Wolf of Wessex

by Matthew Harffy

  “She has been well looked after,” said Botulf, “and we have been glad of the milk, I can tell you. But, of course, you must take her with you now.”

  “No. Wudugát is yours,” Dunston had said. “You saved my dog and in doing so, you saved me and maybe the kingdom, so I would have you supplied with fresh milk.”

  He smiled to himself as he remembered the charcoal burners’ delight at first finding him alive, and then learning that Odin was well. And after that, they were even more pleased that they could keep the goat when they had thought they would have to give her back. It is the simple things that bring the most pleasure, he thought.

  Pushing the stopper back into his flask, he set off on the last stretch of the path that would lead him to his hut in the clearing.

  He had looked forward to getting away from Briuuetone for several days now. He was staying in the hall that Rothulf had built. It was comfortable and spacious; much too large for his needs apart from one day each month when the hall-moot was held there. On the day of the moot, it became the centre of life of the people of the village and the surrounding area of the hundred. He had been prepared for the busy nature of the day, but had found himself unable to sleep the night before. His mind kept jolting him awake with dark thoughts that he might need to preside over a suit involving murder. He knew he could face an armed man in combat and take his life in an eye-blink, but to have someone stand before him, to speak with them, to listen to the charges made against them, and then to mete out justice, took a different type of bravery.

  As it turned out, his first moot at Briuuetone was a tedious affair, with the most arduous of the suits being that in which Eappa had struck Cuthbald over some drunken squabble. Eappa had broken Cuthbald’s nose, and Cuthbald demanded restitution. Dunston had conferred with Godrum, the priest, who had read through the dooms and informed him of the weregild that must be paid. Eappa had grumbled and complained when he was told to pay Cuthbald three scillings, but Dunston had stood up, and glared at him until he had meekly nodded and left the hall. The rest of the day had been filled with petty disputes over land rights and some minor thefts. Dunston relied on Godrum to provide him with good counsel and to pore over the vellum sheets of dooms. He found the priest to be methodical and patient and, despite the tedium of the day, his initial fears had been misplaced. He was sure his concerns had been due in no small part to having witnessed the trial of the traitors in Exanceaster just a few weeks previously.

  By God, that had been harrowing, and Dunston was glad that he did not have to deal with anything as dire as treachery and murder.

  After Ælfgar had been hanged unceremoniously from the east gate of the city walls, Ecgberht had ordered the men who had ridden with the ealdorman to be brought before him. The king had insisted that Dunston attend the trial, as he was a witness to many of the acts the men stood accused of.

  Most of the accused, certain of their fate, were sullen and refused to speak. But one, a lank-haired man with stooped shoulders, by the name of Lutan, had seemed convinced that he could escape his punishment by telling everything he knew of what they had done. The others glowered at him, and one spat in his direction and swore he would seek him out in the afterlife and cut out his tongue. A guard had beaten the man into silence, and the greasy-haired Lutan had been allowed to speak.

  The king nodded and urged Lutan to tell them all he knew.

  “If you tell me the truth, man,” the king said in a quiet voice, “I will see to it that you are treated better than your comrades in arms.”

  Lutan had dipped his head, swallowing and grovelling pitifully, while his companions looked on. Hatred burnt in their eyes at his betrayal.

  Prompted by questions from Ecgberht, Lutan told of more than the incidents Dunston knew of. Much of what he told, Dunston had already deduced. Lytelman had somehow learnt of the message from Ithamar and then sought to bring the news of treason to one in power. He visited the reeve of Briuuetone. But, unbeknown to Aedwen’s father, Hunfrith was party to the plans of Ealdorman Ælfgar and so had ordered the peddler silenced.

  “Why was Hunfrith involved?” Dunston had asked, interrupting Lutan’s snivelling whine. “Surely Ælfgar did not take lowly reeves into his confidence.”

  Lutan had stared at him for a moment, a sly expression on his ugly face.

  “You do not know?” he asked incredulously.

  “Know what?”

