Daughter of the Wolf

by Victoria Whitworth

  And he had looked happy, his jowly, freckled face half lit by the hearth-flicker.

  Kin-strife. That was another phrase to file away. Every disaster brought its opportunities.

  An evening blackbird called from a berry-freighted elder. Finn was hungry and thirsty, and he stopped to pull a few of the bittersweet little fruits from their dark-red stems and crush them with his teeth. Not too many though: they could do dire things to a man’s insides. He would not, he guessed, make Louth before dark. And it would be dark soon: there was cloud coming in, and no moon, and it was now late enough in the summer that true night had returned.

  Not much shelter up here on the high chalk, though, and the light would linger for a few miles yet. No folk, either. He could sleep fine well with no more than a bush as a windbreak, and despite the thickening cloud there was no hint of rain in the air, but, given the choice of that or a fire and a morsel to eat, he knew which he would pick. Finn stepped out, swinging his ashplant, in an easy lope that ate up the miles.

  He had not gone more than a couple, though, when the sound of bleating floated in on the evening air. He stopped at once. Flocks meant a shepherd, and a shepherd meant dogs. His hand tightened around the smooth wood, an instant transition from walking stick to weapon.

  They approached crouched and growling, rough, grey-furred animals not far removed from the wolves they had been bred to defend against. Two of them, or two that he could see in the dusk, flattened and with that insistent low lip-curled snarl that told him they meant business. Finn backed slowly, stick at the ready. There were no trees to climb. They were slinking closer, separating to right and to left, splitting his attention.

  He breathed slowly, still stepping backwards, hands lifted appeasingly, the stick poised. Still that unnerving growl that had the hackles rising on the back of his own neck. Were they herding him, hunting him, or merely seeing him off?

  A sudden, sharp whistle, and both dogs froze.

  Finn did the same, keeping his breathing steady. They were still staring at him, and he knew that to turn and run would be an open invitation.

  Another whistle, on a different note, and the dogs both turned with a last flash of white teeth and loped off into the thickening darkness.

  Finn didn’t shift, still concentrating on in-breath and out-breath, slowly lowering his weight from the balls of his feet back to his heels, letting his knees relax. The dogs could return at any moment. And where there were dogs, there were men.

  ‘Who’re you?’

  He couldn’t see who had spoken. The voice came from somewhere above and behind, on the bank that flanked the northern side of the road. He didn’t move, still taking care to appear unthreatening. A high voice, a young voice. But the rash young could be far more dangerous than the wary old. ‘A pedlar,’ he said. He lowered his ashplant, angled his back to draw attention to his burden. ‘See my pack?’

  There was a grunt, and then a silence. Finn waited.

  Then another voice, gruff. ‘Buying, pedlar, or just selling?’

  Relief coursed through Finn’s veins. He shifted his weight on to one leg and flexed the other knee. ‘I could be buying,’ he admitted.

  A crunch of flint and chalk as the young one jumped down from the bank. He looked half-sheep himself in his sleeveless coat of lambskins, the fleece on the outside. A jerk of the head. Finn followed.

  The shepherds’ shelter was half a mile off, a crescent of stacked turf roofed with bent withies, and a solid sheet of greasy felt against rain and wind. The fire had been banked with more turves, and the boy peeled these back and started feeding it with dry thorny twigs that crackled and sent sparks twisting up into the night sky. Dry oatcakes, and fingers of hard, sour cheese. Ewe’s milk, warm from the teat and bitter with late-summer grass. The dogs skulked back and forth at the edge of vision, their eyes occasionally flashing an unearthly gleam as they reflected the fire.

  They were silent men, and Finn let them be. If they had something further to offer him they would do it in their own time. Before he lay down he double-tied the fastenings of his pack and tucked his cloak around it as well as himself. The wicker was not only light to carry; it creaked and complained at the slightest pressure. He would know at once if anyone tried to open it while he slept. But he kept the hilt of his belt-knife in his hand, all the same.

  No one tried.

  He opened his eyes from his usual deep, dreamless sleep to a cold dawn. Fog, too thick a grey for the sun yet to have risen. The even-nights might be a month away but he could smell autumn in the air, the way the cold hit the back of his nostrils. He rolled himself on to one elbow to see his hosts the far side of the fire, their backs to him, talking too low for him to make out their words. He needed to relieve himself, so he got to his feet, making more noise than he needed to alert them to his wakeful presence.

