,” he said with a twisted smile. “The lowness of the sun has cast a shadow in it. I doubt either one of us would have noticed this at any other time.” She wondered at that, and thought fleetingly again about the Blessed Virgin and her prayers.

  “Look there,” Dunston said, pointing at something on the elm. He plucked at the splintered trunk and showed her a thin thread. She took it and held it up to the light. Wool. And it was dark, like a monk’s habit.

  “It looks as though our friend left the path here,” Dunston said, the thrill of the chase colouring his tone with excitement. “Let us see what he was about.”

  They followed the monk’s tracks to a clearing some way from the path, but still within sight of the lightning-felled tree. Away from the churned mud of the track it was much easier to see where Ithamar had been. The snakeweed that grew thick on the floor of the glade had been crushed by his feet. Most of the leaves had sprung back, but his path was still clear to Aedwen, now that she had trained her eyes to look for any sign of disturbance on the ground.

  Dunston cast about the clearing.

  “Look, here,” he said. “Ithamar did not leave this glade and go further into the forest. He retraced his steps back to the path.”

  Aedwen saw the tracks that Dunston was pointing out. She nodded, as she gazed about the clearing absently, unsure what it was she was looking for.

  “Could he have come here to… you know?” she asked.

  “To take a piss?” asked Dunston. “Or a shit?”

  “Yes,” she said, feeling her cheeks grow hot.

  Dunston circled the clearing, sniffing and scrutinising the ground all around.

  “There is no evidence he did anything here apart from walk about. And then go back to the track.” He frowned, again moving about the clearing until he stood before a tree. There was nothing remarkable about it, as far as Aedwen could tell, and yet Dunston was staring at it.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “An oak,” Dunston replied, with a smirk, and despite herself, Aedwen laughed. Some of the tension ebbed from her. “He stopped here for a time,” Dunston said.

  She looked down at the ground, but she could not decipher the slight markings there that told Dunston that Ithamar had paused by this tree. And yet something did call out to her, snagging on her sight the way the unusual shadow had back at the path. Stooping down, she stared at the ground where the oak’s roots rose from the earth. There was a large stone there, lichen-covered and almost buried in the loam. But some of the lichen had been scratched from its surface. The bright scrape of bare stone is what had caught her attention.

  Bending down, she placed her fingers under the edges of the stone and tugged. It was heavy, but it came away from the ground easily. Much more easily than it should have, if it had not been prised from the earth recently.

  Aedwen set aside the stone and Dunston dipped his hand into the insect-crawling space where the rock had been. He stood, holding something in his hands and turned to Aedwen.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  He showed her. It was a rolled up piece of thin calf’s leather. The material had been scraped and stretched until it was smooth and thin enough to be written upon. It was tied up with a cord. Dunston untied it, letting the vellum fall open, exposing line after line of densely crabbed writing, scratched into the skin with the nib of a quill.

  “What does it say?” asked Aedwen. The priest back in Langtun had taught her the letters that spelt out her name, but that was the sum of her knowledge of writing and reading.

  Dunston looked back at her, bemused.

  “I know not, child,” he said. “I cannot read. I was a warrior in my youth, not a clergyman.”

  For a moment, they were both silent, gazing at one another. And then, despite the gravity of their situation and the blood-soaked journey they had travelled, they began to laugh. Deep belly-shaking guffaws racked Dunston and he bent over, resting his palms on his knees as he struggled for breath. Aedwen’s eyes streamed with tears of mirth and she too found herself gasping for air, such was her merriment.

  When at last, their laughter subsided, Dunston wiped his face with his hands.

  “Well,” he said, “whatever is written here, I suppose this must be the message that has got so many people killed.”

  His words were sobering and Aedwen stared at the sheet of vellum and wondered what on earth the words etched there might say.

  But before she could reply to Dunston, a new sound came to them on the late afternoon breeze. All of their good humour was leached from them by the noise. It was a chilling sound that she had heard before. She had hoped never to hear its like again.

  From the west, through the snarled undergrowth and moss-clad trunks of linden and oak, came the anguished, agonised wails of a man being tortured.

  Twenty-Five

  Dunston’s breath rasped in his throat. Crouching behind the broad bole of an ancient oak, he tried to breathe silently, but was all too aware of his wheezing panting.

  A howling scream. Loud. Harsh. Terrible. The forest was still all around them, as if it had been shocked into silence by the poor monk’s pained cries.

  Gruff laughter followed the piteous wail. Voices, but the words were muffled by distance and the woodland.

  Dunston signalled for Aedwen to join him in the lee of the oak. Pale-faced and wide-eyed, she hunkered down beside him. She was trembling, but her mouth was a thin line, jaw set. She was not out of breath.

  With a start, Dunston understood that his own laboured breathing was not from exertion, but from the horror of what he was hearing. The horrific sounds of the dying man’s last moments conjured up dark memories. Often the faces of fallen enemies would come to him in his dreams. At such times, he would stoke up the fire in his hut until the flames burnt away the darkness. He would gulp down strong mead until at last he could no longer remember the faces of those he had seen die; no longer recall their screams and pleas for mercy.

