Wolf of Wessex

by Matthew Harffy

  “What happened?” asked Dunston, accepting a leather flask from one of the other men sitting nearby. He took a tentative sip and was surprised to discover it was mead. Good sweet mead. He filled his mouth and passed the skin to Aedwen who took a small gulp, grimaced and handed it back, shaking her head.

  “What always happens,” said Aculf. The shadows from the flames danced and writhed about his features. His eyes were black in the darkness. “Bad luck. War. And the accursed Norsemen.”

  Dunston took another mouthful of the mead, feeling his body relax and the warmth of the liquid sliding into his tired and aching limbs. Handing the flask back to the wolf-head with a nod of thanks, Dunston waited for Aculf to continue.

  Aedwen moved to rest her head in his lap. Her eyes were closed. She was exhausted. Aculf had given his word that no ill would befall either of them in the camp that night, but did Dunston truly know him? It must have been close to a score of years since he had last seen the man. They had been brothers in the Wulfas Westseaxna then. They had stood shoulder to shoulder in the shieldwall and they had walked together into the darkest of nights where the only certainty was death. Dunston remembered Aculf as a formidable swordsman and a man of honour. To find him here, outcast and living amongst brigands in the forest, filled him with pity. He snorted. Was he too not a wulfeshéafod? Who was he to judge this man he had long ago considered to be his friend? He would have trusted his life to Aculf once, he at least owed him the benefit of hearing his story.

  “How is your woman?” Aculf asked. “Eawynn, isn’t it?”

  Dunston sighed. He did not wish to speak of Eawynn; of his loss. His expression must have been answer enough, for Aculf held up a hand. “I am sorry, my friend. How many children?”

  Dunston shook his head.

  “We were not so blessed.”

  Aculf raised his eyebrows and glanced down at the sleeping girl.

  “I thought she was yours.” He gave a twisted smirk. “Or your granddaughter, perhaps.”

  Dunston shook his head.

  “She is not my kin, but I will not let any harm come to her.”

  Aculf nodded.

  “You were always a good man,” he said.

  Dunston frowned, thinking of all the men he had killed. Had all of those men deserved death?

  Aculf picked up a stick and prodded the embers of the fire.

  “We had three, Inga and me,” he said. “Two girls and a boy.” His voice had taken on a distant, haunted tone. He poked at the fire and sparks drifted into the darkness. “All gone now.”

  “It is a terrible thing to lose loved ones.”

  Aculf sighed and threw another log onto the fire in a spray of embers and winking motes.

  “I found my boy and Inga,” Aculf said. “They had fought as best they could.” He stared into the fire for a moment, his mind walking along the shadowed paths of memories. “I should have been there. I sometimes wonder what would have happened if I had been.”

  Dunston did not know the full tale of what had befallen Aculf’s family, but he knew the folly and pain of such thoughts.

  “You cannot change the past, old friend,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “To rake over those old coals will only cause you pain.”

  “You sound like Guthlaf,” said Aculf. “He would always tell me how to think.”

  “I meant no harm.”

  “I know it. The pain is there whether you speak of it or not. I will never be rid of it, I fear.”

  Dunston said nothing.

  Aculf sniffed, then reached out for the flask of mead.

  “I never found my daughters,” he said. He took a long draught from the skin and wiped his mouth with his hand. “I wonder if they are still alive somewhere. In Denemearc or Íraland. Perhaps they married strong Norsemen.”

  Dunston watched his old friend, but said nothing.

  As if his memories had been held within a cask that had now been split, allowing its contents to pour forth, so Aculf’s tale rushed out then. He spoke in a soft, distant voice of how he had been chopping timber in the woodland near Cernemude, the village where he had settled with his family, when he had seen smoke rising above the settlement. He had sprinted back through the trees, leading the other young men who had been with him. All of them desperate, all terrified of what they would find when they reached their homes. The Norsemen had left nothing behind except corpses and burning buildings.

