Wolf of Wessex

by Matthew Harffy

“Nonsense,” Ecgberht had replied. “I will not have you set upon by brigands on the road. No, Eadric will go with you to Briuuetone, and that is the end of the matter.”

  Aedwen had seen the resignation on his face, and Dunston had not argued. He knew the king well, it seemed. They had an easy camaraderie when they spoke that told of many shared years of campaigning in the past. And what good would arguing do anyway? No man could challenge the king’s will. But as they had ridden along the north road, Aedwen began to wonder whether the king had truly had their safety in mind when he sent the armed men to accompany them.

  At night, when the moon rose and the land grew dark and still, Aedwen would look at Dunston and see him staring into the flames of the fire. The shadows danced and writhed about his face, his eyes glinting and haunted in the darkness. When she awoke in the cool of the mornings, Dunston would have risen before the dawn and be gone from the camp.

  The first time this happened Eadric had grown anxious, pacing around the rekindled fire as his men cooked oatcakes. As the sun had risen high into the cloud-free sky, he had cursed Dunston.

  “We’ll never find him now,” he’d said. “The king warned me he might do this.”

  “Do what?” asked Dunston, stepping from the shadow of the lindens and oaks of the forest, Odin at his side. Over his shoulder, Dunston carried a hare. The cut along its stomach showed where it had been gutted. “I thought I would catch us some meat for tonight’s meal.”

  “We have been waiting for you for what seems an eternity,” Eadric said. “By the nails of the rood, man, we have wasted most of the morning.”

  “I have wasted nothing,” Dunston said, flopping the plump animal over the rump of his horse, where he secured it with a leather thong. “And you have rested. We are in no hurry to reach Briuuetone, are we? We will be there soon enough.”

  Dunston had called many stops on the journey.

  “I am an old man, and I need to rest,” he would say, with a wink to Aedwen. “And my wounds are not yet fully healed.”

  She was sure that his ribs still pained him, but she was equally certain that he was more than strong enough to ride without so many halts, that he was merely slowing their progress, prolonging the moment when they would arrive here, at the settlement on the River Briw.

  She did not mind that the journey had taken them a day longer than Eadric had anticipated. She had enjoyed the sensation of riding, even though at the end of the first day her backside and thighs had ached terribly. She found the gait of the mare soothing, and the sure-footed steed needed little guidance, allowing Aedwen to stare out at the rolling hills and woodland that they rode through. She also relished the time spent with Dunston learning further secrets of the forest. After they reached their destination, she did not know how often she might be able to have his undivided attention.

  The lowering sun glimmered on the fast-flowing waters of the Briw. Dunston caught up with her and turned his horse’s head to the left, away from the river and along a narrow path leading uphill. Aedwen’s mare did not wait to be steered in the same way. The beast fell into step beside Dunston’s mount and together, with the armed escort riding at their rear, they approached the small steading that nestled at the knap of the hill. The sun was in their eyes as they rode up, the front of the hut shaded, and cool after the warmth of the afternoon.

  Dunston was swinging himself down from the saddle when the door opened and Gytha emerged, wiping her hands on a rag and smoothing her apron over her thighs. Behind her, Aedwen could see the pale faces of Maethild and Godgifu. Godgifu waved at Aedwen, beaming.

  Aedwen smiled back, but she could not halt the roiling sensation of anxiety in her gut. She had thought that she had been contented and relaxed as they had travelled from Exanceaster, but now she realised that in her own way she too had been dreading arriving here, at this door.

  Gytha took in the mounted warriors with a glance. She held her face still, unsure of what was happening here. Aedwen thought back to the night she had fled from Briuuetone with Dunston. Gytha must live in fear of a visit from the reeve for her involvement in the woodsman’s escape. Despite her anxiety, Aedwen let out a sharp bark of laughter.

  Both Dunston and Gytha stared at her. She felt her cheeks grow hot. She dismounted to cover her embarrassment.

  Gytha stepped towards Dunston, placing her hands on her hips and meeting his gaze.

  “What brings you to my door, Dunston, son of Wilnoth?” she asked, her tone flat.

  “I come bearing a gift and a request.”

