Daughter of the Wolf

by Victoria Whitworth

‘Leave him?’ Luda feigned surprise. ‘Ah. Hirel, you mean? And go where, if you’re not coming here?’

  ‘Ingeld would look after me.’

  ‘Ingeld would look after me,’ he mimicked, high-pitched and nasal. ‘How can you be my daughter? Where’s your sense? For half a year, maybe, until he gets sick of you and your whining and finds some other stupid girl ready to scratch his itch.’ The corners of his mouth tugged down with disgust.

  ‘It’s not like that with us.’

  He father shot her a glance that made her redden with anger. He held up his hand. ‘Wait.’ He limped over to the base of the ladder and barked a few instructions, waiting for the men to come down and move the base of the ladder-pole a few yards to the right, before they clambered up again.

  Then he came back. ‘Not like that, eh? How old are you?’ She opened her mouth, but he ignored her. ‘God knows, you look enough like a woman, and I thought you were old enough to know better, but maybe not. I’m of an age with Radmer. I’ve a decade on Ingeld. I grew up with them. Do you really think I’ve never seen this happen before?’

  Saethryth wanted to stop her ears, or – better – shut her father’s mouth. ‘He says I’m different.’

  ‘Aye, well, maybe that’s true.’ He paused, then spat out his next words. ‘Even more stupid than most. Readier to lie down and open your legs when he gives you that smile.’ His face darkened. ‘Are you having a baby yet?’

  Saethryth folded her arms and hunched her shoulders. ‘Not that I know of.’

  ‘Well, see that you get one going. It doesn’t matter who the father is, but a wean or two will soon put a stop to this messing about.’ He laughed shortly. ‘Then you’ll find out what hard work really means.’

  ‘It’s not fair.’

  ‘That’s been your song all your life. God doesn’t deal fairly with us, so why should we deal fairly with each other?’ He turned to pick up the full basket of damp moss and rotten reeds, and thrust it into her arms. ‘Go and empty that into the ditch, and then get back to work.’ His close-set eyes were hard and narrowed. ‘Shift on, lass. What you want doesn’t matter. I need you married to Hirel, and I need you working harder at the dairy. Cheese doesn’t make itself, you know.’

  Saethryth stared at him, then glanced down at the filthy basket she was holding. Her face twisted. She shoved it back at her father, hard enough to make him stagger. He managed to regain his balance but not to hold on to the basket, which thumped down and toppled on to its side, spilling its load. She wiped her hands on her skirts. ‘You can’t have it both ways. If I’m a married woman, then I’m not yours to order about any more. One master’s enough. Go find someone else to bully. Try Mam.’ Saethryth snorted, her cheeks pink with excitement, aware of fascinated eyes. ‘Good luck.’ She turned on her heel and walked away.

  41

  ‘They pay their geld to Burgred of Mercia,’ Athulf called across. ‘They’re fair game, never fear.’ He and Thancrad were riding abreast, the latter on that truly fine horse of his, not large but nimble and responsive. Nine years old, Thancrad had said, and he’d been training her since she was a filly. Behind them Athulf could hear the hoof-beats of the ponies ridden by Dene and dark-bearded Addan, Thancrad’s slightly younger cousins – and shadows, Athulf thought contemptuously. Followers.

  Addan and Dene were riding serviceable skewbald nags, not like Thancrad’s soft-eyed, proud-necked bay. To an impartial eye, Athulf’s own mount, the elderly chestnut with a bristling blond mane out of his uncle’s stable, might look little better than theirs but he and Elfrun had both learned to ride on Mara; the mare could read his half-formed thoughts and wishes before he could himself, and he would hear nothing against her. They were riding at a steady trot through the thin belt of scrubby woodland around twenty miles south-west of Donmouth, on the edge of the marches dividing Northumbria from Mercia, hills on the sunset side, bog and reed-bed on the other, stretching to the sea.

  He knew quite well that Addan and Dene were not pleased at him leading this raid. But they didn’t know the paths through the trackless watery lands that spread so far around the estuary. Without him they would flounder into the fen and be swallowed up. And if they didn’t show him more respect he might just let them go right ahead.

