Daughter of the Wolf

by Victoria Whitworth

  But although plenty of folk blushed or scowled or averted their eyes under his scrutiny he was no wiser. He fingered the bone cross where it lay on his breastbone between linen and wool, and wondered where to put the basket. It had been skilfully plaited and coiled out of straw, and though he knew never to underestimate the marvellous delicacy of which men’s hands were capable, he rather thought that small fingers had made this, and female ones. A few white petals had been scattered over the garnet fruits.

  Again he wondered about Elfrun, and again he shook his head. She had a generous spirit and an impulsive one, but her gifts were public ones from her and Abarhild, like the new altar linen, and made to the clerics as a group, or to the church. This furtive practice was surely alien to a girl like her, although of late she had had a haunted look about her which disturbed him. Had an oblate or a young cleric in his care had that look he would have pressed the lad to make his confession and clear his conscience, but he was not Elfrun’s novice-master and he felt deeply inhibited about raising the question of her soul’s wellbeing with her. Some six weeks ago she had made her Easter confession to him, instead of to her uncle, but it had been perfunctory – should he have challenged her then?

  Neither age, nor sex, nor rank should prevent a confessor from doing his plain duty, scrutinizing a penitent’s soul as a medicus would a flask of urine. And usually Fredegar was scrupulous in his duty. He was sealed to silence, and he held the grubby secrets of the souls of Donmouth in his heart, as though in a locked and iron-bound chest. But he had been unable to put Elfrun to the test, although something heavy was lying on her, the depth of those once-clear brown eyes shadowed and sad. Something more, he thought, even than the burden of her father’s death. The shadow had fallen on her before that dreadful news.

  He shook his head, walking back into the church. Without meaning to, he took a strawberry from the basket and put it in his mouth. A moment of grainy nothingness, and then as his tongue crushed the fruit against his palate a burst of pure flavour, like sunshine and sweet music, that tasted every whit as good as it had smelt. The strawberry was the plant of the Holy Virgin, in flower and in fruit at the same time, and he had heard it said that these little fruits would be the food of the blessed in Heaven.

  But, God forgive him, he was supposed to be fasting before mass. With renewed resolve, he folded the leaf over and pinned it back into place. Fresh linen gleamed on the altar. The year’s first harvest of rushes and sweet flag was strewn on the floor. The little church looked as fine as he could make it. He set the little basket down at the base of the altar. A gift to him, or to God?

  47

  ‘You’re not doing so badly, child.’

  Elfrun wasn’t sure to what her grandmother was referring. The fine-woven diamond-patterned twill which her gnarled hands were tugging this way and that, or the management of the hall? Or just that Elfrun was still somehow moving through her life, despite the awful numbness that deadened her to the world, the sense that she was walking on eggshells, this monstrous clawed grief that gripped her, bear-like, and took away her ability to breathe?

  She nodded, and said nothing.

  Abarhild had been making one of her unannounced visits to the hall-women’s house and the weaving sheds, examining both the work still on the looms and the finer bolts of cloth and braided bands that had been their winter’s labour. Not a woman present had escaped having her work dissected, and some of the younger ones had been left in tears. Abarhild appeared highly satisfied with this result now, and she patted Elfrun’s arm with her free hand. ‘We’ll make weavers of them yet.’ She sniffed. ‘Lazy, slapdash creatures, girls. You have to be hard on them so that they learn to be hard on themselves.’

  ‘Yes, Grandmother.’

  ‘They think because I’m old they can get away with poor work.’ She sniffed again, and yawned. ‘You’re not as bad as some.’ She patted her granddaughter on the shoulder. ‘I never thought you would manage so well. But we have to think about the future.’

  If the news of Radmer’s death had frozen Elfrun it appeared perversely enough to have brought Abarhild back to life. She was spending a lot more of her time at the hall, and somewhere through the fog Elfrun knew that she was grateful to her grandmother. The last few blurred, stumbling weeks would have been impossible without her.

  ‘Take me to the hall, girl. I’m worn out. I need a seat by the fire and a cup of wine.’

  ‘Yes, Grandmother.’ Elfrun pushed her cloak back and waved an arm at a scurrying child. ‘Go and tell Luda he’s wanted in the hall.’

  ‘Yes, lady.’