  When he turned back to the fire they were facing him, side by side. The older man nudged the young one. A boy, really. The boy looked down and muttered something. He had his hands behind his back.

  The older man: ‘He found it. When we were down at the steadings. He was hoeing his mam’s little patch, and this came up.’ It was more words than they had spoken all the past evening. He nudged the boy again. ‘Go on.’

  The boy held out his hand. It grasped a sizable thing of dull green bronze, still filthy with soil, like a giant spoon with a flat bowl: a disc with a series of welded loops for a handle. Finn took it carefully, turning it from side to side, hefting it. He had no idea what it might be, but the metal would be worth something, if only for scrap. He picked at the encrusted layers of dirt and corrosion. There was craftsmanship lurking there. His face kept its expression of mild, courteous interest, but behind the mask he was thinking fast. At Louth he could beg sour wine, flour, make a paste that would bring the shine back to the bronze. Give him an idea what sort of thing he held.

  ‘What will I give you for it?’

  The lad was silent, red-eared and shuffling.

  ‘I’ve shared your bread. Never fear. I’ll offer you a fair exchange.’

  The big man laughed in his beard. ‘A love charm, that’s what he’s after. A drink to make her lie down and welcome him in.’

  Finn smiled, and spread his hands wide. ‘Do I look like a cunning-woman? A leech?’ He handed the bronze thing back to the boy and reached for his pack. ‘What would she like, your girl? A ribbon? A bead?’ He looked at the boy’s unclouded face, his guileless blue eyes and smooth chin, and his heart twisted inside him. The big men, the hard men, they could shift for themselves. But the innocents, the children, their mothers, they troubled him. Reaching for his pack, he rummaged until his questing fingers found the little leather pouch they sought. Two blue and white glass beads tipped into his palm. ‘Here. One for you and one for her. Wear them round your necks, on a good thong. They’ll protect your eyes, and guard against the Eye. And much else.’ He held out his hand, a cool brown cup of palm and fingers cradling the little treasures. The boy scrabbled for them, pink and speechless, almost forgetting to hand Finn the bronze thing in his turn, until the big shepherd nudged him. They spat into their palms and clasped hands on the deal, and Finn hefted his pack once more.

  15

  ‘Osberht wanted to talk about Rome.’ Radmer swung himself down from the high, gilt-tricked saddle. ‘He should have asked your grandmother. She’s been there. Or Ingeld. He claims to be a priest, after all.’

  ‘Rome?’ Elfrun felt blank as the newly woven linen stretched out and bleaching on the grass beyond the gates. Swallows and their new broods swooped and chittered about their heads.

  ‘He needs someone to visit the Pope.’

  ‘Someone to go to Rome?’ Had her father said the Islands of the Blessed, or the Gates of Hell, she would have been no less incredulous. It had never occurred to Elfrun that Rome was still an actual place, one that folk might simply go to, as mundane as Barton or Illingham. Rome belonged to long ago – the setting for the improving stories Abarhild told her,
of the virgin martyrs, those exotic holy girls like Agnes and Agatha and Lucy; of Abarhild’s own pilgrimage to the threshold of the Apostles in her impossibly distant girlhood. And now her father was telling her Rome was real, part of the same solid earth she herself walked on. But there was the sea in between.

  ‘Will they have to sail there?’ She blushed as soon as she had spoken. Of course they would. There was no other way.

  Radmer had his back to her, loosening Hafoc’s girth. ‘Is Widia still alive?’

  Was her father trying to change the subject? Or perhaps he was just being kind, ignoring her stupid question. ‘Yes! And mending, we think, though it’s too soon to be certain.’

  ‘Your grandmother is a miracle-worker.’ He gave Hafoc’s bridle a tug and Elfrun fell into step beside them as they walked towards the stable. She could see Luda making his awkward way towards them, and she wanted to keep her father to herself, learn as much as she could before the steward caught them up and blocked her out. She hunted for the proper words.

  ‘The king is sending a mission to Rome then?’

  ‘Me,’ he said. ‘He’s sending me.’