  Athulf’s pilfered sword banged against his thigh, giving him a deep sense of satisfaction. He had replaced the key on its hook before Abarhild and her women had emerged from the minster church. So easy, as though he had been meant to have the sword. He clapped his heels to Mara’s flanks and pushed her into a faster trot, eager to keep ahead of Thancrad and the others, though the going was rough and the light fading. They were cresting a low ridge, coming through a gap in the trees, and the ground fell away before them, down into the broad lush stream-threaded plain of the Trent valley. He reined his horse in just before the thick-crowded trees petered away into lighter cover of hazel and rowan. ‘I was last here a week ago.’ He pointed to where a lazy coil of smoke unravelled in the early spring air. ‘Their hall’s there.’ His arm swept westward. ‘They’ve been outwintering some of their cattle on the high ground, with only a couple of little lads to watch them.’

  ‘Seems rash,’ Thancrad said.

  ‘They’ve stopped thinking that danger might come from the north.’ Athulf grinned, a wolfish look that transformed his soft, round features.

  ‘What are we waiting for?’ Addan urged his pony forward.

  Thancrad’s hand shot out and grabbed his cousin’s rein. ‘Dark, you fool. Listen to Athulf. And don’t let yourself be sky-lined.’ He jerked his head backwards, indicating that they should return the way they had come. Once they were back under the cover of the trees they all slid down from their mounts and hobbled them to let them graze, then sat or squatted deep in shadow.

  Athulf looked thoughtfully at the other three. Thancrad was the oldest; Thancrad’s father was one of the king’s thanes; Thancrad was the unacknowledged leader of their little group. But this was his raid, and he intended to lead it. He was prepared to let Thancrad show some initiative. If either scowling Addan or taciturn Dene tried it on, though, he would discover his mistake. They had never yet warmed to Athulf or admitted him as one of their tribe.

  He had unbuckled his sword, and now he was sitting cross-legged with it lying across his lap. Reaching down into his pouch, Athulf pulled out a little lump of suet wrapped in a scrap of muslin. He began working the grease with his fingers and rubbing it into the dry, peeling leather of his scabbard. The light was fading fast, and his fingers were stiff and cold.

  He glanced up suddenly to find all three of the Illingham lads were looking at him.

  ‘What?’

  Addan was grinning. ‘They say you shouldn’t judge a sword by its sheath, but I don’t know.’ He shook his head. ‘Where did you find that one? Your mother’s midden?’

  ‘Don’t be too hard on him.’ Dene glanced warily at Thancrad for approval before going on. ‘Poor little Athulf didn’t even have a sword last time we saw him. He doesn’t have a mother, either.’

  Addan laughed. ‘Is there really a sword in there? Or are you just posturing with an empty old scabbard your uncle had thrown away?’ He rose to his feet and started walking towards Athulf. ‘Let’s see your blade.’

  Athulf looked at Thancrad, but he had risen silently and was seeing to his horse, his back turned to the others. Athulf was absolutely certain that Thancrad was listening, but he gave no sign. Addan was standing over him now. Athulf clenched his fist on the warm lump of suet, feeling it softening and moulding to the shape of his fingers and palm.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Addan looked ostentatiously around him. ‘Not got your little churl-bred friends with you? What kind of warrior are you? Oh, I forgot. Your mother was a slave, wasn’t she? No wonder you’re tongue-tied when you’re out with your betters.’

  ‘Be careful,’ Athulf said softly.

  ‘As careful as you and your little friends when you were sneaking around pinching our barley last aut
umn? What?’ Athulf heard Addan snicker. ‘Did you think we didn’t know about that? You should have asked. We’d have taken pity on poor, hungry Donmouth if you’d begged us hard enough. Maybe you should beg now.’ He glanced round, assessing the mood of the others. ‘On your knees, slave boy.’

  Athulf sprang to his feet, grappling with his hilt. Thancrad had turned round, and he and Dene were both watching. Addan had his hands on his hips, his head cocked to one side. Athulf couldn’t see too clearly, but he was sure the other was smiling.

  Athulf pulled his sword from its sheath. There had been no time yet to take it to the smithy for regrinding. But he had brought it back to brightness with sand, and used Widia’s whetstone to polish away some of the smaller gouges in the blade-edge; now was not the moment to agonize over all that he had left undone. He tossed the belt and scabbard to one side. ‘Come on then. I’ll show you how hungry men of Donmouth can be.’