  A snort, and the faint sound of hooves, and Elfrun half turned to see Athulf trotting into her yard, on Mara. She still minded the old sword that hung permanently now at his belt. For that matter, she minded that he had got in the habit of saddling Mara and taking her out without asking. She herself had no heart for riding, however, and she hoped she was not such a dog in the manger that she would deny the same pleasure to him. Besides, Mara needed the exercise.

  But she would not let him have Radmer’s best sword. Dunstan had brought it safely home, and she had seen Athulf eyeing it. That sword and its scabbard weren’t in the heddern any more: they were tucked under the thick-plaited rush of her pallet.

  Not a chance she would let Athulf have that sword, though she didn’t quite understand why it mattered so much to her.

  Athulf was not alone. The spring sunshine glinted in the russet hair of the tall young man riding in behind her cousin, and with a slight tensing of her gut Elfrun recognized Thancrad of Illingham. One thing to know that Athulf spent his waking hours riding and hunting with him; quite another to have Thancrad trotting into her father’s yard on that beautiful bay mare of his, with his shoulders back and his head high, looking about him as though he owned the place.

  Elfrun knew Athulf would gladly have ignored her, but he could hardly show that same discourtesy to his grandmother. Both young men were slithering down from their saddles to make their bow just as Luda came bustling up, an officious squint on his long face.

  If she ordered wine now as her grandmother had commanded, she would have to offer some to Thancrad. It would be too pointed a snub otherwise. But she hated the way he was standing so easily, resting his weight on one foot, holding his horse’s reins and looking around him with that cool, narrow-eyed stare, assessing the hall and the stables and the hounds the dumb dog-boy was leading out of the kennels.

  Luda was waiting, his eyebrows raised.

  It was no good. Abarhild was tired; she was old; she needed warmth and wine and a comfortable cushion. Elfrun was going to have to swallow her pride. But she hadn’t been able to forget the jeer on Athulf’s face a couple of months back, the way he had menaced her with his blade. Don’t you want to know what he says about you?

  No. She didn’t. She had a positive horror of finding out. Just having Thancrad here made her jumpy. Even absent, Radmer had been a bulwark against bad things happening. And Illingham was the nearest likely source of bad things. They’re trouble, Radmer had said. Avoid them. Almost the last words he had ever said to her.

  Luda was still hovering.

  ‘Young man!’ A long moment before Elfrun realized her grandmother was addressing Luda. Abarhild put all her weight on Elfrun’s arm and thrust her stick at the steward. ‘Wine in the hall.’ She turned back to Elfrun and said loudly, ‘Keeping us waiting. My father would have had him flogged.’

  ‘He’s a free man, Grandmother.’

  Abarhild grunted with amusement. ‘As if that would have made any difference.’ She waved her stick again, at Athulf this time. ‘Let me see that sword.’

  Athulf came forward unwillingly, and Abarhild peered at belt, hilt and scabbard. ‘My father’s sword. I thought so.’

  ‘Yes, Grandmother.’ Surprise was making Athulf’s voice swoop unnervingly. Elfrun had to repress a sob of laughter, and he noticed. His face tightened and flushed, and he was clearly bracing himself for a row.

&n
bsp; ‘My father’s sword, on a boy destined for the priesthood?’ But unbelievably Abarhild was smiling her hard-faced smile, nodding and tapping the ferrule of her stick on the ground. ‘And his father’s before him. It hangs well on you. I was beginning to think you’d never grow.’ She nodded at Athulf. ‘Wear it for the time being. And we’ll have to think again about your future now.’ She half turned to include Elfrun. ‘Everything’s different now.’

  Athulf was shifting uncomfortably, and Thancrad stepped forward, deflecting attention, and bowing. ‘I am Thancrad of Illingham, lady.’

  ‘I know who you are.’ Abarhild cleared her throat, almost growling. ‘I knew your father when he was a wisp of a lad not half your size.’

  The thought of Tilmon, massive as a side of beef, ever having been a wisp of a lad was almost enough to set Elfrun off again. She could feel laughter coming up inside her chest like the punch of a fist. What was wrong with her?

  ‘And how is your mother settling in at Illingham?’

  ‘If my mother had known I would be seeing you I am sure she would have sent greetings.’ He bowed. ‘She is well enough, but she complains about the damp.’

