Daughter of the Wolf

by Victoria Whitworth

  ‘What?’

  ‘While the wolf’s away the little foxes frolic.’

  ‘Ha.’

  They rode in silence for a little while. The sun was hot, but a breeze was freshening, and to the north, over the Hambleton hills, thunderheads were beginning to build.

  ‘We should turn back.’ Wulfhere reined in.

  Ingeld baulked. ‘Must we? Speaking of wolf, we could go into the hills. Look for tracks now, and come back later with the hounds.’

  Wulfhere sighed. ‘Haven’t you noticed, little fox? We’re not novices any more.’

  ‘Really, my lord archbishop? How did that happen?’ With an exaggerated shrug, Ingeld tugged his horse’s head round to the south. The surface was good here and they trotted for a while.

  Wulfhere was right. He had been too distracted by ridiculous, childish outrage at his older brother being given this exceptional treat. Radmer’s absence could offer advantages. He would have to think about that.

  The roofs and walls of York’s great minster were just coming into view. ‘Come on,’ Ingeld called. They might not be novices any more, but he was damned if he was going to let his closest friend dwindle into middle age without a fight. ‘I’ll race you.’

  17

  As soon as the shout went up that the sail was sighted Radmer walked to the stable.

  ‘Tell Elfrun to come after me.’

  He swung himself on to Hafoc’s blanketed back and headed for the hill that sloped away and up behind the yards. The late-summer grass was long, pink and bronze with seed heads, spangled with the last of the buttercups, all a green-gold haze, though the wind that rippled through the grass was the same nagging easterly that had set in over the last day or two. It had brought the ship at last, weeks after they had first started looking for it. Lambs, stocky now and hardly distinguishable from their mothers, bolted at his approach, tails bouncing in their wake. When he got to the row of barrows that marked the crest of the hill as seen from the shore he slowed and looked around.

  He was forty-two years old, and for fully half those years he had held Donmouth. He had travelled the length of Northumbria over and over; he had been in fights with the Mercians and men of Lindsey whose north-easternmost lands marched so close to his own estates; the Picts north across the Forth; the men of Dumbarton on their rock on the Clyde; and as far as Wales. And he had the scars to prove it. But his easterly horizon had always been bounded by that restless blue-grey mass of water. It glittered on the edge of vision now as he tugged on Hafoc’s halter, and turned the horse’s head to gaze back down the way they had come, over the roofs of hall and heddern and bower, cook-house and weaving shed. A couple of his men were up on the hall roof, patching the shingles. He was glad to see Widia in the yard, holding Mara while Elfrun scrambled on to her back. Such a relief that his huntsman was back on his feet at last. There was not a soul in Donmouth whom he didn’t value. This huddle of buildings, and the fields and pastures beyond, moor and salt marsh and fen, the hundred or so folk who laboured incessantly to make Donmouth what it was, under his guidance, bounded by sweet and salt and brackish water. This was the whole of his world.

  But Donmouth was more than just his hall and its lands. There was the minster, itself a rich endowment.

  Radmer shook his head. The minster wasn’t visible from the hall: the spur of land that jutted where the stream flowed down blocked his view. Three miles away, but not nearly far enough, he was finding, with Ingeld as abbot. Radner knew his anger was bad for him, body and soul.

  Things would have to change.

  When he returned from Rome he would do what his mother had long advised: build himself a little oratory by the hall. He could see it so clearly. A house fit for God, painted and plastered without and within, and a gilt cross finial attached to the gable end, so that when he was in his dotage he could totter out of the south door of the hall and its sunlit promise would be the first thing on which his eyes would alight.

  It would give him comfort, Abarhild had said. Balsam for his soul. He could start working for the forgiveness and reconciliation he so sorely needed.

  Hafoc shifted and tried to walk forward, and Radmer gripped harder with his thighs.

  His dotage. There would be time enough then to repent all the deeds of violence, the hard counsel, to make amends with God. For his family, for Donmouth, for Northumbria. Never yet for himself – at least, that had never been his intention. Surely God would understand.

