The Wolf and the Dove

by Kathleen E. Woodiwiss

  The Viking nodded and spun on his heels, departing as Wulfgar turned to Miderd.

  “Go to the larder,” he bade her, “Cut long strips from the dried venison. Bring two small bags of meal and two skins of water.”

  Before she could move he had gone up the stairs to his chamber. When a few moments later he returned, he wore no mail or helm but a soft cap of doeskin and a shirt of the same, overlaid with a rough jerkin of wolf fur held in place by a belt from which hung his broadsword and a well-honed dagger. Over his doeskin boots he wore leggings of wolf fur bound in place in the Viking manner. He passed Haylan and Kerwick, who now managed to sit and as he paused, his voice came low and harsh.

  “This is a thing I have delayed too long and now it has struck me sore. Until I return, Kerwick, mind this hall. Bolsgar and my knights will give you aid.”

  Miderd approached with the required items and he took them from her and with no other word hastened out. At the stables he divided the provisions with Sweyn and nodded his approval when he saw that the Norseman was dressed much as he and had included a goodly bag of grain for each horse. Then the two of them mounted and in a moment were out of sight.

  Bolsgar had finished his labor and set the battlefield at peace. The graves were well marked and he left some twenty horses laden with plunder in the stables then hastened to the hall where he found Kerwick seated at the table, still pale and drawn. Haylan tied the last strips of a bandage about his head then sat beside him and held his hand.

  The old Saxon listened to the tale Kerwick spun and his face grew dark with rage and shame.

  “Gwyneth sprang from my loins and I must see this done,” he murmured, half to himself. “Wulfgar may give his sister pardon, but not I. I will follow and if he hesitates I shall lend assurance that her traitor’s days are done.”

  He went sadly to his chamber and returned in a short moment. He chose only a bag of salt and a strong bow to add to his sword. In a moment he too had left Darkenwald.

  Ragnor rode as if Satan dogged his heels and raged at each delay. Aislinn struggled with Bryce. To keep him still in her arms, yet guide the mare proved a test of her abilities. She complained bitterly when Ragnor whipped her horse into a brief gallop, but knew that in his rankling mood he would not spare her the blade if she gave him reason.

  They pressed on, swinging wide of London and any Norman patrols, resting only a brief few hours at night to rise with the first light of dawn, choke down cold gruel and meat and ride on again. Though it gave her little respite, Aislinn was glad for the brevity of the rests. Ragnor’s eyes turned to her more and more and she knew his thoughts would have quickly found some ease if there had been time to spare. She could not escape his gaze at night though Gwyneth pressed close to him, and at dawn when she nursed the babe, he always found reason to be near.

  Bryce slept in her arms for the most part, giving her some rest as they rode, but when he woke he squalled with renewed vigor at his enforced inactivity. Ragnor grew more savage with each passing hour and even Gwyneth, who had ridden silently these many miles, began to feel the bite of his tongue. Aislinn wondered at the man. He might succeed in reaching the northern hills and live out a hard life in the bleak barren lands, stealing from others for livelihood or join Atheling Edgar and his cause, but there would still be Wulfgar.

  With his name in her mind, tears came to her eyes. She could only hope that he could somehow contrive to rescue or ransom them. Indeed, she could only hope that Bolsgar had reached him in time to warn him of the trap that lay in wait and that he still lived. She could not bear Ragnor’s boasting of the snares he had set for Wulfgar and knew a deep fear that he might have fallen.

  The sun rose high and the road became dusty. Bryce woke and fed fitfully, then whined and mewled when his mother would not put him down for a romp.

  Ragnor turned in his saddle and snarled, “Cease that bastard’s whining!”

  Aislinn crooned and sang softly to her son, rocking him in her arms and he finally quieted and settled himself for another nap. They had left the lowlands of the rivers and entered the rolling, heath-strewn, midland hills. They passed the ruins of a small village, the cottages tumbled and roofless. As they trotted slowly through what had been the square, a withered crone sidled forth from the shadows. She had lost an eye and her right arm hung stunted and useless while in the left she held a crude wooden bowl which she thrust toward Ragnor.

  “A copper, your lordship?” she said with a twisted smile. “A copper for a poor old—”

  Ragnor kicked at her and with amazing agility for her ravaged frame she avoided him. Aislinn paused and the hag renewed her plea.

  “A copper, a bauble, a morsel, your ladyship.”