  “Do you indeed?” she asked, glancing at the warriors who remained mounted behind the grey-bearded man. “The last I heard, you were a wulfeshéafod, having escaped from the reeve’s custody, injuring one of his men in the process.”

  “That was a dark day,” Dunston said. “When Rothulf died, justice died in this hundred. But I am no longer an outlaw.”

  Gytha looked thoughtfully at him, weighing the meaning in his words.

  “So these men are not your guards?”

  Dunston gave a crooked smile.

  “Perhaps they are, in one manner of speaking. But I have been pardoned by the king himself.”

  Gytha could not hide her astonishment at this pronouncement. Such was the confusion on her face that Aedwen was unable to stifle another burst of laughter. For a moment, Gytha said nothing, and then, seeming to have made up her mind, she said, “In that case, you must come inside and tell us all of your tidings. It seems much has happened in these last weeks. You men,” she indicated the mounted guards, “will need to stay without the house. There is not enough room for all of you inside. But if you wait for a moment, I will bring out some ale, bread and cheese for you.”

  Without awaiting a reply, she walked back into the house.

  It was not long before they were sitting at the small table with plates of cheese, bread and some good ham in front of them. Godgifu and Maethild sat either side of Aedwen and for a moment she remembered the warmth of their bodies pressed against her comfortingly when she had shared the girls’ bed. While their mother had prepared food, the two girls had chattered like finches fluttering around a bramble hedge in autumn, bombarding Aedwen with questions. She had told them of the journey to Exanceaster, deciding to leave out much of the story, but giving enough for Gytha’s daughters to gaze at her, awestruck, as they heard tales of sleeping in a barrow, spending a night in the charcoal burners’ camp and another with dangerous wolf-heads and then meeting the king himself in the great hall of Exanceaster.

  All the while Dunston talked in hushed tones with Gytha and Aedwen noticed that the woman’s gaze flicked in her direction several times. What she was thinking though, Aedwen could not tell.

  As they had sat at the table, the girls had fallen silent. Godgifu stared with undisguised fear at Dunston until Gytha snapped her fingers.

  “Dunston is a guest under our roof, girls,” she said. “Show some respect.”

  Godgifu lowered her gaze and Maethild sniggered at her discomfort.

  “Girls,” Gytha said, after they had eaten in silence for a few moments. “I have some tidings.” She paused, and looked at Aedwen for a moment. Aedwen’s stomach clenched, but Gytha smiled at her and she quickly remembered the warmth of the widow’s welcome when she had first come to this small house, lost and terrified in the dark of night. Gytha nodded in reassurance and turned to her daughters. “Aedwen is going to stay with us.”

  With the words spoken, Aedwen’s eyes blurred. Her heart hammered and she feared she might weep. What would Gytha’s daughters think of this turn of events?

  “Oh, mother,” said Maethild, “that is wonderful. Finally, I can have a sensible sister to talk to.”

  Godgifu leaned across and pinched her older sister, who slapped her hand in return.

  “Girls!” Gytha’s tone cut through their spot. “Aedwen will be treated as kin, and I will have no fighting. You must all learn to get along, or I will bang your heads together until you see sense. Is that clear?�
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  Gytha glowered at them in turn, and each girl nodded and bowed her head. Aedwen wondered for the briefest of moments whether she would have been better off with Dunston, but then, as if the two girls could sense her disquiet, each of them reached for her hands under the board. She grasped their hands and blinked at the tears that threatened to fall.

  “Well, this is a gift indeed,” said Gytha. “A new daughter.”

  “She is a good girl,” replied Dunston. “But to accept Aedwen into your care was the request I had for you.”

  “And the gift then? What would that be?”

  “Ecgberht has offered a gift of coin for Aedwen’s upkeep. You will want for nothing.”

  Gytha was rendered speechless. This news was clearly a surprise and such was the look of amazement on her face, that the three girls burst out laughing.

  Gytha wiped her eyes and then drank some ale.

  Aedwen’s hands trembled with the force of emotions that ran through her. Tears of joy rolled down her cheeks. She wished to dry her face, but did not want to relinquish the hold on the girls’ hands. So she gripped them tightly, sniffing and blinking.