  Addan glanced over his shoulder, and Athulf realized, first, that the other lad was unarmed and, next, that he was frightened. Exhilarated, he took a step forward, lunging with the sword, and Addan flinched. ‘Thancrad? Dene?’

  But they stayed where they were.

  ‘Where’s your own sword, Addan?’ Athulf took another step forward. ‘You should know better than to step away from it. Didn’t your bones tell you battle was coming? What kind of warrior are you?’ He gave his blade a little shake, knowing that if he didn’t take care the wooden hilt, smooth from the grip of men long dead, might slip from his greasy fingers. ‘My sword doesn’t look so useless now, does it?’

  Without realizing it, Addan had backed himself against the broad trunk of an ash tree. Slowly he raised his hands to shoulder-height.

  Athulf lifted the sword to tap the point of the blade against Addan’s chest. He almost smiled, remembering his encounter with Elfrun in his uncle’s treasure-chamber. ‘You’re not half the man my cousin Elfrun is, for all your beard.’

  ‘Enough.’ Thancrad straightened up, and only then did Athulf realize he had been keeping a restraining hand on Dene’s shoulder. ‘No need to prove yourself against an unarmed man, Athulf. We get the point. All of us.’ A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. ‘And, Addan, you’re a fool.’ He made an exasperated, flicking gesture. ‘I say we ride out at midnight. In the meantime, tend to your horses and get some sleep. Athulf, do you want to keep the first watch?’

  Suggestions, not orders.

  Athulf decided he could acquiesce without losing face. And he wouldn’t have slept, anyway, not in that company. He kept his sword loose in its scabbard, close to him under his cloak, and stared into the half-dark, waiting for Addan to come back and get his revenge. High thin cloud covered the sky, and somewhere behind it a waning and westering moon, against which the bare trees formed a dark lattice. The night was full of rustles and creaks. The occasional harsh bark of a fox came up to his ears, and the horses shifted their hooves and snorted and tore at the meagre grass, but as far as he could tell the other three slept soundly until the stars told him the middle of the night had come at last.

  It was exhilarating riding down to the pastures, the hooves of their horses muffled with rags. Picking out four likely cattle, then charging in and heading them off for all their frantic bellowing, driving them up and away while the sleeping children who should have been watching them were still scrambling to their feet in panic terror. It was also a thrill to be on guard at the rear while they escorted their shaggy, bewildered prizes – all, he suspected, in calf – back along their trackless route as the sky slowly lightened. He had felt a deep sense of triumph when they came riding through Donmouth at dusk and his own dark-brown, long-horned prize was singled out and driven into the yard, while the women and children came tumbling out of doors to stare and point and wonder.

  But nothing of all this – nothing – could compare with the pleasure he had experienced when Addan had taken that first step backwards, the corners of his mouth tugging down in terror and his shaking hands rising to shoulder-height, half fending, half appeasing. Athulf found himself smiling in reminiscence. Pressing his lips together, he glanced at the others where they were hauling their horses round to herd the three remaining cattle across to Illingham.

  Thancrad caught his eye, and raised a hand.

  Thoughtful, Athulf returned the salute. Thancrad thought he was master; that he could lead by making men love him. But fear might prove a more useful weapon than love.

  PART THREE

  THE CHRONICLE, YORK MINSTER SCRIPTORIUM

  APRIL 860, HOLY SATURDAY

  ‘We thought you’d given up on that project.’ The librarian peered short-sightedly at the stack of vellum. ‘It got put here somewhere in the waste pile, to be scraped back, but I don’t think anyone’s done it yet.’

  ‘I can see it, sticking out.’ The chronicler would not have cared, especially, even if that carefully prepared quire had been lost. But it lay near the top of the sloppily stacked pile, sitting askew, folded as though prematurely readied for binding and cutting. And since it had crossed his mind, and he had taken the trouble to come into the quiet scriptorium and ask, and it now lay under his hand, he might as well do some work.

  ‘You can’t really expect us to keep your desk for you,’ the librarian scolded. ‘Not when you’re only here every couple of months.’