  “Hunfrith is Ælfgar’s son. A bastard from a milkmaid in Wincaletone. When Ælfgar learnt of Rothulf’s meddling, he sent Hunfrith to take care of it. If you know what I mean.”

  He had smirked then at Dunston, and it had been hard not to rush at the man and knock him to the ground. Dunston had clenched his fists at his side, holding himself rigidly still. So, the rumours Gytha had heard were true, but it was not this knowledge that had led to Rothulf’s murder.

  “Meddling?” Dunston had asked. “How so?”

  Lutan’s eyes had darted about as his mind worked, seeking some advantage for himself from his knowledge. At last he turned to the king.

  “If I tell you of more crimes, it will go easier for me?” he asked.

  Ecgberht inclined his head slowly.

  “I give you my word.”

  Lutan licked his lips.

  “Rothulf had somehow heard tell of the plans to attack Wessex,” he said. “I don’t know how. But just after Easter he came to see Ælfgar and told him what he knew. Ælfgar thanked him and sent him back to Briuuetone. But no sooner had he gone than he sent Hunfrith, me and the others after him. It was Hunfrith’s idea to drown him. Wouldn’t look like a murder that way, he said. Once he was dead, Hunfrith took over as reeve. That way he could help stop any more rumours. And we would all share in the spoils once war came.”

  Dunston had grown cold at hearing Lutan’s words.

  “So Hunfrith murdered Rothulf?” he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper, but heard by all in the great hall of Exanceaster.

  “He did,” Lutan answered. He sounded somehow pleased with himself.

  “Where is this Hunfrith now?” asked the king.

  “The last we saw him, he was still at Briuuetone,” replied Dunston.

  The king ordered riders to go with all haste to Briuuetone and to seek out Hunfrith.

  “He must be held accountable for his crimes,” he said, and his face was thunder. “Rothulf was a good man.”

  But when the riders returned a few days later, it was to tell the king that there was no sign of Hunfrith at Briuuetone. It seemed he had fled when word had reached him of his father’s capture. The news had weighed heavily on Dunston. He had not truly expected Hunfrith to still be in his hall, awaiting his fate, but the idea that the man had evaded justice after committing such foul crimes was almost more than he could bear. He had told Aedwen that vengeance did not bring happiness, but since Hunfrith’s involvement in Rothulf’s death had been confirmed, he had prayed that the man would be found and that he might witness his death, for there could be no other sentence for such as him.

  But Hunfrith had run and now he would never have to pay for Rothulf’s murder, for ordering the slaying of Lytelman, for abetting his father’s treachery.

  Dunston had resigned himself to taking some consolation in the downfall of Ælfgar and his men. And yet, witnessing their deaths by hanging, their tongues swollen and black as they danced on the end of a rope, had left him feeling as empty as if he had watched animals being slaughtered before winter.

  He had felt something akin to a twinge of grim amusement as Lutan met his fate. True to his word, the king had made the man’s sentence easier than that of his cohort of traitors; instead of hanging, which could be long and painful, Ecgberht had ordered the man beheaded. There had been a twisted sense of justice at hearing Lutan’s anguished cries as he was forced to watch his friends pulled, choking, kicking and strangling into the air, before he met his own, mercifully quick ending.

  But none of the killing had provided Dunston with any relea
se. He had brought Gytha the news that Rothulf had indeed been murdered, but Hunfrith had vanished, leaving Dunston bitter and angry. He now wished that he had not told Gytha the truth. She had suspected, but in time she would have made peace with her husband’s death. Learning of the certainty of his murder and the lack of justice for his killer had sowed dark seeds of despair in her soul. Dunston felt responsible for Gytha’s new sorrow, though he knew in truth he was not to blame; he had loved Rothulf as a brother.

  There had been many dark days since they had returned to Briuuetone. The summer days were bright and warm, but the shadow of recent events still hung over them, as if a storm cloud had drifted before the sun. And yet, there was much to celebrate in his new life. He had invited Gytha, her daughters and Aedwen to live in the hall with him. He needed someone to run the place and Gytha had been the lady of the hall until recently. And, though sometimes he found the noise of the girls’ chatter grated on his nerves, he thought the time for silence in the forest was over for him. Better to be surrounded by the laughter of youth than the silence of approaching decrepitude and death.