  But he wasn’t in his dotage, not quite yet. Radmer had a sudden urge to knee Hafoc into a headlong gallop, to go whooping and shrieking down to the shore and set sail, leaving all the worries in his wake. Instead he breathed deeply, allowing himself a little smile, and settled his red cloak more securely over his shoulders, its silver tags chinking gently against each other.

  The last weeks had been full of such endless planning – for the voyage, but much more for Donmouth and how it would manage in his absence. The hay-harvest was long gathered and stored; the barley was in; the apples were ripening; but he could already feel the long winter coming up hard on the harvest’s heels. Rationing and maintenance, killing the pigs and the bull-calves, the endless threshing, the predictable… and the unpredictable.

  And that was just Donmouth.

  Elfrun came trotting over the grass on Mara, breathless and pink-cheeked. As she reined her pony in Radmer raised a hand in greeting, batting away the anxieties that buzzed around him like summer blowflies. Beyond her, across river and estuary, the headland that marked the corner of the Illingham lands slept in the shifting sun and shade. He wasn’t used to indecision, but he had been trapped into going to Rome, and he didn’t know whom to trust.

  Trust his instinct then. It had always served him well.

  Osberht valued his loyalty. Osberht owed him his life. He and the king had been side by side for twenty years.

  Osberht would never send him to Rome if there were anything to fear from Illingham. But for all that he couldn’t rest easy, not with Tilmon and Switha so close.

  ‘You wanted me, Father?’

  He nodded. He had been planning to talk to her ever since getting back from Driffield, and now he was running out of time. Abarhild was right: his little girl was leaving childhood – had left it, indeed, somehow without his noticing. She was as old now as her mother had been when he had married her, God forgive him.

  And even now the words were almost impossible to find. How did he put his fears for her into words? It was tantamount to an admission of failure as father, lord, guardian.

  ‘Father?’

  They were right, the gossips; they had all been right: he should have seen her safely stowed by now. Either with the good nuns north at Hovingham, as Abarhild had always wanted, or married to some steady man. He was letting her down.

  He had been afraid of this parting, that there would be tears, tantrums. But she met his gaze directly, brown eyes wide and clear.

  He nodded a greeting. ‘We’ll be back in the spring. As soon as the mountain passes are clear.’

  ‘Abarhild says the mountains are dangerous when the snow melts. She says you mustn’t take any risks you don’t have to.’

  This wasn’t the conversation he wanted to have. He sighed. ‘Your grandmother is lady of the hall while I am gone.’ He raised a hand to forestall her. ‘I’ve told Luda. And I want you to listen to them. Follow their orders in everything.’

  He had told Abarhild and Luda his decision only the previous day.

  Abarhild had been furious, of course. ‘You are doing this to thwart me, aren’t you? Elfrun is more than old enough.’ He had tried to speak, and she had jumped down his throat. ‘Of course she is childish, Radmer, and she will be as long as you treat her like a child.’ But he had folded his arms and set his teeth and let her bitter words flow over him until finally she fell silent.

  And then disagreement from the corner he had least foreseen. ‘With all due respect, I agree with the lady Abarhild.’ A sideways glance from Luda and
a judicious sucking of his teeth. ‘I find it’s the same with my own eldest daughter. These girls need responsibilities to steady them. Marriage, babies. Something to break them to the saddle.’

  Even to himself, Radmer couldn’t fully explain his own reluctance. He knew only that the thought of Elfrun taking up that load of duty, without him being there to watch and guide her, broke his heart.

  And if he were away then she would have to be lord as well as lady, with all the burden of judgement and punishment, record and render, to add to the overseeing of brewing and baking and loom.

  No. It was too much. Far too much, and too soon. He knew Elfrun thought she could carry out her mother’s tasks, and she was probably right. Next summer, when he returned, and they could let Abarhild retire. But not the lord’s duties as well.

  Abarhild had tried to stare him down, but he could meet her fury with his own cold, adamantine anger. Luda, however, had rubbed his hands together, ducking his head and smiling in the obsequious way that set Radmer’s teeth on edge, and that was much harder to fight. He valued his steward, both for his skills in managing the day-to-day drudgery of the estate, and for his supervision of the tanning of skins for leather and their tawing for parchment. He had also felt a powerful obligation to the man ever since the nightmare of that midsummer day over twenty-five years ago when Luda had been trampled in the playing of the Keg.