  ‘I don’t expect it.’

  The old man softened. ‘You’re missed, you know.’

  The chronicler laughed, and the librarian looked indignant. As well he might. The old man had taught the chronicler to write, and to ready vellum. Had chased him round the tannery threatening to throw him into a reeking pit and be tanned himself if he didn’t mend his wicked ways. A lifetime ago, and through it all, always, a steady undercurrent of affection.

  ‘What will you set down?’

  The chronicler shrugged. ‘The death of kings. Battles. A great synod. A new pope.’ He spread out his hands. ‘Always new and always the same. Does it matter?’

  The librarian said, ‘I’ll see this doesn’t happen again. Just leave it here, and I’ll make sure it’s kept for you.’

  The door swung slowly shut. Was it really a year since he had first conceived the idea of writing a chronicle? It seemed too grandiose an idea now: he wondered how he had ever had the audacity. Who was he, to give events significance by scratching them down with his little pen?

  In this year, a woman’s breasts were like mounded cream tipped with strawberries, and they moved me more than pen can express. In this year, I have trespassed on other men’s woods and fields, and hunted their private runs. In this year, I have lost my soul, and found it.

  The chronicler looked down at the marks his pen had made and shook his head. These were secrets to whisper to a girl in the warm dark of midnight, or pour out in the confidential space between the penitent’s mouth and the confessor’s ear. There was no room for this kind of detail in the written record. A matter for the recording angel, to be sure, but not for other men’s eyes. He watched the ink slowly turn matte and dry on the page. In a moment, he thought, he would pick up the knife and painstakingly scrape at the surface of the vellum, shaving away his words until the least, faintest, ineradicable trace remained. And then he would write again, write what had really happened.

  42

  Elfrun felt odd in her new shoes, her gait off balance and unfamiliar. They fastened with thongs that pulled tight round her ankles rather than the usual horn button, and she wasn’t sure they had been a good choice, but last year’s pair were worn right through. No matter how tight she tied the thongs, the shoes were still too loose round the heel, and her toes had to grip the insole with every step. Her feet had yet to mould the stiff leather into a comfortable form, and the slick spring grass made an untrustworthy surface. It was perhaps the thing she disliked most, at spring and harvest meeting, that her grandmother insisted on her looking her most respectable in the presence of all their neighbours.

  Respectable, to be sure, but sh
uffling and gawky and afraid to stride out for fear of falling over.

  In order to be set up in time to greet king and archbishop the Donmouth party had left home as soon as the eastern sky had begun to lighten. Now it was mid-afternoon, their tents and shelters were pitched, and everyone was exhausted. They had the same place every year, on good, flat, well-drained ground close to the great hollow ash that marked the meeting site but it was still as well to get there early in case any of their neighbours tried to take advantage.

  Someone was always ready to take advantage.

  Radmer had the best of the Donmouth tents with him to Rome, but Elfrun had set two of her women to embroidering a new awning over the winter and it made a brave show now, the blue and yellow dancing in the spring winds along with the sunlit daffodils that dotted the field’s edge. It brightened her mood, and Heaven knew she needed something to cheer her, after the wrangling that had already marred her morning. Athulf had tried first to wheedle and then to bully her into letting him bring Hafoc.

  ‘Come on, Elfrun! How can it hurt? Last autumn you said maybe in the spring! Riding Hafoc, I’ll make us look good in the races—’

  ‘No. And I never promised anything. You’re making it up.’ But had she? Maybe, and she had forgotten as he was claiming, but she didn’t believe it. It would be just like Athulf to make up some story then keep badgering until she came to believe it herself. Still, she wanted to be concessionary. ‘You can have Mara.’

  And then as soon as Mara was tethered, rubbed down and fed he had streaked off, looking for friends with whom to plan the races and the wrestling and that insane match they fought with pig-bladders and wooden staves. Leaving her to oversee everything.

  Last spring she would have been with him, for some of it anyway, dodging Abarhild, exhilarated by new woods and streams to explore, and new company. She thought back to that crazy, wonderful race on the ponies. She had beaten Athulf, but that had been the last time she had had the chance to ride like that. What a difference a year could make.