The Mad Wolf's Daughter

by Diane Magras

  The Mad Wolf’s eyes grew hard. “Get away, Drest. Don’t question me.”

  She was about to answer, but Emerick spoke first: “Go.”

  Tig grasped her hand. With a lump in her throat, Drest let Tig pull her away.

  The Mad Wolf settled back on his heels. “Go on, lord. Say you what you want. Then it’s my turn.”

  Emerick’s jaw stiffened. He spoke with his haughty castle voice, though it was also ringed with pain.

  “For most of my life, I’ve thought of saying these words to you, Grimbol. I know my father wronged you, but you took the wrong revenge. If you wished to devastate him, you’d have done better to murder me, not Celestria. I was his heir. You may have thought you’d destroy him by what you did, but he cared little for his daughter. Did you never know that? I was the only one at the castle who loved her, and you destroyed only me: a boy, nothing more. You murdered a girl who loved you. So go on, murder her brother who hates you, and finish what you began.”

  The men of the war-band made a sudden movement, but they hadn’t taken more than a step when Grimbol swung around.

  “Stay back,” he snarled. Then he swung to face Emerick again, the dagger still in his hand.

  I am not like him, Drest thought, her eyes following her father. The words were distinct in her mind. She made a sudden wild decision: She would throw herself in the path of her father’s blow. She slipped her hand from Tig’s.

  “So that’s the story you heard.” Grimbol clenched his dagger.

  “It’s not a story.” Emerick shuddered. “I saw Celestria that night, after you were gone.”

  “Would you like to know the truth, lord? What really happened?” The Mad Wolf grimaced. “I didn’t slay her. I saved her. I tried.”

  Emerick’s eyes did not leave his.

  “You knew what her fate was supposed to be: marriage to Lord de Moys. I don’t care that he was your father’s ally; she was but a wee lady and he was a filthy coward three times her age.” Grimbol’s voice was hoarse. “She was afraid of him. She sent me notes, begging me to rescue her. Of course I came. I climbed the tower and brought her down. Aye, to a boat on the rocks with a lad from my war-band, my best sailor. But someone saw us. I gave her to my lad and told him to sail. I went back to fight. Five knights, all falling on me with their swords. I fought as I’d fought on battlefields. They saw again what I could be.”

  Drest sat back on her heels and stared. She had never seen such misery on her father’s face.

  “She was brave, my wee lady,” he went on. “She would not go with the lad. Nay, though he held her, she slipped free like a fish and came back to where I fought. She came back to save me.” His eyes now gleamed wet. “And as she did, your own knight slew her. Sir Maldred. The rest were aiming for me.”

  He told more: how he’d lashed out in rage and slain the knights who stood watching, stunned by what Sir Maldred had done. Sir Maldred escaped, climbing a rope that had been let down from a window in the castle, and began shouting for reinforcements. Grimbol had been ready to climb after him, but his war-band lad had torn him away, taken him to the boat, and set sail.

  “I don’t know why Maldred did it, lord. To put everyone against me? I’ve been thinking all these years, and that’s the only reason I can see.” Grimbol paused. “Before I left, I picked up my wee lady in my arms and took her in that boat. I was going to bury her in a place that only I would know. But then I thought of you. That’s what made me bring her back to where she had fallen. I knew that you, her brother, should see her buried, not I.”

  Emerick had not said a word. Tears were streaking down his cheeks.

  And down Grimbol’s too.

  Drest could barely breathe past the swelling in her throat.

  Grimbol lunged toward the young lord, dropping the dagger on his way. He gripped Emerick’s shoulders with both hands.

  “I did not slay Lady Celestria,” he said in a slow, ragged voice. “I loved her as if she were my own wee lass, and she knew it. Do you know it, lord? Do you understand it now?”

  Drest could not take her eyes from her father. He was holding the young lord as if there were no difference between them, as if brutal warrior and noble knight were one and the same. As if this man were his son.

  The woods were silent around them.

  And then Mordag flew up into the sky, circled, and returned with a series of hoarse caws.

