‘Sorry I’m late,’ Wulfric said. Spot gave him a warm welcome, which Wulfric played up. ‘Hello Sigert. Thanks for keeping Adalhaid company while she was waiting. You needn’t delay any longer.’
There was an uncomfortable silence for a moment as Sigert worked out what Wulfric meant. He gave Adalhaid a smile before nodding and leaving. Wulfric was an apprentice warrior, and Sigert was a leatherworker’s son. He should have known better than to delay.
‘What was that all about?’ Adalhaid said. ‘Did he do something to you?’
‘What do you mean? Of course not. It’s just, well, I’m an apprentice now, and he should show a little more respect.’
‘Really? You were very short with him, for no good reason,’ Adalhaid said.
‘I didn’t mean to be,’ Wulfric said, backtracking as quickly as he could.
‘I’ve seen a change in you recently,’ she said. She stood from the wall and gathered the few things she had with her. ‘I’m not sure I like it. Spot!’
She walked away without another word, with Spot close on her heels.
THE END of planting in spring was always marked by a festival, the last one before Jorundyr’s Day at harvest time. The apprentices held a display of horsemanship that became the talk of the village in the days leading up to it. It was only supposed to be an entertainment, but it always became competitive as each apprentice tried to prove himself the best. Wulfric was no different. He believed he could win.
The contest gave Wulfric the chance to show everyone in the village what he had made of himself, how he had changed from timid boy to budding warrior in less than a year. It gave him the chance to show Adalhaid that he was a man, and could look out for himself, that he was someone to be admired rather than pitied.
Posts had been driven into the ground throughout one of the pastures, and a ring was attached to each one. Tall haystacks were littered throughout the pasture to prevent the riders from being able to gallop between the posts in straight lines. Speed, acceleration, manoeuvrability, and the horseman’s skill in controlling his mount were all tested as the participants raced around the pasture gathering as many rings with their spears as they could. The rider with the most rings at the end was the winner.
There had been little talk of the event amongst the apprentices in the lead up to it—a surprise considering it was all anyone else spoke about—but Wulfric knew that it was dominating all of their thoughts. They all wanted to win it. Part of a warrior’s life was about acquiring fame through brave deeds, and this was the first chance any of them had to do that. They all dreamed of the glory victory would bring, none more than Wulfric, but dreaming alone would not bring it about.
16
The riders lined up along one side of the pasture, horses snorting, equipment rattling, and breaths creating little clouds in the air, but not one of the apprentices uttered a word. It was early and the morning mist hung over the grass, almost obscuring the spectators lined up along the other side. The tension surrounding the riders was as palpable as the mist—everyone was eager to impress.
Wulfric’s father was watching, but that was not the only person on his mind. If anything, his father was secondary. Adalhaid was there too, and her presence was what Wulfric was thinking about most. They had not spoken since she got angry with him. He wanted her to see how much he had achieved. He couldn’t explain why the need felt so great, but her opinion was the only one that mattered.
Greyfell was stamping his hoof and casting aggressive glances at the other horses. Wulfric admired him his single-mindedness—the flutter of nerves in his own stomach was difficult to ignore. The previous night he had felt much as Greyfell was now behaving; confident and eager to get going with it. Now all he could do was wonder if he was going to throw up. Every person in the village was there watching, even his mother who usually eschewed such things.
The piles of hay and the ring posts loomed in and out of view amongst the clouds of mist. In order to keep the apprentices on their toes, not all posts had a ring. They had been randomly laid out that morning, so no one could plan their route in advance. It was going to be a mad dash to find them.
The rules were sparse on physical contact. Actual combat was forbidden, the test being designed to show speed, agility, and horsemanship rather than brawling, but barging someone out of the way was perfectly acceptable. In that, Wulfric had an advantage. He had grown big over the past year, but Greyfell was huge and the other horses remained terrified of him.
Waldegrim presided over the event. He was a dour-looking man, who always dressed head to toe in black, but he was acknowledged as the finest horseman in the village and was deferred to in all such matters. He inspected each rider, checking their equipment for anything that went against the spirit of the contest. It was not unheard of for dirty tricks to be employed, as in the heat of the contest it was often hard to work out who the offender was. Such was the desire for victory.
