‘My father asked you to keep an eye on me,’ she said stiffly.
‘So he did.’ He looked her up and down in a way that made her skin crawl. ‘And that’s just what I’m doing. And you know what men call Radmer?’
‘Call him? The King’s Wolf.’
‘The King’s Wolf. Indeed. And do you know why?’
He was leaning in, and she shifted another inch towards the end of the bench, talking fast to keep him at bay, repeating words she had heard in the hall. ‘Because Donmouth’s the gate to Northumbria, and he guards it. Hold the river, and the estuary, and the kingdom is strong.’
‘And that’s not all he guards, is it, Osberht’s pet wolf?’ He seemed to think this was funny. ‘Radmer’s been growling and snapping at strangers on the king’s behalf for twenty years. He’s proud. He should be.’ Edmund turned to look at the king’s tent. ‘But with Tilmon back he won’t be growling. He’ll be wanting to go for the throat.’ He laughed. ‘Exciting times.’
He was still much too close. Elfrun could feel the warmth and heaviness of him leaning against her, but she was right at the end of the bench now, the edge digging into her right buttock. Any further and she would fall off. All she wanted was to get up and walk away, but Abarhild would be shocked when she heard of such discourtesy to a kinsman.
And what if he followed her, shouted at her, made folk stare?
So she concentrated on her clasped hands, the pale half-moons on her thumbnails, not speaking, hardly even breathing. Edmund grunted enquiringly, but she kept her lips tight-pressed, and at last to her infinite relief she felt the bench tip as he hauled himself to his feet. When she dared to look up again she saw that he had rejoined one of the little clusters that hovered at the far side of the king’s tent. Low muttering, sidelong glances – a few of them at her – emphatic gestures.
But it wasn’t all about her. The Northumbrian riding-men and dish-thanes and hall-wards, with all their hangers-on, were clumping and forming larger groups. Tilmon’s men were pulling closer together in response.
The boy with the bay mare had withdrawn himself a little, however, and was walking her up and down. Elfrun watched her neat lines, her forward-pricked ears and gleaming hooves, and the way the sunlight shone on her hide, so different from Mara and Apple. Her dainty head had something almost birdlike in its grace, as did her little pecking steps. That boy must spend hours clipping, and combing, and oiling. He turned his head and she looked away quickly in case he caught her staring yet again. It would be good to race that bay mare again, though Mara would never have a chance against her.
Dear, shaggy Mara and Apple – and a pang of conscience struck her. Could Athulf be trusted to look after the ponies properly, with all the distractions and temptations offered by the meeting? She cast a calculating look at the curtain screening the entrance to the king’s tent. How much longer were they going to be? She could be quick: she could run.
Just to see that Apple and Mara were all right.
But what if they weren’t? What if Athulf had just left them loose in the field? Still tacked up, even? She would have to catch them.
Elfrun half rose to her feet, then stopped, hovering somewhere short of standing.
Her father might come out of the tent, and she not back. What if the king had asked for her? And what if she got muddy again? If he didn’t kill her, her grandmother most certainly would. So she slumped back on to the bench, still torn, trying to keep her face composed, her hands folded and her back straight. But the bench was hard, and getting harder all the time, her seat was aching, and her feet were cramped and hot and chafed, her heels blistering in the stiff leather shoes she almost never wore. She felt desperately self-conscious, sitting there alone, but it was still preferable to Edmund coming back. And all the while the sun was shining and every lark in Deira was pouring out its heart, singing its alleluias in the Easter sky, and from down towards the river Elfrun could hear splashing, and laughter. She had a suspicion she could hear Athulf’s shrieks among the others.
Abarhild had been angry enough about her riding with the boys. What would she have said if she had caught Elfrun swimming?
Now she could hear other raised voices, not so far away.
Shouts, even. And coming from the king’s tent.
Her hackles had risen without her realizing.
And she was not alone. Everyone had frozen, hands already halfway to absent sword-pommels. The woman in the brown twill and the boy were standing close together. The boy was looking at the tent, but the woman was staring across the grass. Looking, Elfrun realized, at her. Perhaps she – Switha, that was the name – perhaps she too felt ill at ease in the midst of this throng of jumpy men.
But after that one outburst the voices inside the tent had fallen quiet again, as though belatedly aware of all those avid ears outwith its painted and embroidered canvas walls. Try as she might, she could hear nothing more.
Long, slow heartbeats, and the world began to breathe again.
The space under the tasselled awning darkened. Her father came blundering out into the daylight. She thought at first he was just sun-blind, but realized then he was snarling-angry, angry as she had never seen him. He came straight over to her.
‘Get up.’
She scrambled to her feet. ‘Why? What is it? Does the king want me now?’
But he had her hard by the bones of her elbow and was turning her away from the tent.
‘Father? You’re hurting me.’
Eyes. Everywhere, eyes.
Even she could see the eyes were noting his anger, his loss of self-command.
‘Father? Is it something I’ve done?’
That got through to him. ‘You, child? No, absolutely not.’ He glanced behind them. ‘I can’t talk about it here. There are ears everywhere.’ But he loosened his grip on her arm.
Ears as well as eyes. And tongues all too ready to twist what the eyes and ears had taken in. She longed for the familiar haven of Donmouth, where every face was known to her.
Radmer was looking over her, back towards the king’s tent. ‘Damn it.’
And the ox-man was there, out of nowhere, right in front of her, blocking the sun. ‘This is the girl?’ He reached towards her.
Radmer moved between them. ‘You’ve had my answer, Tilmon.’
‘Think again.’ Tilmon looked back towards the tent.
‘Don’t insult me. A landless exile. A traitor. The king may be talking to you, but he still doubts your loyalty, and Alred’s.’ Elfrun could almost see her father’s hackles rising, hear the low snarl. ‘And he’s right.’
Something touched her elbow, and she yelped.
It was the dumpy, twill-swathed woman. Close to, she reminded Elfrun irresistibly of a hedgehog, with her bright black eyes, pudgy face and sweet smile. Her veil was pinned slightly awry, allowing tight, dark curls, streaked with silver, to escape around her temples. ‘Radmer.’
Elfrun’s father nodded stiffly. ‘Switha.’
Switha moved into the space between the men. ‘We’re on the same side now. At least look at my boy.’ Her voice was warm and low, with a caressing note.
‘Out of the question.’ Radmer tried to turn away.
But, and to Elfrun’s amazement, the woman laid an intimate hand on his sleeve, moving closer to him and dropping her voice still further. ‘Whether Osberht trusts us or not, he needs us. He knows what’s in the wind.’ She turned, and her dark eyes scanned Elfrun, a long searching gaze, before she looked up into Radmer’s face once more. ‘How about letting bygones be bygones?’ She sounded so reasonable. ‘We were all good friends once.’
He shook himself free and stepped back, out of reach. ‘Never.’
‘Why, Radmer? You have to put her somewhere.’ Tilmon made a sound that could have been laugh or growl, but Switha ignored him. She was still smiling. ‘This could be so easy, Radmer. And you’re making it so hard.’
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About Victoria Whitworth
VICTORIA WHITWORTH is a historian and bestselling author of The Bone Thief and The Traitors’ Pit. Having worked as a lecturer, tour guide, artist’s model and teacher, she now lives in Orkney, where she writes full time.
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First published in the UK in 2017 by Head of Zeus Ltd
Copyright © Victoria Whitworth, 2017
The moral right of Victoria Whitworth to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
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A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN (HB) 9781784978372
ISBN (E) 9781784978365
Author photograph © Hugh Dickens
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