  Tig turned to Drest, frantic. “Enemies—more than four, from her calls. It must be the knights.”

  Drest scrambled to her feet. “Tig’s crow is never wrong. We have to run. Come, Emerick, I’ll carry you.”

  But Grimbol drew the young lord to his feet before she could reach him.

  “Gobin, Nutkin,” the Mad Wolf called, “take him between you, and take him with care. All of you, listen: No one shall hurt this man. He’s Celestria’s brother, and he’s one of us.”

  35

  RETURN TO PHEARSHAM RIDGE

  The war-band sprinted through the woods, but the landscape would turn into fields soon, Grimbol said, and would no longer hide them. He and Wulfric ventured out onto the road. With all the people leaving Faintree Castle, stealing a cart would be easy. And within minutes, a sharp whistle came. The two were waiting in a covered wagon with two horses; the old driver and his son had stopped for a necessary trip to the trees, and the sight of the Mad Wolf and his son had been enough to send them bolting.

  Before other carts rumbled past, Wulfric and Thorkill leaped onto the bench in the front, Wulfric grabbing the reins. The rest of the war-band squeezed into the back, pushing aside sacks of grain, heavy sloshing tubs, and rolls of coarse linen.

  The wagon began to move with a jolt.

  Uwen wedged himself beside a tub and the twins propped up Emerick on the linen rolls. Tig settled by the young lord, and Drest started to join them, but her father grabbed her wrist.

  “I want a word with you, lass.”

  She sat beside him near the sheet of wood that hung over the opening, and waited.

  “You’re my own dear girl,” he said, his voice harsh against her ear, “and I wish to the stars that I could keep you safe. But it’s time for you to be one of the war-band and take your place among your brothers. You’re braver than all of them put together, you know.”

  Drest sighed. “I don’t want to be brave all the time.”

  With a faint smile, the Mad Wolf drew his daughter into his arms, as if she were still small, and rested his chin against her hair.

  “You have to be brave now, lass; the knights are after us. We must keep running. We’ll take your wee friend back to Phearsham Ridge, then go north for supplies and news, but not stay long in any town. We’ll keep to the woods until the hunt for us dies.” He gave a short chuckle. “Before we do.”

  * * *

  • • •

  The journey to Phearsham Ridge was fast by wagon. Drest had been dozing when the wagon stopped. Seconds later, the back opened and a gust of fresh air flowed in.

  “Out,” Grimbol said as his sons struggled to wake. “Every last one of you. We don’t know what we’ll find here, so I want you all to be ready.”

  After the twins and Uwen had emerged from the wagon, Grimbol climbed back and watched Tig’s futile attempt to draw Emerick to his feet.

  “He’s half dead, isn’t he,” the Mad Wolf said, his voice quiet with tenderness. “Come, my lord. We can’t have that. Up we go.”

  Drest watched as her father gently hoisted Emerick to his feet and carried him out.

  The night air was bracing in its cold, yet fresh and clean, a relief from the stuffiness of the wagon. But Drest didn’t pause with her brothers, or with Tig, who stood apart, whispering to Mordag. She darted over to where her father had propped Emerick against a tree and was under the young lord’s arm in her usual position just as he began to crumple.

 
“Thank you,” he murmured.

  Gobin sauntered over. “I don’t think Da needs us yet. Shall we take him from you, Drest? It’s just up ahead, lord.”

  “Nay, I’ll carry him,” Drest said. “He needs to go slowly. He needs the air.”

  “Aye, we all do. What a stinking trap that was. We smell none too sweet, but I think one of those barrels was rotting.”

  Drest bit her lip. She had smelled the stench of rot as well and had only just realized where it had come from: Emerick’s rib wound. It hadn’t smelled like that before.

  Grimbol gathered his sons and bade them start toward the village. He hung back with Drest.

  “If you need one of us, raise your voice, but keep back. I cannot promise how this village will welcome us.” Grimbol grabbed Tig by his shoulder. “You, lad, will come with me to the front.”