  He was not the only man bereaved that day. But the other men had not been of the Wulfas Westseaxna. They had wept and buried their dead and slowly rebuilt their homes and lives as best they could. Not Aculf. He had been filled with an all-consuming rage and a feeling of such helplessness that he had not been able to remain there, living the life of a farmer where all that remained for him were the memories of his dead wife and son and the daughters who had been snatched and borne away on the sleek sea-dragons of the Vikingr.

  “We had become soft,” said Aculf, his voice beginning to slur from the mead. “It had been years since the Norsemen had raided the coast. But when the Frankish ships stopped sailing the Narrow Sea, it was only a matter of time before the bastard Vikingrs returned. It was my bad luck that some of them spied Cernemude from the sea.”

  Dunston watched him through the flickering flames. He could hear the despair in Aculf’s words. He recognised the feeling of impotence he felt at losing his family. For a man used to fighting, to cutting his way through the obstacles before him, it was a terrible thing to be powerless to protect those you loved. Dunston had sat and watched as sickness consumed Eawynn. The memories plagued him and he recalled the anger that had filled him after her death. But where should he direct his ire? At God? At the disease that had destroyed his beautiful wife? Such thoughts were foolish. Aculf knew there was an enemy responsible for his pain. He would never have been able to return to a life of peace while those men still lived.

  Aculf continued with his tale and Dunston noted that many of the wolf-heads had fallen quiet, listening intently, their eyes glimmering in the dark as they watched their leader speak. He wondered whether this was a story he seldom told. Perhaps they had never heard it before. But now that he had started, he did not appear inclined to stop.

  Unable to rest, and filled with the burning need for vengeance and the desperate hope of finding his daughters, Aculf joined the crew of a ship bound for Íraland. When they were attacked by a band of Norsemen aboard a dragon-prowed wave-steed, he had revelled in the fight, cutting them down and screaming the names of his daughters at them. But none of them knew of the attack on Cernemude, so they had been killed and thrown overboard. It was after that first trip that he began to realise that the men he travelled with were no better than the Vikingr he hated. They would set upon smaller vessels, killing the occupants and stealing their cargo.

  “I was a fool,” Aculf whispered. “I thought I could find my girls and bring them back. In the end, I knew I would never find them.” He spat into the embers of the fire. “If I did, they would not recognise the man I had become.” He sighed and took another drink of mead. He could not meet Dunston’s gaze. “I left the ship, but on land I fared little better. Soon I had to come here, into the forest. Any reeve in the land would see me hanged for what I have done, so this is my life now.”

  Dunston stared at him for a long time.

  “What happened?”

  Aculf shook his head and waved his hand, dismissing the question.

  “Bad luck,” he said. “And not always just for me.” He met Dunston’s gaze for a moment and his meaning was clear. “I do not wish to speak of it any further. I am here, and this is my family now.” A murmur came from the listeners. Strælbora and his knot of friends glowered at Dunston. “Now, Dunston, you must tell us how it is you have come to spend the night in our humble encampment.”

  Dunston sighed. He reached out and someone handed him the mead. He took a mouthful. Swallowing the liquid slowly, he pondered how much to tell. He cleared his throat, unable to think of a g
ood reason not to tell Aculf everything. They were at his mercy after all. Dunston might have been able to kill three more in the fight that afternoon, but he could not hope to stand against two dozen.

  And so he told them the whole story, leaving nothing out. At the mention of how Lytelman had been killed, Aculf glanced over at Strælbora, but it wasn’t until Dunston described finding Beornmod’s blood-eagled corpse and then how they had heard Ithamar tortured in the same way, that Aculf spoke.

  “This sounds like the work of Bealowin, don’t you think, Strælbora?”

  “You know him?” asked Dunston.

  Strælbora nodded, still scowling at Dunston.

  “An evil whoreson,” he said.

  “With a taste for torture and inflicting pain,” said Aculf. “You know the type.”

  Dunston nodded. Every group of fighting men attracted those who enjoyed the act of killing. Some such men became monsters, worse than any warrior they would have to face in battle.