  He might as well have pushed her over a cliff. The yard around her, the familiar hall and heddern and women’s house, were crystal in their clarity, and yet there was a boom and rush in her ears. Luda was gesturing angrily to Athulf to come over and take Hafoc’s reins, and her father was turning to say something to Abarhild in the doorway of the hall, and the doves were cooing in the sun on the hall roof, and she was still falling. Something was wrong with her ears. She couldn’t possibly have heard what she thought he had said.

  Rome.

  A confused babel of half-understood thoughts and images.

  City of once-murderous emperors. Where they had crucified St Peter upside down. She had seen a carving of that on a stone in the great minster at York. Peter, the first Pope. Popes lived there now, in the city where the virgin martyrs had scorned their suitors and gone to their bloody doom.

  A real place?

  Something, he was saying something meaningless, about honour and Peter’s pence and before the autumn storms.

  Abarhild was taking over. Pointing with her stick, and speaking harshly to Luda, who was bobbing his head and rubbing his hands. They were going into the hall. Her father was saying something. No, of course, I can’t refuse. But it made no sense.

  She was still outside, with that rushing in her ears. Athulf was hauling Hafoc round and she fell mindlessly into step beside them.

  ‘Going to Rome,’ she heard Athulf say. ‘How long will he be gone? What will that mean for us?’

  Us? What was he on about, us? She twitched the reins away from him. Hafoc was her father’s horse. She should look after him.

  Unbuckling the girth, hauling the great saddle down and putting it away; twisting a wisp of hay to rub Hafoc’s hot damp flanks, finding a handful of oats for him to nuzzle from her palm with his muscular, whiskery lips: all this was routine and a source of comfort. Athulf had turned his back on her and was shovelling dung, and she leaned against Hafoc’s shoulder and ran her hand up his neck and under his mane. He blew through his lips and turned his head, and she thought she could see a shared concern in his liquid, long-lashed gaze.

  Would Hafoc have to go to Rome, too? She couldn’t imagine how her father would manage without him.

  Hafoc was her father’s horse. Luda her father’s steward, Widia her father’s huntsman, Cuthred her father’s smith. And she was her father’s daughter. Who were they, if Radmer went away?

  16

  Ingeld and Wulfhere had ridden out on the great road that led north out of York up into the heartland round the Pickering marshes, where the rich little minsters clustered thick as gems on a necklace, Stonegrave and Hovingham, Coxwold, Malton, Lastingham and Hackness, and all the way to Whitby. Not that they were going even as far as Crayke today, but the sun was shining, and why should the Archbishop of York and the abbot of Donmouth not ride out together, old friends as they were?

  And here on the road, while they might be observed, no one could overhear their murmured conversation. York was several miles behind them already, and apart from the occasional herdsman they had seen few folk in the meadows, and on the road itself they had met only a single pedlar with his pack. Not many folk chose to build their home close to a road where armies marched. Life was dangerous enough without drawing down that kind of attention on one’s head. Both abbot and archbishop were armed and in layman’s tunic and leggings, and no one had done more than lift a cautious head to watch them pass. Still and all, their talk so far had been of matters that any man might listen to. Domnall ap Alpin, king of the Picts, had held a council of Church and State at Forteviot, and York’s envoys had just returned with news of the great church his folk were building at Dunkeld to house the relics of St Columba. Word had come in on a merchant ship that back at the end of winter the Saracens had martyred the new archbishop of Cordoba.

  ‘Eulogius. Poor man.’ Wulfhere shook his head. ‘I never met him, but by all reports he was a good and learned priest. Never even enthroned as archbishop, either.’ He sighed. ‘There have already been miracles, the man said.’

  ‘Saracens and sea-wolves. Hispania is truly beset.’

  ‘Are you making a song about it?’

  Ingeld shook his head. ‘I’d rather write an elegy for my brother.’ He twisted round in his saddle. ‘Radmer is going to Rome. Radmer.’

  Wulfhere said nothing. They were riding knee to knee, Ingeld on a borrowed mare from the archiepiscopal stables as Storm was resting after the two-day journey from Donmouth. Their servants kept their horses a discreet dozen paces behind.