  One can, however, trust and respect a man without liking him.

  They had knuckled under, as he had known they would, but it left a bitter taste in his mouth.

  Elfrun was frowning, her face flushed and clearly wanting to respond, so he went on talking himself, fast, to forestall her. He didn’t know how he would get the words out otherwise. ‘Elfa, I’m concerned’ – he couldn’t bring himself to say frightened – ‘about Illingham. They’re trouble. Avoid them.’ She was frowning now. ‘Tilmon, you remember? The big man, at the meeting.’

  ‘The ox-man.’

  He nodded. ‘Good description. Stubborn. Powerful. In it for the long haul.’ He was talking to himself as much as her. ‘And perhaps I’m wrong. Osberht may be doing the canny thing, keeping him close. But I’ve fought alongside that man as well as facing him over the shield wall, and, friend or foe, I don’t trust him.’ His heart beat faster, remembering. ‘Them.’

  ‘I understand. But I’m hardly likely to see much of them, except at the meeting.’ She paused. ‘Will Grandmother have to speak at the meeting?’ She had looped her reins, and Mara had her head down, tearing at the tall grass.

  ‘What? I doubt it.’ He was still fighting the old battles, and he took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. But down in the distance a rider on a white horse was coming along the track that led from the minster to the harbour, and Radmer’s agitation only increased. How much of that unexpected desire to be gone had been inspired by a longing to be free from his gadfly little brother? Heahred was following on a mule, and Radmer had no doubt that the bundle on the deacon’s saddle-bow would be Ingeld’s ridiculously ornate yellow silk chasuble. Fit for the bishop Abarhild still, incredibly, dreamed of him becoming.

  Radmer turned back to Elfrun. ‘Get Ingeld to speak for the hall at the meeting, if needed. He seems to have plenty of time on his hands.’

  ‘Father…’ She hesitated, then said in a rush, ‘Leave me your cloak?’

  ‘What?’ He frowned at her. Where had that request come from? The red cloak was the harvest of the loom of the king’s wife and her women, dyed in the wool with costly carmine from the far south; the tags were worth a little fortune for their craftsmanship, never mind the weight of the silver. He might think it a flashy object, better suited to a young warrior on the make than a grizzled old war-wolf like himself, but the gift had been an honour and he was proud to wear it.

  ‘They say it’s hot in Rome.’ She lifted her chin, her eyes bright. ‘You won’t need it. I want something’ – she wrapped her arms around herself – ‘just something… Oh, never mind.’

  Such a childish request, he thought, like a toddler clinging to a rag that smelt of mother’s milk. And there was a long autumn-into-winter road by land and sea and a high mountain range between him and his destination. And he was the king’s envoy: it was crucial that he keep fitting state. But, and without quite knowing why, he slid the tags out through the loops and shrugged off the weight of wool. ‘Here, then.’ He nudged Hafoc closer and draped it awkwardly over her shoulders. It swamped her, and he had to look away briefly to hide a smile. His little girl. ‘Something to remind the world that you are Elfrun, Radmer’s daughter. Elfrun of Donmouth.’

  18

  In the estuary the broad-beamed coastal trader was dropping anchor. Shallow though its draught might be, the ever-shifting sandbanks between Donmouth and Illingham posed a constant hazard, and a wise captain stood well out in the bay. Even from here Radmer could see the bustle in the yard, hear the faint shouts as Luda ordered the bundles brought down to the shore. So much baggage, to make certain that the king’s envoy maintained a proper state on the long road. There was Dunstan’s unmistakable butter-coloured head, his arm pointing up the hill. Radmer had been spotted. It was time to go back down. He leaned forward and patted Hafoc’s neck. Widia had charge of the horses. Hafoc would be fine.

  Everything would be fine.

  He had done all he could. His house was in order.

  And, under all the hammer-blows of worry, that sense of excitement was still there, like one of the fresh rills that came down from the summer pastures. Time to go. The wind smelt of salt and rotting seaweed, a scent that he had always known, but today it hit his nostrils as though for the first time.