When Waldegrim was satisfied no one had concealed spikes anywhere, he moved to the side and raised his right arm. Wulfric felt his heart race. Despite the cold morning air, he was sweating. He cast a glimpse along the line of assembled horsemen. All of the horses grew agitated as they sensed the moment growing closer. They snorted and stamped, revealing the emotion that each of their riders tried to conceal. Anshel was three down from him, and probably Wulfric’s greatest threat. He looked straight ahead, his angular features betraying nothing. It was as though he was carved from a block of ice. Was he just better at hiding his nerves than Wulfric?
He caught Helfric casting him a sideways glance. He was a weaker horseman than Wulfric, and if he tried anything underhand Wulfric was determined to make him regret it. He was so caught up in his thoughts, Wulfric almost missed Waldegrim drop his hand.
If Wulfric’s reactions were a fraction late, Greyfell’s were not. Both horse and rider bolted from the line. Wulfric, his mind back where it needed to be, focussed on the nearest ring. Quick glances from the corners of his eyes showed that he was pulling away from the others, but speed was not everything, and with a large stack of hay close by the post, stopping quickly was as important.
Wulfric aimed the tip of his lance at the ring’s empty centre, and stretched forward. Hearing it rattle up the lance’s wooden shaft went a long way to steady the turmoil in his gut. The ring needed a firm pull to free it from its mounting on the post, and for a panic-filled instant, Wulfric felt the spear tug in his grip as he passed it at speed. He held firm, felt the ring give way and breathed a sigh of relief. He urged Greyfell to the left and grazed one of the haystacks, sending a cloud of hay into the air. He cut back to the right hard. Greyfell gasped with the exertion but responded perfectly.
As Wulfric rounded the haystack, he saw some of the others charging in and out of the mist. He spotted his next target and spurred Greyfell toward it. Hane was going for it with everything he had, but Wulfric got there first, scooped it from its post and added a second ring to his lance. He gave Hane, whose face was a picture of disappointment, a nod, but the ring was fairly won. Wulfric wheeled Greyfell around and headed for the next ring, one he had chosen when riding for the previous that took him close to where the spectators were gathered. With his confidence built, he planned to give them a show.
He did his best to stay focussed on the ring, but his eyes drifted across the assembly and he spotted Adalhaid. Standing next to her, his attention most definitely not directed at the contest, was Sigert. The moment’s distraction was all it took for Roal to thunder across Wulfric’s path, making for the same ring, and well ahead. Wulfric urged Greyfell on, but the gap between them was too great.
Roal was on it—he leaned forward from his saddle and stretched out with his lance. The tip struck the ring’s edge, sending it spinning into the air. Roal shook his lance in frustration and reined in his horse to go back for it. Wulfric watched the ring’s flight through the air until it landed on the soft turf. He cast another glance in Adalhaid’s direction. She was watching him, but
Sigert’s eyes were still firmly fixed on her.
He twisted the leather reins around his palm and gripped them as tightly as he could. With a final look to Adalhaid, his eyes catching hers, he spurred Greyfell toward the fallen ring. Greyfell was at full gallop along the edge of the crowd when he leaned from the saddle. Gripping firmly with his legs he slid sideways until he was perpendicular to Greyfell’s flank. He heard the crowd gasp and could not help but smile. The lapse in concentration almost cost him as he slipped farther than he had intended, his head almost brushing the ground. He clamped down hard with his legs and arrested his descent, his thighs screaming and his joints twisting with the effort.
He had tried this manoeuvre twice before when riding Greyfell, and on both occasions it had ended with him flat on his back. He had done it this time without hesitation, common sense replaced by a desire to ensure Adalhaid did not spare a single thought for Sigert again that day, or any other. Every muscle in his body strained to the point of agony as he fought to remain attached to Greyfell.