  “Da, I need Tig—”

  “I need him up here. We don’t know how many villagers came to the castle to watch us die, and if we’ll need to fight, he’s our token, our safe passage. Come, lad. No one’s going to hurt you unless you struggle.”

  With his hand firm on Tig’s shoulder, the Mad Wolf drew ahead, and soon Drest and Emerick were alone. Her brothers’ tall figures were but shadows on the road before them.

  Drest looked up at Emerick’s haggard face.

  “I’m sorry,” Drest said.

  “I know,” said Emerick. He stopped to cough, and bent over with the pain. “Drest, I’ve misjudged—”

  “You shouldn’t talk; that will hurt.” Drest winced at his rasp as he inhaled. “Keep your breath for breathing.”

  “I must speak while I still can. I may die like this on your shoulder.” He swallowed with difficulty. “I’ve misjudged—what you’ve had to face in your life. You are an extraordinary person. None of what happened—is your fault. And I’ll always be grateful—that I’ve known you. Drest, please forgive me—everything.”

  And then he was coughing again, unable to stop, his whole chest shaking, his hand against his ribs.

  “If you die on my shoulder after all we’ve been through,” Drest said, her throat thick, “I’ll never forgive you.”

  * * *

  • • •

  They rounded the next bend. The Mad Wolf’s band was far ahead, nearly to the mill. The river gleamed in the moonlight.

  But a huge figure stood on the road between Drest and her family. It shifted, becoming two, then three: one tall figure and two large ones.

  “Is that you, child?” Wimarca’s voice cut through the darkness.

  Relief washed over Drest. “Aye, it is, and I’ve got my friend Emerick here, and he needs—”

  “I know,” the healer said. “I’ve been collecting night herbs in the woods, and I heard you come. I’ve called on two farmers to carry him.”

  The two large figures advanced and knelt, laying a long wool blanket on the ground.

  “Set him there,” Wimarca said. She was wearing a cloak of sea-green wool that smelled of wood. “Take him to my hut.”

  The two men cast Drest a curious glance, then took Emerick from her shoulder and laid him on the blanket. They lifted each corner, and Emerick’s body rose, swaying faintly between them.

  Drest went to the healer’s side. “What can I do for him?”

  “Nothing, child. Go with your war-band.”

  “You won’t let him die?”

  Wimarca set a gentle, dry hand on Drest’s cheek. “I will tend to him as if he were my son. Now go, child, and help your family. If your father treats this village as an enemy, it will become precisely that.”

  Drest looked at Emerick. His eyes were closed, but he was breathing. With a nod at Wimarca, Drest turned back to the road and broke into a run.

  And ran as she had not run since she had left the headland.

  36

  SANCTUARY

  Grimbol was pulling Tig by his shoulder through the square when Drest came up beside him.

  “I know the miller,” said Drest. “I’ll call him for you, Da.”

  Without waiting for her father’s leave, she sprinted ahead to the familiar building. But before she reached the door, it opened and Arnulf’s old face looked out.

  “You’re back.” His gaze slid over to the war-band. “You’ve brought your family.”

  “Aye,” said Drest, “and it’s thanks to you for letting me take Tig. He’s been a world of help. Da, this is Tig’s father. Arnulf, this is my da. This is Grimbol.”

  Grimbol approached with Tig, his eyes narrowed. “Aye, I know him.”

  “It’s been years since we’ve met, sir.” Arnulf stared at Grimbol’s scarred, rough hand on Tig’s thin shoulder.

  Silence but for the splash of the water wheel.

  Tig struggled beneath the Mad Wolf’s grasp. “You should have seen it, Father. This warrior maiden freed the lot of them from the depths of the castle prison. We truly have a legend in our midst.”

  “Do we?” murmured Arnulf, his face unchanged.

  Grimbol’s fingers must have loosened, for, with a sudden jerk, Tig was free from his hand. “And I’ve legends behind me too. Phearsham Ridge will be rich with stories.” He whirled on his heel and bowed to Grimbol—just out of his reach. “Let us give food and beds to these legends, who are weary from their travels and unjust imprisonment.”

  “Aye,” said Grimbol. “We need one night, and then we’ll go on.”