  But here, there was no escape from the cacophony of Ithamar’s agony.

  With an effort, Dunston slowed his breathing, taking long, drawn out breaths of the warm loamy air. It tasted verdant and full of the life of the forest.

  Someone shouted. This time, the words were clear.

  “Where is it?”

  A pause. A sob. A mumbled answer. Then, another excruciating scream of pain.

  Dunston wished Aedwen and he had not come closer. They should have run into the forest in the opposite direction, away from these murderers. But Aedwen had grasped his hand and stared up at him, eyes brimming with tears and compassion.

  “We must help him,” she had said.

  And so, even though he knew there was nothing they could do for the monk, Dunston had led her through the de
nse foliage towards the sounds of torture. If only Ithamar had fallen silent in death before they had come so close. Then it would have been an easier matter to lead the girl away. And yet it seemed the man’s tormentors had some skill in inflicting pain without causing death. For the monk yet lived, though there was no doubt in Dunston’s mind he would join Lytelman, Beornmod and the rest in death as soon as he had given his torturers what they wanted.

  The man he assumed was Ithamar screamed, and then groaned a reply. Louder now, more emphatic.

  “Hidden!” he said, his voice rising into a shout. “Hidden, you sons of Satan!”

  His angry answer was cut off by his renewed screaming, as one of his captors performed some unspeakable act of cruelty on the poor man.

  Dunston half rose to his feet, hefting DeaÞangenga. By Christ’s bones, he could stand this no longer. He would creep to where they were torturing the wretched monk and he would slay them all. He could not bear to hear the man suffer further. Aedwen gazed up at him as he stood. Her eyes were bright, her face expectant.

  “Will you rescue him?” she asked.

  In the distance, the monk’s cries had dwindled to sobs and coughing. Harsh laughter echoed in the forest.

  Slowly, Dunston lowered himself back down beside the girl. He placed a hand on her shoulder.

  “I cannot,” he whispered, fearful that any sound they made might be overheard in the preternaturally silent woodland. She open her mouth to reply and he held up a hand to silence her. “There are too many of them.” As he said the words he heard the truth in them. There were five of them and he was but one old man. He might be able to kill a couple of the bastards, three with luck and surprise. If he had been alone, he would have taken his chances. It would not be a bad death to die trying to free an innocent monk from five murderers. It would be a death he would be proud of. Eawynn would have been proud of him too, he thought, despite the oath he had made to her long ago.

  “I love that you always seek to defend the weak,” she had told him once.

  But as he looked at Aedwen’s youthful, terrified face, he knew that his path had already been set. He would not rescue the monk. For if he fell in the attempt, what fate then would await Aedwen?

  “Who else knew of the message?” came the sudden, furious shout from one of the torturers. “Who knew?”

  “Nobody! Only the peddler…” Ithamar’s words trailed off and were lost for a time. And then, with vehemence he cried out. “Forgive me, oh Lord, for speaking to the man, for his death is on my hands!”

  “We cannot leave him at the mercy of these people,” hissed Aedwen. Tears streamed down her face now, but she seemed oblivious to them. “We cannot.”

  When Dunston made no move to stand, Aedwen started to rise. He gripped her arm and yanked her down to the ground again. He longed to be able to act, to save the poor monk, but it would be folly.

  “We must,” he whispered. “We should never have come here. But now we know enough. We must take the message to someone able to read it.”

  Aedwen’s expression changed from anguish to anger in a flash. She tried to shake off his grasp, but he was too strong.

  “Let me go,” she hissed, more loudly now. “We have to do something even if you are too craven!”

  Her words stung, but he held her firm and would not allow her to move.

  From the distant site of Ithamar’s torment there came a strangely calm voice. After a moment, the words became clear.

  “Fæder ure þu þe eart on heofonum; Si þin nama gehalgod…”

  The voice must belong to Ithamar, but gone was his crying wail of pain, instead replaced with a tranquillity Dunston could scarcely believe. And he was reciting the prayer to the Lord. The man must have been incredibly strong of will.

  “Stop that!” came a screeching scream and anger. “Answer me. Where is the message? Where have you hidden it?”

  But the Lord’s Prayer droned on and Ithamar did not miss a word.

  “… to becume þin rice, gewurþe ðin willa, on eorðan swa swa on heofonum.”

  It seemed the monk was done speaking to the men who had cut and tortured him. He had commended his soul to God and would pray until his demise.

  Aedwen shuddered in Dunston’s grasp. Sobs racked her frame and her face was wet with tears.

  “Coward,” she cried, her weeping making her voice catch in her throat. “Coward,” she repeated and Dunston knew there was nothing he could say that would change her mind.

  “Quiet,” he hissed, shaking her. “Would you have us both killed too, foolish girl?”

  His tone was sharp, and his words cut through her distraught anguish, for she bit back a retort and he could see her forcibly seeking to control her crying.