  “Well,” said Gytha, laughing. “What a fine to do. Now we are all crying. But still we do not know how it is that you both have returned to us. And not only free, but with the king’s favour.”

  Dunston drained his cup of ale, wiping his mouth with the back of his rough hand. And in the warm gloom of the house, with the hearth fire and rush lights providing scant, flickering light, he told their tale. The womenfolk watched on, wide-eyed, as they heard tell of the pursuit through the forest and the hardships Aedwen and Dunston had been forced to endure. Dunston was no scop, not a poet from a lord’s hall, but his words spun a stark picture of the terrible days they had spent in the forest. Unlike a tale-spinner, who sought to shock his audience, Dunston did not dwell on the moments when they had found corpses, or when he had stood and fought against their attackers. But somehow, the sparseness and simple nature of the telling made the tale more captivating. Gytha had grown pale. Godgifu and Maethild clung to Aedwen.

  She shuddered as Dunston’s words brought back the horrors they had faced. It was strange, she thought, that even though she had lived through the events he described, she found herself moved by the story, as one who is hearing it for the first time. Again she felt the bitter sting of the loss of her father. The terror of being caught by the savage men on the road. And then the breathless anxiety of seeing Dunston facing a line of charging, mounted men, as they threw up great clods of mud and sprays of water from the meadow. Dunston did not mention the rainbow that had shone in the darkened, clouded sky above Exanceaster, but she recalled its colours vividly and how the red of blood had been both darker and brighter than God’s promise in the heavens.

  At the end of the telling her face was again wet with tears. The girls at her side were snivelling and tears also streaked Gytha’s face.

  The widow reached out a hand and gently touched Dunston’s shoulder. He started, as if woken from a reverie.

  “You are a brave man, Dunston,” she said, her voice quiet.

  He grunted.

  “Aedwen owes you her life, and it seems the king owes you his kingdom.” Dunston picked up his cup to hide his embarrassment and found it empty. Gytha lifted the pitcher and filled it, smiling. “Perhaps we all owe you our lives. For who knows what would have happened if the king had not learnt of the ealdorman’s treachery?”

  “I merely did my duty,” he said, his tone gruff.

  It was clear that the praise was making him feel awkward, so Gytha rose and fetched a small wooden box, which she placed upon the table. She lifted the lid and inside there was a parcel wrapped in linen.

  “Would you care for a honey cake?”

  Her daughters, tears forgotten now, sat up expectantly.

  “Dunston?” Gytha said, peeling back the linen and proffering the box to him.

  Dunston peered inside and plucked out one of the small cakes. Sniffing it, he grinned.

  “Better than the fare from the king’s own board,” he said and took a bite. “And certainly better company.” A few crumbs sprayed out of his mouth and he quickly rubbed at his beard, abashed.

  But Gytha beamed at the praise and offered the cakes to the girls. They each took one. Maethild and Godgifu made short work of theirs, but Aedwen savoured hers. It was sweet and chewy and perhaps the nicest thing she had ever eaten. She thought then of her mother, and how she would sometimes bake honey cakes. They were not as good as Gytha’s, she thought guiltily, and once more tears threatened to fall.

  “So, Dunston,” Gytha said after she had finished her own cake. “I suppose you will go back now to your home in Sealhwudu?”

  Was there a hint of sorrow in Gytha’s tone?

  Dunston washed down the last of his cake with a swig of ale and stifled a belch.

  “I would like nothing more,” he said. Did Gytha frown at his words? “But it seems my days of peace in the forest are over.”

  “But you said that Ecgberht King offered you a gift. Surely with gold you can live comfortably any way you please.”

  Dunston scratched his beard and looked sidelong at Aedwen.

  “Ah,” he said, a rueful expression on his face, “but it was not gold or silver that our lord king gave to me.”

  “No?” replied Gytha, surprised. “What then?”

  “Why, for my sins he has made me his reeve of the Briuuetone Hundred.”