  In pity Aislinn tossed her the remains of a dried loaf of bread, realizing as she did so she might be giving away her own meal. Ragnor sneered at her charity and urged them onward. He halted suddenly at the edge of the square, drawing his sword and facing Aislinn.

  “That brat delays us and I have no use for two hostages.”

  Aislinn drew Bryce to her and spoke with the determination of a mother. “You gave your word, Ragnor. To kill him you must take me first and then you would have no hostage when Wulfgar comes.”

  Her hand came from beneath the woolen cloak with the small dagger clutched desperately in it. The other men drew away agog and Ragnor cursed at his folly of not having taken the weapon from her sooner. Vachel rested his arms on the horn of his saddle and grinned.

  “What say you, cousin? Will you let the proud vixen kill herself?”

  Gwyneth of all knew Aislinn and seeing a chance, kicked her own steed forward to crash into Aislinn’s and snatched the dagger while the other grasped for support and clung fearfully to her son. Regaining control of the punch, Aislinn turned anger bright eyes toward Wulfgar’s sister.

  “Traitor!” she hissed. “Always the traitor. Poor Gwyneth.”

  Ragnor laughed and sheathed his sword. “Aah, my dove, will you never yield? I would slay whom I will and you can change it naught. But I have given my word and unless you force me to, I have no intention of harming the lad. I would but leave him with yonder hag and give her ample food and a few pence for her trouble.”

  “Nay!” Aislinn gasped. “You cannot!”

  “There are goats in yonder glade,” he argued. “And the old woman would have no shortage of milk. And if as you say Wulfgar, Sweyn, or others do follow, they will surely find the child and fetch him home.”

  Aislinn found hope in the last statement and realized she bore a better chance to escape unburdened. Finally with a heavy sob and tears flowing down her face she yielded her son to Gwyneth who took the babe and carried him back to where the crone squatted in the dust clutching her crust of bread. Bryce raised a howl in a lusty voice for one so young and even from a distance Gwyneth seemed glad to lay him in the arm of the old crone. She could be seen to haggle and then she counted out coins, gave over a small skin of wine and a portion from their supplies. Mounting the dappled mare she returned in haste as the old woman raised wondering eyes after them.

  Now the journey began in earnest. Ragnor pushed the band as he could not before. Soon their steeds began to wheeze and gasp for breath. They halted in a shaded spot and the saddles were drawn off the exhausted beasts and placed on fresh mounts that Ragnor had taken from Wulfgar’s stable.

  As they rested, Ragnor and Gwyneth drew off to one side and could be seen laughing and talking as if they exchanged some jest. When the new steeds were finally readied and watered, Aislinn dragged herself again into the saddle and watched with saddened heart as her own dapple-gray was turned loose and trotted slowly away. Ragnor closed up beside her on his mount and with a strange smile on his lips, took the reins from her hands, shaking them over the destry’s head.

  “I’ll lead a while, my dove, in case you would like to return.”

  He led off slowly, letting Gwyneth and Vachel and the other men move a distance ahead. After some moments he laughed aloud and s
lowed until they rode side by side.

  “It seems Gwyneth has done us both one better,” he chuckled. To Aislinn’s raised brow he explained, “She convinced the hag she would soon need someone to beg for her and that a young lad well trained would be worthy aid.”

  Aislinn gasped, fear making a cold hollow in her stomach, but Ragnor continued.

  “And before Gwyneth left she warned the hag of an evil Norman knight who might possibly come searching for the boy.”

  He laughed aloud and before Aislinn could recover, spurred his horse to a gallop dragging hers with it. She clutched for support and as they neared the others he shouted back over his shoulder:

  “Don’t think of jumping, Aislinn. You’d surely break a bone, and even not, I’d tie you across the saddle and that, my dove, might somewhat bruise your dignity.”

  Aislinn held on in dejection and fear and with lowered eyes watched the flashing hooves beneath her churn mile after mile between her and Bryce.

  That night she choked down a meal barely warmed before the fire was doused. She was lashed by her wrists to a tree, and drained by hopelessness, she soon sank into the full stupor of utter fatigue.

  Wulfgar and Sweyn rode side by side. The two great destriers lightened of heavy chain and armor loped easily along. No word was spoken but in absolute necessity and then brief questions at village and farm, thus the trail was drawn and the pace never slackened. The close observer might have seen that the great ax never left the Norseman’s grip and that the hilt of the long broadsword was fondled constantly by the Norman knight.