The ring lay flat on the ground. He scooped it up into the air with the tip of his lance, then speared it, to a chorus of cheers and applause. He would have smiled were it not for the need to get back into his saddle. Each jolt of the horse threatened to throw him free. Sliding down was the easy part; he had not yet had the opportunity to try getting back up.
He pulled with every fibre of his body, the taut reins wrapped around his hand cutting off the circulation in his fingers. His grip threatened to falter, but if he fell to the ground he would be disqualified from the contest and all his hard work would be for naught. With one last effort, he pulled on the reins and pressed on the stirrup as hard as he could. He launched himself back into the saddle; it was far from graceful, and was certainly not a stylish end to his act of bravado, but it was far better than the alternative.
His showboating had cost him precious time, and Wulfric wondered if it had been worth the effort for that single ring. He looked around in the hope of seeing another one nearby. He reckoned a fourth might be enough to take the win. He spotted one and charged for it without wasting an instant.
As he passed a haystack, Helfric emerged from the other side, making for the same ring as fast as he could. Greyfell needed no encouragement; as soon as he saw Helfric, he redoubled his effort. Wulfric crouched low, standing in the stirrups, trying to move in concert with Greyfell. His hooves thundered on the ground and Wulfric could hear his breath rasping, but he showed no signs of faltering. Slowly but surely, they drew Helfric in, until finally they were alongside one another.
Helfric looked over in dismay. He whipped his horse on, something that was anathema to Wulfric, but despite its increased effort, Greyfell matched it without any such encouragement. Helfric looked over again to see if he was pulling away. When he realised there was no difference, he swerved and shouldered into Wulfric and Greyfell. Caught off guard, Greyfell stumbled, but recovered with the next step, and pushed on to bring them level again. Helfric repeated the tactic, but they were ready for it, and he bounced off them ineffectually.
Not one to let the behaviour go unanswered, Wulfric urged Greyfell to the left, barging into Helfric and his horse. They had already played this game on foot, and Wulfric thought Helfric would have had more sense. Helfric veered away after the impact, but disappointingly remained in his saddle.
The ring was growing close. Wulfric looked over and saw Helfric glaring at him, his face a picture of spite. Wulfric spotted three rings on his lance. He followed the lance’s movement and realised that it was heading toward him faster than it ought to be. The realisation came too late. A bright light flashed behind Wulfric’s eyes when it struck him on the temple. He managed to remain in the saddle, but his head was rattled by the blow.
‘Helfric Bertholdson! Disqualified.’ Waldegrim’s stentorian voice thundered across the pasture.
It served him right, and Wulfric did not spare him another thought, focussing instead on the ring. Anshel blasted from behind a hay stack and lanced it. With considerable dismay, Wulfric saw that it joined the four that were already on it. He looked around, but saw no more. There was no way to catch him.
Anshel slowed to a canter and wheeled his horse around, holding up his lance as he did. Wulfric reined Greyfell to a halt, both of them breathing heavily. He wondered if Greyfell sensed his disappointment. Everyone else was trotting around, most sporting two or three rings on their lances, but none with more than that, other than Anshel. He was the only one smiling. Everyone else, Wulfric included, did their best to hide their feelings. He looked toward Adalhaid, who was playing with her hair as she chatted with Sigert, without so much as a glance in Wulfric’s direction. It was a bitter medicine to swallow. Belgar’s words echoed in his ears: ‘Smarter, not harder.’ That day had been very hard, but it appeared he had not been very smart.
AS WULFRIC PUT Greyfell away for the night, he sensed that the horse was as disappointed by the day’s result as he was. He trudged home, ambivalent to how the day had played out. The decisions he had made were poor, and he had allowed himself to be drawn into things that had hindered him. That day it meant losing. On the battlefield it could mean dying.
‘That was my ring.’
The source of the voice was behind him, but he didn’t need to see it to know it came from Helfric. Wulfric stopped, but didn’t turn.
‘It belonged to whoever could get it. Anshel, as it turns out,’ Wulfric said.
‘I’d have taken it if you hadn’t gotten in my way.’
‘Well, I did, and I’m not in the mood to discuss it with you, so get over it.’