  Arnulf’s hand closed on Tig’s shoulder, and he drew him close. “Come inside, sir, and my lads and daughter will serve you.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Soon the whole war-band was in the mill’s big room. The miller’s family rushed about, serving meat and ale. But each time Idony or Wyneck passed Tig, they stopped to squeeze his shoulder, as if to be sure he was real.

  Drest yawned, and sank before the cold hearth. She looked up at the rafters where she had hidden, then at the corner where Emerick had stood with Tig.

  She was with her family again in the very room where she had spoken about their rescue, but at that moment, she did not feel like joining them.

  She had changed.

  “What’s wrong with you, Drest?” Uwen thumped down at her side. “You’re sitting all quiet over here by yourself.”

  At his words, which echoed throughout the room, the rest of her brothers set down their food, their faces concerned.

  “Her bruises must be paining her.” Gobin marched over and reached down to trace the bruise on Drest’s cheek. “That guard didn’t spare her one bit. How I wish I’d hunted him down.”

  “Did he strike you on your ribs?” Thorkill lumbered toward her and knelt. “Lift your tunic, lass, and let me see.”

  “Nay, my ribs are fine.” Drest crawled away from them, against the wall. “You’re all breathing too hard on me.”

  Nutkin slunk after her and grabbed her hand. “What’s this on your fingers? From climbing? Look, lads, there’s dried blood at their tips. Who has water?”

  Drest pulled her hand away and held it between her knees. “My fingers always bleed when I climb; you’ve never looked before.”

  “She’s shaking,” Uwen said in amazement. “Our Drest is shaking over here.” Then, pleading, “Drest, what’s wrong?”

  “She’s seen more strife in this one day than ever in all her years.” Wulfric walked before her. “It’s likely to stun a wee lass. Take a nice, slow breath, and then tell us everything.”

  “Your crowding close is likely to stun me—you all smell like rotten fish. Will you give me room to breathe?”

  Grimbol pushed his way through his sons until he stood beside his eldest—shorter by a hand, but Wulfric stepped away at once, giving him his spot.

  “Does she have to ask a fourth time? If it had been any of the rest of you, would you even have had to ask twice?” He tur
ned and glared at each of his sons. “The lass has traveled for days with her wounded battle-mate, got a sound beating, freed us, then had to escape. Do you think she might be tired? Do you think she might need a rest—not just to close her eyes, but a rest from talk of fighting? We’ll be in the middle of it again soon enough. Let her find her peace tonight.”

  Grimbol watched his sons retreat and then dropped to his knees beside his daughter. “Are you brooding, lass?”

  “Nay, I don’t brood. That’s for Thorkill.”

  Her father laughed. “Don’t let him hear you say that.”

  Drest settled back. She’d had many questions to ask her father, and most had been answered. Except for one. “Da? Did you ever know a bandit named Jupp?”

  “Jupp?” The old warrior’s eyes widened. “Where have you heard that name?”

  “He’s a man I met on my way.” She thought of telling her father how Jupp had chased her, then decided against it. “He told me to tell you that he’s still loyal.”

  “So you met Jupp,” Grimbol murmured. “That lad—he was the sailor I’d taken to help me rescue my wee lady.”

  “Your most trusted lad,” Drest said softly, remembering her father’s words. Then she shook herself. “Da—he told me you poisoned his town.”

  The Mad Wolf took a deep breath. “Aye, lass, that was my punishment for him. He’d not followed his order; he’d not taken my wee lady away in the boat. That was our plan if anyone saw us: He’d take her and I’d stay to fight. But he waited for me, and let Celestria get away. That’s how he betrayed me. There are tricks that you learn when you fight for a castle, lass. I used them on his village.”

  “But to poison a whole town—”

  “I only made the well unclean, undrinkable, so no one could live there. It would be an empty village, a punishment for him and a tribute to my wee lady. I thought it would help me go on. And yet, my lass, some nights I regret it. What good did it do? My lad Jupp was the youngest of the war-band I had before your brothers. He’d always been loyal. From what you say, he still is, bless him.”