  She stared into his eyes, unspeaking and unblinking, as they both listened to Ithamar’s last moments of life.

  “… and forgyf us ure gyltas, swa swa we forgyfað urum gyltendum…”

  Ithamar continued chanting the words of the prayer, ex-horting God to forgive him as he would those who did him ill. But before he could complete the prayer, his words were cut off.

  “If you will not speak,” came the coarse voice of Ithamar’s tormentor, “then I will make you sing the song of the blood-eagle. Sing, you bastard. Sing!”

  Whatever savagery was being dealt to Ithamar’s body became too much for him to bear then, and he let out a moaning, keening squeal of pure agony.

  This was a man they had known by name only. Hearing his howling cry cut off in a strangled gasp, Dunston knew they would never know the monk in this life. And yet in a short time of hearing him facing his attackers Dunston knew Ithamar was a brave man. He had been defiant till the end and had died as a true, devout follower of God.

  Aedwen gazed up at him, her face contorted with fear, grief, anger. He shook her again, more gently this time.

  “We must flee,” he said in a hushed murmur, his mouth close to her ear. “We cannot have Ithamar’s death be for nought.” He touched the vellum that lay in the bag slung over his shoulder. “He gave his life for this message, we must carry it now.”

  “What can we do?” she said, her voice terribly loud in the stillness of the wood. “These men are monsters.”

  “Quiet, Aedwen,” he whispered. “They might hear you.”

  Aedwen’s eyes widened in sudden, abject terror and she pulled back from his grip, as though she thought he might be about to strike her. For a heartbeat, he was confused. Then he followed her gaze. She was no longer looking at him, but over his shoulder. Dunston’s skin prickled as he heard a twig snap behind him.

  “Too late,” said a deep, husky voice. It held an edge of cruel humour. “One of them has already heard you.”

  Twenty-Six

  Aedwen could not pull her gaze from the man’s face. She recognised him as one of those who rode with Hunfrith. He was young, with a wispy beard and cheeks marked with the memory of the pox. But what caught her attention and would not allow her to look away, was the line of dots that ran all the way across his neck, chin, cheek and forehead.

  The points were bright, red and glistening in the last light of the sun that filtered through the forest.

  Her stomach lurched as she understood what she was seeing. Blood. Ithamar’s lifeblood that must have sprayed up in a spatter of droplets as this man and his companions tortured and murdered him.

  At last, she cast her eyes down, following the blood-splatter down the man’s chest. In his right fist he held a long sword. The blade was clean; polished and deadly. The metal of the blade caught the sunlight. It glimmered with the patterns of a serpent’s skin or the ripples of waves on the sea.

  He gestured with the blade, twitching it, so that the point lifted.

  “Well, old man,” he said. “We’ve been looking for you and the girl for days. You’ve led us quite a merry dance.”

  Dunston did not reply. He fixed Aedwen with a steady look and gave the slightest of nods. She saw his hand tighten its grip on his great axe. The we
apon was hidden from the swordsman’s view.

  “Come on, greybeard,” the man said, stepping closer. “On your feet.”

  Without hesitation and with a speed that belied both his age and his bulk, Dunston surged to his feet and spun around in one fluid motion. At the same instant he swung his axe, flinging it at the young man’s face. The axe was heavy and sharp and the throw was true. If it had connected it would have surely killed or mortally wounded the man. But the swordsman was fast and stood a few paces distant from Dunston. Moving nimbly to the side, he batted away the spinning axe with the flat of his sword.

  But Dunston had never intended for the axe to slay the man. Using the momentum from turning around and standing, he threw himself forward, pulling Beornmod’s seax from the scabbard at his waist.

  The swordsman had not anticipated the old man’s speed or his second attack. He was caught off balance, with his sword pointing to one side. Dunston did not slow his advance. He clattered into the slimmer man, knocking him from his feet. They landed heavily. The man grunted. Dunston made no sound as he plunged the seax into the man’s guts. The blade came up bloody, droplets of gore flying from the wound. Again he hammered the seax into the man’s stomach.

  Aedwen watched on in amazement as Dunston grasped the man’s throat in his meaty left hand. Dunston squeezed and the man’s eyes bulged. Fighting for air, he struggled against the old man’s grasp. In his panic and agony, he dropped his sword and fumbled at Dunston’s wrist. It was like watching someone trying to prise the roots of a tree out of frost-hard ground. Dunston’s grip was too strong. His fingers squeezed tighter. Two more times he drove the blood-drenched seax into the man’s body.

  With a juddering sigh, the light fled the man’s eyes, and he grew limp. Blood bubbled and pumped from the savage rips in his midriff.

  Dunston let out a long breath and he rose to his feet. Blood now flecked his face and stained his beard.

  “Come, we must be gone from here,” he hissed. “Now.”

  He retrieved his axe and the man’s sword. Tugging off the dead man’s belt, Dunston quickly fastened it about his own waist. He sheathed the sword, and spun to Aedwen once more.