  “Bealowin travelled with us for a time,” Aculf said. “I never knew his story, he would not speak of it. But his love for the ritual of the blood-eagle was unholy. Unnatural.” Aculf stared into the flames and seemed to suppress a shudder. “We are wolf-heads, not animals. There are things even we will not abide.”

  “You turned him out?”

  “Yes,” Aculf said, smiling. “I can be quite persuasive, you know? I thought he would have got himself killed years ago, but if he yet lives, he is as deadly as a snake.” He traced a finger along the puckered scar that ran across his forehead. “If you meet him, perhaps you could repay him for this.”

  Dunston thought of all the suffering the man had inflicted.

  “He owes many for what he has done. I will collect the blood-price for what he did to you and much more besides.”

  Aculf stared at him for a moment and then laughed.

  “I believe you will at that!” He chuckled. “This is Dunston the Bold, men! And he is even more persuasive than me!”

  They spoke little of anything of import as the fire died down to embers. They reminisced over past battles and escapades and, despite their situation, Dunston found himself enjoying Aculf’s company. It had been so many years and it was good to speak to one who had shared much of his youthful days of strength and battle-fame. Their mood seemed infectious, and soon, even Strælbora was smiling.

  As the thin archer laid out his blanket on the ground, preparing for sleep, Dunston called out to him.

  “There is no bad blood between us?”

  Strælbora’s face was dark in the ember glow. His eyes glinted and then his white teeth shone as he grinned.

  “Very well, axe man,” he said. “You can sleep easy.”

  “Good,” replied Dunston. “I would hate to have to kill you before I break my fast.”

  Some of the men laughed.

  “You have my word that no harm will befall you in my camp,” slurred Aculf. “If any one of you touches him or the girl, and Dunston does not kill you, I will. Understand?” A rumble of assent. Dunston ached and was tired beyond anything he had felt for years. He hoped Aculf held sway over these outlaws, for he was sure they could slit his throat without him even waking.

  Wrapping himself in his blanket, close to the fire and beside Aedwen’s slumbering form, Dunston could feel sleep descending on him quickly.

  “You seek the king tomorrow then?” asked Aculf, dragging Dunston from the welcoming embrace of sleep.

  “I do,” he replied, propping himself up on his right elbow and instantly regretting it, as it stabbed with pain. “I hope he will remember me and know what to do about all of this.”

  “Ecgberht will remember you, Dunston. Of that there is no doubt. We will see you safely to the edge of the forest. From there, it is a short walk to Exanceaster.”

  “I thank you,” Dunston said, lying back.

  “You have done no wrong,” whispered Aculf in the darkness. “Perhaps old Ecgberht might pardon you.”

  Dunston had not thought so far ahead. He just wished to deliver the message and Aedwen safely to Exanceaster.

  “Perhaps,” he said, his voice softened by approaching sleep.

  “Give me your word you will not speak of me,” hissed Aculf, his whispering voice tinged with urgency. “Of us, here.”

  “Speak of you?” answered Dunston, confused with drink and tiredness. “In what way?”

  “I know you could track a mouse across the forest. You could lead them to us.”

  “I would not do that. You have aided us. You are my friend.”

  “We were friends, weren’t we? Long ago, in a different life.”

  “We each only have one life, Aculf. Perhaps I could speak of how you have helped us. The king would remember your service.” A thought came to him. “He might pardon you.”

  “No!” hissed Aculf. “Promise me you will not speak to him of me. I would that he remembers me as the great warrior I once was.”

  Dunston sighed in the darkness, wondering what atrocities Aculf had committed in his past. But he knew he would not ask. He too would prefer to remember him as he had once been, full of power and honour.

  “You have my word,” he said.

  Aculf said no more and soon the sounds of snoring and the soft whispers of the forest pulled Dunston into a deep and dreamless sleep.

  Thirty-Two

  “Look at that,” said Aedwen, awe in her voice.