  A little four-oared boat was putting out from the Donmouth shore, and Radmer thought yet again that it was high time they built themselves a jetty, save all the slog over the wet sand.

  When he got back, perhaps.

  He was needed down there, to oversee the loading. To make sure that the fine red leather purses with their gilt fasteners, heavy with tribute for Pope Nicholas, were stowed as safe and dry as they might be. The letters for the Archbishop of Rheims. His safe-conduct, the introductions, the list of monasteries that would provide shelter on the long trawl through Frankia and into those fabled mountains...

  He sighed and urged Hafoc forward, Elfrun falling in behind him. But halfway down the slope he paused. From here he could see the Illingham shore more clearly, and a little gaggle of men gathering just above the high-tide line. And no reason why not. But they weren’t mending their nets, or caulking their boats: they weren’t doing anything. Just standing around, watching; and even from here he could make out Tilmon’s looming bulk among them, bald head gleaming, and that russet-haired lad of his at his side. No great surprise, to be sure. The sight of a vessel was always fascinating, whether threat or promise. But that group of interested observers chilled him, finally quenching the last sparks of excitement.

  Tilmon, and his son. Radmer’s face tightened, and he glanced across at Elfrun.

  Would he have loved his daughter so much if his sons had lived?

  They trotted into the little group by the shore and reined in, looking out to sea. The men in the Donmouth boat were shipping their oars and catching the line thrown down to them. The coaster was a vessel well known to them, putting into their harbour twice a year, and the folk of Donmouth had known for weeks that this would be how their lord would leave them. Even at this distance the burly shoulders and grey curls of the ship’s master, jumping squarely into the four-oarer, were familiar. Not so the tentative, hooded figure who followed him, though.

  ‘Where have you been?’ Abarhild was waspish. ‘There’s rain coming in on that wind. To keep me standing around like this! And what is she doing in your cloak?’

  The boat had turned and was making for the shore with long, strong strokes, speeded a little by the easterly breeze. The men of Donmouth knew their sea fine well.

  The thin man’s hood had fallen back as he scrambled down into the Donmo
uth boat, and Radmer could see now he was dark, and tonsured. An envoy from the archbishop, to accompany him on the journey? Slowly the folk of Donmouth were gathering to bid their lord farewell. Luda, with Saethryth and the throng of little ones. Hirel the big shepherd stood a few paces away, his dark, jowly face reminding Radmer of a faithful, mournful hound. Cuthred the smith with his wife, and another string of children, Cudda standing a little aloof. Widia, still haggard, the line of the scar across his face purple and angry, and Radmer knew from the way he held himself that the newly knit bone and flesh along his flank were hurting him too. If he wasn’t careful, Abarhild had said, he would set like that, tight and hunched on the one side. And a wound like that could turn a man bitter. Not many managed as well as Luda, with his game leg.

  The boat slid into the shallows and canted as its keel met the sand. The master was helping the tonsured stranger over the side, into ankle-deep water. The stranger had a box clutched in his arms, of golden oak, finely made but undecorated, and a heavy bag of double-woven linen slung over his shoulder and skewing his balance. The box was the burden that was fussing him, though. More gifts for the Pope, perhaps.

  The stranger turned, and made straight for Radmer. He stiffened, pulling his shoulders back, readying a greeting. But no, that dark, hollow gaze was to the right, just a little, and it was in front of Abarhild that the stranger knelt, awkward, the box clutched in his arms like a heavy, hard-edged baby. He had sallow skin, so green-tinged that Radmer thought he must have had a choppy crossing. A high-bridged nose between eyes grey as glass. The tonsure was neatly cut, but the dome of his skull was stubbled. He bowed his head. ‘Domina.’

  And Abarhild came alive. A babble of the Gallic she hardly ever spoke, fluting and sibilant, as she bent to cup the man’s elbows and draw him to his feet, to gesture with an abrupt motion of her head to Luda to take the box. A clumsy, passionate exchange, and Abarhild knelt stiffly in turn to receive the man’s blessing. At some point Gallic transmuted into Latin, but Radmer could not have put his finger on the moment.