  There was a deadliness about the two and a sense of purpose that would not be denied. When a halt was called, a double handful of grain was carefully fed to the huge horses and then they drank and briefly grazed,while the men chewed on leathery strips of meat and caught quick naps in the sun.

  Well past midnight a restless peasant wondered at the steady drum of hooves thundering by his cottage. Wulfgar knew no exhaustion. He was well trained to the hardship required by the martial calling. He rode relaxed in the saddle yet his thoughts ranged far ahead. Perhaps Aislinn and the babe had both been slain by now. His mind recoiled at the idea, trying to imagine life without Aislinn’s happy laughter ringing in his ears and here his musings found only a black, gaping dread. It came to him as bright sunlight in the night that he loved Aislinn beyond all reason, beyond his own life. He accepted the fact and found he relished the taste of it.

  He smiled to himself in the blackness and spoke to the Viking who rode at his side. Though his voice was soft, there was a note of death in it that made Sweyn try to see his face in the gloom.

  “Ragnor is mine! Come what may, Ragnor is mine.”

  Soon there was a trail to follow, the cold coals of a campfire, the flattened grass where a maid might have rested. The eagerness of the two men became intent and they rode steadily past other wayfarers who paused to stare after them.

  Then in the, broken highlands, of the north shore near Scotland, they topped a hill and on a distant knoll caught a glimpse of six riders, one whose mount was led. The great warhorses seemed to catch the fever of their masters and, though tired, stretched their mighty sinews a bit more.

  Three slowed slightly in the group ahead, dropping back while one knight and two women fled on. The distance narrowed and the three saw a favor in that only two pursued. At a shout from Vachel they halted, drew swords and braced themselves against those two.

  As the hunters saw their game to earth, a long, undulating war cry from Wulfgar’s throat ended on a note that raised the hackles of a nearby fox and sent it scurrying to its den. The great sword flashed on high and hummed in the wind and the war ax swung in a tight circle above the Viking’s crown. At the wailing sound from the far off hill, Ragnor pulled his steed to a halt and cursed the fates for he knew Wulfgar’s cry and worse, he knew Wulfgar.

  The two warriors raced, never pausing, at the three who confronted them. Both stood in their saddles and leaned far forward. Wulfgar clasped the Hun’s heaving flanks hard with his knees and a short lance length away he jerked the reins and the Hun raised up and crashed not into the other steed but crushed the hapless rider beneath his shield. His sword hued through the other’s shield and half the arm that held it before the man could strike. Another blow and it was finished.

  With a surge the Hun thrust himself free of the tangle and whirled about, but there was no need. Vachel had fallen with his leg shattered and knelt in the dust glaring up at Sweyn.

  “For Beaufonte!” Sweyn roared and the ax hurtled downward. Vachel sank slowly into the dust and paid full score for his loyalty to Ragnor.

  Sweyn jerked his ax free from Vachel’s helm and shouted thanks to Wodin but too soon. His great destrier slowly slid to its knees with the hilt of Vachel’s sword protruding from its ribs. Sweyn stepped free and as the horse writhed in agony, the Norseman’s broad face mirrored the pain he saw. His ax rose and fell and the loyal charger collapsed in the dust.

  Wulfgar dismounted and cleaned his sword on the cloak of one that had fallen. With his foot he turned Vachel face up with eyes wide and unseeing and with trickles of blood marking uneven paths from his brow to his jaw. Wulfgar’s gaze lifted to the now dwindling figures that rode beyond.

  “I must go on,” he said. He met Sweyn’s eye. “See to these and return to Darkenwald. God willing I will meet you there with Aislinn and the babe.”

  Sweyn nodded and gave a last bit of warning. “See to your back.”

  They grasped each other’s hands for a moment, then Wulfgar swung back into the saddle and was off at a merciless pace that spared neither man nor beast.

  Ragnor had wasted little time. As Wulfgar’s battle cry ended he led the women off again as fast as the winded steeds could race across the steepening hills. Aislinn rode behind him, strangely calm. Assured now that Wulfgar lived, she knew a warmth in her breast and a smile half parted her lips. Glancing over his shoulder at her, Ragnor found little ease in the serenity he saw in her face.