  And yet, when the opportunity to head into the forest had arisen, he had not hesitated. Dunston knew that he would settle in well enough over time, but some days the constant companionship of Gytha, the girls and the ever-present folk of Briuuetone became too much and he longed for the peace of nature to embrace him.

  Stepping out into the glade where he had built the stout house he had shared happily with Eawynn, Dunston paused to take in the scene. The grass was faded and dried as it often became in late summer. The ground was parched, and he noted how fissures and cracks had opened up in the earth due to the long dry spell. The lindens that overshadowed the house were thick with leaf and heavy with fragrant yellow blossom. The trees whispered, as if in greeting and their voice was as familiar as his own breath. Dunston sniffed the air. The summer would be on the turn soon and those glossy green leaves would become ochre and russet. They would fall, forming a thick blanket on the ground. The nights would grow longer. It was then, he knew, when he would most miss this place. Every year the summers seemed shorter and winter’s icy fingers scratched over the land more quickly. With each passing year, time seemed to flow faster, and with a maudlin frown, Dunston wondered how many more passing seasons he would witness.

  Shaking his head at such thoughts, he moved to the forge that stood under a lean-to timber shelter beside the hut. He looked about the grimy surfaces, the charcoal that nestled cold and grey in the fire pit. His gaze fell on a scrap of leather on the anvil. He could scarcely believe it was still there, but other than the charcoal men, who else would have come here? Picking up the greased leather, he let it fall open to expose what was wrapped within. He smiled. It was just as he remembered it, not even a spot of rust. It was the fine blade and tang of the knife he had been working on for Oswold. There was still some fine hammering to do, it was not sharp and was still a piece of iron without a handle, but it would be beautiful when it was finished. He had left it out here on the morning when he had found Lytelman and Aedwen, meaning to work on it when he returned from checking his traps and snares. He would take it back to Briuuetone and finish the knife there. He had just the right piece of antler that would serve as a handle. Wrapping the blade back in the leather, he tucked it into his belt and with a last longing look at the forge, he turned to the house.

  He opened the oak door that he had fashioned what seemed a lifetime before. It creaked on the leather straps that held it in place. He had often contemplated forging iron hinges, but had never been able to justify the extravagance. He snorted. Now he had enough silver not to worry about such things, but he would no longer be living here to care about the door’s hinges.

  The instant that Dunston walked into the hut, he knew something was wrong. At first he was uncertain what had alerted him that all was not well. The air was not as still as it should be, the house less quiet somehow, though when he paused by the door to listen, there was no sound. He took a slow breath and then it struck him. A faint scent of sweat, wool, leather and sour mead. Someone had been there.

  He moved to the hearth, holding his hand over the thick layer of grey ash. Still hot. How had he not smelt the smoke before? He had been too distracted reminiscing about the past to notice. Cursing himself for a fool, he stood, his senses sharp and alert once more. He had grown soft in just a few weeks living in luxury in a warm hall. This was still wild land. There were beasts that could kill a man in Sealhwudu, and as he well knew, there were outlaws who would not think twice about killing him to take the clothes from his corpse. His hand dropped to the seax sheathed at his belt and he regretted bitterly not bringing DeaÞangenga. But he had come to hunt and to visit his old home, not to battle. He was done with fighting and killing. It was time to keep his oath to Eawynn.

  A rustle outside gave him an instant’s warning, but when the door swung open with a rasp, Dunston started. The sound was loud in the small hut.

  Without turning, Dunston looked up at Eawynn’s silver plate where it hung on the far wall. Within the burnished metal he saw the reflection of the shadowed figure that hesitated in the doorway. It was a tall man, but Dunston could not make out his features with the light from outside behind him.

  “Well, come in, if you are going to,” Dunston said. “It seems you have made yourself quite at home in my house, so there is no point being shy now.”