  Ingeld wasn’t going to let the matter drop. ‘You must have been part of this. After everything we’ve said...’ His tension was communicating itself to his horse, and she jibbed a little, swivelling her ears. Ingeld leaned forward and stroked her neck. ‘Hush, beauty, hush there. It’s not you, it’s me.’

  Wulfhere clicked his tongue and his horse stepped out a little more quickly. ‘You’ve only just taken up your place at Donmouth minster. Why do you want to leave so soon?’

  Ingeld urged his own mount to keep pace. ‘Only just? It’s been half a year already, and now the winter’s coming.’

  ‘You have your mother for company.’

  ‘My mother, to whom I am a disappointment. My stiff-necked brother, who finds his only pleasure in thwarting mine. And my not-so-little niece. I thought her a fine fighting spirit but they’re crushing her between them. Millstones.’ Ingeld fell silent, intrigued by his own insight. ‘She should fight back. I want to smack her sometimes.’

  Wulfhere was not interested. ‘Radmer is going to Rome on the king’s orders, not mine.’

  ‘But it’s a mission to the Pope.’ Ingeld was very ready to push thoughts of his family away. ‘You must have been involved.’

  ‘Peter’s pence is a royal tithe, not an episcopal one.’

  ‘But it gets sent every year, without a man of Radmer’s stature going as escort.’ Ingeld twisted round again. ‘Why not me? We’ve always talked of going to Rome.’

  ‘Aye, and Ravenna, and Constantinople.’ Wulfhere raised an eyebrow, the closest his cautious face ever came to smiling. ‘We’ll make our pilgrimage one of these years, my friend. Jerusalem, too, if you like. But Osberht has it in mind that Athelwulf of Wessex went to Rome, with his youngest son, just a few years since, and returned with powerful new friendships, not just with the Pope but the kings and princes whose lands he passed through, coming and going.’

  ‘And a thirteen-year-old princess as his bride, if memory serves.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Wulfhere’s tone was dry.

  ‘So why isn’t Osberht going himself?’

  ‘Now is not the time. You know that.’

  And Ingeld did know. Radmer might think him a lightweight, but he paid attention. From a safe distance the violent machinations of court politics held all the illicit thrill of a cockfight
.

  ‘Tilmon.’

  Wulfhere nodded. ‘Tilmon and Alred have been seen together, close as they ever were. South of the Tees, where Alred is not supposed to be.’

  Ingeld was quiet for a moment, working out all the implications. ‘Osberht must be wetting himself.’

  ‘He wants them at hand, where he can watch them. Tilmon and Switha, safely at Illingham.’

  ‘And yet he sends the King’s Wolf to Rome.’

  ‘He shows the world the King’s Wolf is still tame, still his to command. And that Northumbria’s monarch has friends the length of Frankia and Lombardy, as well as at the Lateran.’ Wulfhere looked thoughtfully at his friend. ‘Osberht is angry with Radmer. Osberht thinks the way to hold Tilmon is a Donmouth–Illingham alliance, and Radmer is a stubborn fool who is still fighting over the wars of seven years ago. The world has changed, and Radmer hasn’t noticed. So Osberht is using this opportunity to show Radmer who rules Northumbria. That a good dog obeys his master. Sit up. Roll over. Die for the king.’

  ‘And you approve?’

  ‘Why not?’ Wulfhere shrugged. ‘Osberht may be my cousin, but I don’t think my fortunes rise and fall with his. Let him run his risks. So yes, why not?’

  Ingeld ruminated, casting the odd sidelong glance at his friend’s narrow face. He was probably right, that the fortunes of king and archbishop ran on their separate courses. Kings and their thanes were subject to the vagaries of fortune. The court shuffled endlessly between the king’s many vills, from Driffield and Goodmanham in the south to Bamburgh and Edinburgh in the far north, faces continually changing as men fell into and out of favour. But the wealth and power of York’s archbishopric were stable and eternal. Its radiant churches: St Peter, Holy Wisdom, St Martin, St Mary, St Gregory. The greatest library west of Milan. Always something new in York, something beautiful, to distract him from the ever-present threat of boredom. And worse than boredom, despair.

  He glanced once more at the archbishop to find that Wulfhere was watching him, still with that eyebrow raised. ‘You know what they say in Frankia?’