  The afternoon drew out and still they raced on, the horses stumbling and wheezing, froth covering their sides but whipped ever onward. The three riders paced along a cliff above a wide, still loch that glistened silvery in the lengthening shadows. They came to a break in the sheer wall and began a slow, careful descent. Their breath frosted and swirled out before them. Aislinn’s hands, gripping the horse’s mane, grew numb with the cold yet she dared not loosen her hold for fear of tumbling down the rocky ravine. Before them stretched a thin bar of sand leading to a low island where there was the tumbled remains of some ancient Pictish stronghold. Ragnor led them down the break in the cliff along the sandy bar into the ruins. They halted in a large courtyard, bordered on three sides by a low stone wall and on the seaward side by the higher remaining wall of a temple. Within the ancient courtyard rose a block of stone with crude loops at its corners, possibly where the living sacrifices of pagan rites were offered up.

  Ragnor snatched Aislinn from the saddle and bore her to the stone, leaving Gwyneth to dismount herself and tie her mare secure with the other two horses. Ragnor bound Aislinn’s wrists together to a loop with the use of leather strips and as she shivered with the cold, removed his own mantle and drew it close about her. He lingered a moment beside her, gazing upon her fine features with an odd mixture of lust and respect, and he wondered how it might have been with this woman had their meeting been different. Perhaps the world would have been an easy apple for him to pluck with her at his side. His thoughts took him to that sorry night he first laid eyes upon her. How could he have known then that in his efforts to have her he would be led to ruin? Now Wulfgar, if he had managed to escape Vachel and the other two, was on his trail like a wolf scenting blood.

  Wulfgar pushed the Hun to his limit and as the beast stood wheezing, knew that he had given his last. He dismounted and gave the horse the rest of the grain and rubbed him well with the empty bag. Turning the steed back towards Sweyn, he slapped him on the rump and sent him
off in a flurry of hooves. Wulfgar started walking and as he went he chewed a mouthful of dried meat and grain, adding water until he could swallow, then washed it down with a healthy draught. He took off the belt and broadsword and slung it over his shoulder so the blade lay along his spine with the hilt easily reached just behind his neck. Now he broke into a trot, loping along, his head down following the faint trail of hoofprints on the hard ground. He was in the gloaming when he came to the brow of a cliff and saw an island and the glimmer of firelight on it. The tide was rising and the sand bar was slim. By the time he reached it, dusk had deepened and a good foot of water covered the strip of sand. Ragnor had planned well, he thought. Now a silent approach was impossible.

  Withdrawing to a rock in the shadows Wulfgar waited the rising of the moon, chewing another mouthful of dry food as he watched the mists rise from the water in the frosty night. The black hills about the loch seemed to gather their shoulders and hunch their backs against the darkening night. He climbed the cliff a ways that he might look down into the square and from there he could see three figures in the firelight; Gwyneth moving about near the fire, Ragnor standing where he could watch the shallow strand and Aislinn huddled in the folds of a mantle by a great block of stone. And the babe—where was he?

  Slowly the night lightened and a great orange half moon rose to perch on a moor. Wulfgar knew the hour had arrived and he smiled. Tipping back his head he gave vent to his battle cry, a low pealing moan that rose on the night winds and echoed from the cliffs, ending in a wail of rage.

  In the tumbled ruins below, Ragnor started and flung up his head. The howling cry that resounded across the loch held him motionless as if he could hear naught but the ring of death in it. Beside the stone Aislinn lifted her gaze to peer into the blackness beyond the fire. She knew Wulfgar’s battle cry, yet the raising moan sent a shiver up her spine. It brought to mind a great black wolf who had stared at her across another fire with the wisdom not of his kind.

  With a gasp Gwyneth whirled to Ragnor with a fearful look, her pallor apearing ghostly white in the glow of the meager light, but as the last echo of Wulfgar’s war cry ended Ragnor’s face twisted in a snarl. With long, angry strides he crossed to Aislinn, slipping a short knife from his belt. Aislinn’s breath caught in her throat then she glared at him in open defiance, expecting to feel that sharp blade plunging into her breast, but with a quick motion Ragnor cut through the thong binding one wrist, setting it free. She stared up at him, wondering what next would follow, but he gave a cruel smile, sheathing the blade, and pulled her to her feet. He crushed her against his mail clad chest and his dark eyes pierced hers to their very depth. She gave him no resistance but hung limp in his arms. His hand moved slowly, caressingly down her cheek as if he were held for a moment in a trance by her beauty. His lean brown fingers took her chin in their iron grip. With no regard for Gwyneth who gaped at them in stunned surprise, he kissed Aislinn, bruising her soft lips as he forced them apart beneath his. Her hand came up against his side, straining to push him away, but he gave her no respite. His lips lingered above hers with his breath falling hot and heavy against them.