  For a moment, the man did not move, then he stepped quickly into the hut. The light from the open door fell on his face and Dunston’s breath caught in his throat.

  “You!” he said, turning to face the man. For the second time he regretted not bringing his axe. It seemed even now it was not his wyrd to fulfil his oath to Eawynn and lay down his weapons. For sure as the leaves would fall from the trees in the autumn, there would be a fight here today.

  Hunfrith, thinner and with sharper cheekbones than Dunston remembered, slowly pulled his long sword from the scabbard at his side.

  “I could scarcely believe my eyes when I saw you come down the path,” he said. His sword glimmered in the sunlight spilling in through the doorway. The metal was clean and polished. It appeared that Hunfrith had at least not forgotten to tend to his weapon. His clothing was a different matter. His cloak was threadbare and ripped, stained with mud and lichen. The kirtle he wore was streaked and filthy. His moustache and beard, once so well-tended and clipped, were now an unruly and straggled thatch. His eyes held a febrile glint. His smell was overpowering in the small confines of the hut and again Dunston could not believe he had failed to notice the man’s presence earlier.

  Holding his sword menacingly before him, Hunfrith took a step towards Dunston.

  “You ruined everything, old man,” he spat.

  Dunston kept his hands loose at his sides, ready to react in an instant. He only had the seax he had taken from Beornmod. It would be difficult to fight against a sword, but he had no other weapon to hand.

  “I did nothing, Hunfrith, save see a young girl to safety after you ordered her father murdered.”

  Hunfrith’s eyes narrowed and Dunston knew that he would strike soon.

  “I should have killed you when I had the chance,” Hunfrith said.

  “We all live with regrets,” Dunston replied, edging around the hearth and away from Hunfrith.

  Hunfrith sneered.

  “Your time for living is over, old man.”

  He swung his sword at Dunston’s head. Dunston ducked and, scooping up a stool from beside the fireplace, flung it at Hunfrith. The stool’s leg’s tangled with Hunfrith’s blade and Dunston rushed out of the open doorway and into the bright light of the summer afternoon.

  Blinking against the sunlight, he ran as fast as he could across the clearing. His ribs, still not fully healed, were already paining him. He could not keep this up. Besides, even without his recent wounds, Hunfrith was younger and taller and would catch him soon enough.

  Behind him, Hunfrith roared and sped out of the h
ut.

  Dunston slid to a halt only a dozen paces away. There was nothing to be gained from running. All that would happen is that he would be out of breath and struggling when he had to confront Hunfrith’s sword. Better to stand now while he was fresh and had some small chance of victory.

  Turning to face the younger man, Dunston slid his seax from its sheath. Hunfrith sped towards him, the long blade of his sword gleaming. Dunston could see instantly that the younger man was no novice with a blade. Facing a skilled swordsman, without a shield and with only a seax, Dunston’s only chance would come from luck. Or a cool head, if he could only make his adversary lose his.

  “Your father’s corpse is decorating the gate at Exanceaster,” Dunston shouted. “All his men are dead too. Some I slew, others were hanged by the king. You are the last one left. The pathetic bastard who doesn’t know when he is defeated.”

  Dunston had hoped to goad Hunfrith into a reckless attack, but the erstwhile reeve slowed his charging pace before reaching Dunston. Crouching into the warrior stance, he spat.

  “They may be dead, but you will join them soon enough. You may think me pathetic, old man, but like you say, I don’t know I am defeated, because I am yet standing and I have a sword in my hand. That doesn’t feel like defeat to me.”

  Without warning, and with none of the tell-tale signs Dunston had grown to expect from warriors who faced him, Hunfrith leapt forward. He feinted at Dunston’s head, and as the old warrior brought up the short blade of his seax to parry the blow, Hunfrith altered the trajectory of his blade. Unarmoured as he was, the sword would have disembowelled Dunston, if it had connected. But at the last instant, Dunston threw himself backwards to avoid the blow. His foot sank into one of the deep clefts in the earth caused by the recent lack of rain and he tumbled to the hard earth of the clearing. Dunston grunted with the pain as the fall jarred his ribs.