Rorik and Walmer stepped out in front of him.
Wulfric nodded. ‘So it’s like that. You know you’re not able to do it on your own, so you recruit help. All we need now is Rodulf. He must feel very left out.’
Wulfric turned and stepped back to try and put all three of them on one side of him. With his back secure, he had a chance, even if it was a slim one.
‘I might not win this, but one of you is in for a bad evening,’ Wulfric said, with as much bravado as he could muster.
‘Reckon more than one of you is in for a bad evening,’ Hane said, stepping out from the shadow of a nearby building. He walked over, shouldered Walmer out of his way and stopped beside Wulfric. He turned to face the others, with folded arms.
‘Get them,’ Helfric said. Nobody moved.
‘Taking over Rodulf’s job?’ Wulfric said. ‘You don’t seem to be as good at it as he was.’
‘Now,’ Helfric said. ‘Get them!’
Still nobody moved. Eventually, Rorik did.
He stepped back and faced Helfric. ‘Get them yourself,’ he said. ‘I told you this was a bad idea. I’m going home.’ He turned and left.
‘Two on two,’ Hane said. ‘Don’t fancy your chances. Didn’t fancy them before, either.’
‘Well?’ Wulfric said. ‘Are you going to get us?’
Helfric’s face was a picture of enraged impotence. Walmer was staring at him uncertainly.
‘Did Rodulf put you up to this?’ Wulfric said.
Helfric sneered. ‘I wouldn’t do anything for a merchant’s son.’
‘So you came up with this plan to beat a brother apprentice all by yourself?’ Hane said.
Helfric remained silent.
‘I’m going home too,’ Walmer said, backing away before he turned and disappeared into the night.
‘Probably time you went home too,’ Wulfric said. ‘We both know how it ended the last time it was just the two of us.’
Helfric glared at him a moment longer before storming off. Wulfric watched him go, then turned to Hane.
‘Thanks. That wouldn’t have gone well for me on my own.’
‘No need for thanks,’ Hane said. ‘We’re brothers now.’
‘It would be nice if Helfric realised that too.’
‘He will. Just takes some longer than others.’
17
Wulfric was heading
toward the glade, eating a bread roll while he walked. He went as quickly as he could manage with a mouthful of food while not suffocating himself in the process, as he was running late. His last session with Belgar had been that morning, and it went on longer than usual as he took the opportunity to ask the old warrior every question he could think of.
Svana was walking through the square with some of her friends. Wulfric spotted her and rushed to brush the crumbs from his woollen tunic.
‘Good morning, Wulfric,’ Svana said. She smiled as they passed.
Wulfric halted in surprise and inhaled a chunk of bread. The girls laughed as he hacked and spluttered as he tried to bring it back up. She had never spoken to him before. He looked back, and as he did she cast a glance over her shoulder and smiled again as they walked away. Wulfric raised an eyebrow as he drew his first unimpeded breath. What had brought on that change in treatment? It left him with a feeling of nagging concern in his gut.
WULFRIC HAD NOT BEEN able to stop thinking about his brief encounter with Svana for several days, wondering if it meant their formal courtship would begin soon and feeling sick at the thought, all the while trying to conceal his worries from Adalhaid. The time for dwelling on it was taken from him, however, as preparations began for the apprentices’ first expedition.
The instruction given the previous day was to arrive to training with their horses ready and supplies and kit for a two-day ranging, the first that they would be in charge of themselves. Several apprentices were already there when Wulfric arrived, and the glade was filled with the sound of excited chatter and laughter. Eldric, Waldegrim, and Angest were gathered by the standing stone chatting with a more casual air than Wulfric would have expected. It seemed they too were looking forward to what was on the agenda.
‘You can all put your kit down and relax,’ Eldric said, when everyone was assembled. ‘We’re going to do things a bit differently this time around. Usually, we spend a couple of days wandering around the forest looking at prints in the dirt and nothing much happens, so Angest and Waldegrim here are going to answer their true callings and play at reavers for the next two days.’
The Wolf of the North: Wolf of the North Book 1 Page 11