  Forty-One

  Sweat dripped into Dunston’s eyes. It was a hot day and he had set a fast pace along the familiar forest paths. Sunlight slanted down through the summer-heavy canopy, dappling the hard, root-twisted ground before him. Taking out his water skin, he took a long pull. The cool water soothed his parched mouth. By Christ’s bones, how he’d missed being out in the woods, free from the troubles of the folk of Briuuetone, away from the concerns of upholding Ecgberht’s many laws. Who would have ever thought there would be so many disputes over the boundaries between men’s plots of land? Dunston longed to return to the life he had known before, where he was able to hunt, forage and forge as the whim took him.

  He smiled at the irony of the king’s “gift”. The position of reeve was one of standing, which came with a stipend and status, and Ecgberht had also rewarded him handsomely with a bag of silver scillings so large that he doubted he would ever be able to spend all the money. And yet the very thing that had been gifted to him prevented him from leading the life he craved.

  But he was a man of honour, and he had long ago sworn his oath to Ecgberht. So while the king yet lived, his word was his bond. And Dunston knew that, though he would rather not be given the task of upholding the law, the king’s choice had merit. Dunston was diligent and honest. The people of Briuuetone and the surrounding hundred could rest easy that he would do the job to the best of his ability.

  But how he pined for the quiet of the forest. The wind rustled the leaves of the lindens above his head and he drew in a deep breath of the heavy, loamy air. He was almost at his destination. Just past that fallen beech, then a short way until the mossy outcrop on the left and the clearing he had called home for so many years would open in front of him. His back was hot and drenched in sweat beneath the empty pack he carried there. Now, as he drew close to his old home, he wished he had brought a cart. There was so much he would like to carry back to his new house in Briuuetone. Well, there was nothing for that now. He would have to make do with just taking a few small items; Eawynn’s plate, his favourite hammer, the small seax he had been working on for Oswold, perhaps a couple of the cheeses he had stored, if the mice hadn’t got to them. He had worried that Wudugát, his goat, would have come to harm. He had left the poor girl tethered and had hoped she would have managed to chew through the rope easily enough. And yet, he had still fretted. There were wolves out here, and he had assumed the worst.

  He still could barely believe he had found her hale and whole that morning roaming a small
enclosure on the edge of the charcoal burners’ encampment. These were the men who had helped him to raise Odin when he was a pup and they welcomed Dunston like a long lost son. They had slapped him on the back, which made him wince, as his ribs were still tender. They laughed to see him, their blackened, soot-smeared faces lined and wrinkled with their happiness. When Dunston had enquired about the effusive nature of their welcome, the response they gave him answered a quandary that had been bothering him for some time.

  “We thought you were dead,” said the oldest of the men. “Thought you’d gone the way of all things, these many weeks past.”

  Dunston had shaken his head, confused.

  “People often make the mistake of thinking I am dead it seems,” he’d said, with a crooked smile. “But what made you think such a thing?”

  “Why, when old Odin limped in here with half his back hanging off and covered in blood, we thought perhaps a boar had got you and him. You weren’t with him, so we figured as like you were mouldering in the forest somewhere. Botulf sewed up the cut on Odin and burnt the flesh so that the rot wouldn’t set in. That hound is as tough as they come. He barely whimpered and didn’t snap at Botulf, not one bit. I thought he’d as likely bite his hand off, but it was like he understood that Botulf was just trying to help.”

  “Botulf,” Dunston called to a younger man. “I thank you for saving my dog. If you had not done so, I might be dead after all.”

  “Odin lives yet then?” asked Botulf. “I thought he must have surely died by now. For when we woke the next morning, he had run off into the forest and no matter how much we called, he did not return. Gone off to die in peace, we thought.”

  “He lives, all right. He is out hunting with a new friend. A girl.”

  “Oh, a girl,” said Botulf, with a wink. “About time you took a wife again, if you ask me.”

  “I didn’t ask you,” replied Dunston. “And she is not my wife. She is not much more than a child.”

  He had told the charcoal burners of their adventures then. They thirsted for knowledge of the world beyond their smoke-wreathed clearings and it seemed the least he could do after they had tended to Odin. It transpired that, after Odin had vanished, fearing for Dunston, they had gone to his hut to see if he might be there and in need of help. Instead, they found Wudugát. Realising she would perish if left alone, they brought the goat back to their camp.