  The River Exe was a wide thread of silver before them. Wherries and cogs dotted the water as fishermen and merchants plied their trades. To either side of the river were broad flat meadows of lush grass and summer flowers. Butterflies and insects fluttered and droned in the air. Nearer the water, the muddy banks were festooned with birds. Dunlins, sandpipers and redshanks dipped their slender bills into the dark muck in search of food. In the distance, to the northwest of their position, reared the walls of Exanceaster. They were crumbling in places, having been built many centuries ago by the long-vanished Romans, but the city was still an imposing sight to behold. And yet this was not what had excited Aedwen so. The sky above Exanceaster was a muddle of grey clouds, still heavy with rain, and before that drab backdrop, in a brilliant display of God’s power, there arced a perfect rainbow. It reached high into the sky with one end seeming to touch the ground within the city’s walls.

  Dunston paused for a moment, but seemed unimpressed by the spectacle. He took the opportunity to scan the horizon for sign of any of their pursuers. Across the river, on the hills that rose there, sheep and goats grazed the slopes. All appeared calm. Aedwen sighed.

  “It must be a sign that God is watching over us,” Aedwen said, gazing raptly at the rainbow. It was so beautiful. After all the ugliness of these last days, it almost hurt to look at it. Her eyes prickled with tears and the vision of the vibrant colours swam.

  Dunston grunted, he pressed on, walking determinedly along the meadow, the wet grasses soaking his leg bindings.

  They had started the day dry. The rain had held off for much of the night and after her initial fear of the wolf-heads, Dunston’s presence, the warmth from the outlaws’ fire, and the drone of voices as the men spoke had lulled her to sleep. She had thought she would never be able to rest, with the hungry gaze of Strælbora and the others on her, but to her surprise sleep had found her quickly enough. As she had closed her eyes, her head resting on Dunston’s thigh, Aedwen had begun to feel less frightened of what the future might hold. The rumble of his voice soothed her nerves. The way he had fought the wolf-heads filled her with awe. Dunston still frightened her, but she knew he would do anything, even risk his own life, to protect her.

  She had awoken with a sense of wellbeing she had not felt for days. But that was as nothing when compared to the rapturous feeling she had now, looking upon the colourful arch of light in the sky.

  Aedwen hurried to keep up with Dunston. She knew that he was nervous, more so now that they had left the cover of the forest and their destination was so close. The outlaws
had led them to the river and then, with the briefest of farewells, they had vanished back into the gloom of the forest, like so much smoke.

  Fear still scratched its fingers along her back and neck when she thought of the men who chased them, but she could not believe that the rainbow was not a good omen.

  “The tale of Noah is my favourite story,” she said. “Father Osbern told it often and he told it well.”

  Dunston said nothing.

  “I always liked to think of all those animals in that great ship,” she said. “I would picture the horses, cows, dogs, cats, chickens and such, but Osbern also spoke of other creatures. Lions and camels and other things I can’t recall. Do you know what they look like?”

  Dunston shook his head.

  “I’ve never seen a lion or a camel,” he answered gruffly.

  They walked on. The clouds had once again drifted over the sun and the land was suddenly darker and cooler. Aedwen shivered.

  “You know what the best part of the story is?” she asked.

  Again, Dunston shook his head. His attention was elsewhere, and he reminded her of a sheepdog watching the land about its flock for wolves.

  “It’s when God placed a rainbow in the sky and promised never to send another great flood to kill His people.”

  “There are many other ways to die,” Dunston said, his tone flat.

  She did not know what to say to that. The old man had grown morose and looked more tired than ever.

  “You know what the Norse call the rainbow?” he asked.

  Now it was her turn to shake her head.

  “I spoke to a captured raider once,” he said. “I don’t remember his name now.” He snorted derisively at his bad memory. “How can I not remember his name? Anyway, it is no matter. Most of the Norse we captured shouted and spat at us until they were beaten senseless. This one, a great red-bearded giant of a man, was talkative. He’d sailed from Dyfelin with two shiploads of Vikingrs. They made the mistake of landing at Tweoxneam.”

  He fell silent for a moment, clearly remembering the events of years past.

  “Mistake?” she said.