  ‘Really? After where she’s been?’ Abarhild snorted. ‘Come on, inside.’

  Elfrun sat on a stool at Abarhild’s feet, her head lowered and her hands clasped around her untouched glass, the thick brown plaits hanging down the sides of her face and hiding her hot cheeks. She wished they would go away.

  Abarhild was interrogating Athulf endlessly, about the sword, and his riding and where he had been, tutting and hissing occasionally, but mostly nodding in approval. Thancrad tried to join in, but she ignored him, and after a little while he shifted round to hunker down by Elfrun’s side.

  ‘How are you?’

  She turned to look at him. ‘Really?’

  ‘Of course, really.’

  ‘Then, really, I wish I was dead too.’ That threw him, as she had intended, and he was silent for a long moment.

  Then, ‘And is that all?’

  ‘All?’ Her voice was too loud and she lowered it. ‘Listen to my grandmother. You know why she’s asking Athulf all these questions? Because she thinks maybe he can take over Donmouth now. She doesn’t have to try to force him to be a priest.’

  Thancrad frowned. ‘But Donmouth is yours. The king said as much. Everyone knows that.’

  ‘Till someone steals it from me.’ She was perilously close to tears, and she had to stop, breathe, swallow.

  ‘Drink your wine.’

  She nodded, and sipped, but it stuck in her throat.

  Thancrad huffed a sigh. ‘You want your father back, but sometimes I wish mine would just disappear.’ He glanced at her, looking for a response, but she felt no curiosity. He and Tilmon were her father’s enemies. Why should she care about them, and any quarrel they might have? Thancrad went on, ‘He’s got so much, but he always wants more.’ Again that glance, that pause, as if he were waiting for her to answer. Why did he think she was interested?

  Eventually she shrugged, staring into her wine, and he gave up, moving back to Athulf, and the conversation turned to cattle.

  Only slowly did she realize that Abarhild was falling asleep. The stick was slipping sideways from the old woman’s hand, and Thancrad leaned forward and fielded it easily, propping it against the stool.

  ‘She lives at the minster, doesn’t she? She should go home.’

  Elfrun scrambled to her feet, relieved beyond measure. ‘I’ll tell Luda to see the oxen are harnessed.’ She spotted her chance to escape. ‘I’m going back to the minster too. So, goodbye.’

  ‘No need.’ He was standing too. ‘Put your grandmother up on your pommel, Athulf. I will be honoured if you ride with me, Elfrun.’

  ‘But the oxen—’

  ‘It’s nearly dark,’ he said. ‘It’ll be much quicker on horseback, and more comfortable. Why go jolting over a rutted track when you can ride in style?’ She could tell from his voice that he was smiling now, though the hall was too dark to see his face clearly, with the hearth behind him. ‘Athulf tells me you like horses. You’ll love Blis.’

  Something odd in the way he said the name. ‘Bliss? The bay outside? The one you were riding when...’ She tailed off. It was more than a year since that crazy race, and Thancrad had never given any sign that he had recognized Elfrun of Donmouth as that wild-haired, screaming girl who had so nearly beaten him. Where had that girl gone? She seemed like a stranger now.

  ‘Blis,’ he corrected, the vowel oddly long. Blees. ‘I’ve had her from a foal. She’s nine now. She’s perfect.’ He jerked his head and turned, leaving what felt like no choice but to follow. Elfrun looked longingly at her grandmother, but Athulf was already helping Abarhild to her feet and out into the courtyard, still lit with the afterglow of the sunset.

  And Blis was certainly extremely beautiful: a neat head, her brow marked with a white flash, lustrous dark eyes and eyelashes, a nose soft as moleskin and a fragile grace which, Thancrad told her, was wholly misleading. ‘Strong as an ox. And a great heart, haven’t you, girl?’ And, watching him run his hand up under her mane and caress the soft fur beneath and around her ears and the way the pretty mare rubbed her head against his shoulder with such obvious pleasure, Elfrun almost found herself warming to him.

  Thancrad had been riding bareback. He gathered his reins into his left hand and grabbed a handful of mane, and almost faster than Elfrun’s eye could follow he leaned his weight on his left leg and swung his right foot up over Blis’s back, hooking and hauling, his knees gripping her hard and his whole body following. He grinned at her from his vantage point. ‘It’s handy being tall.’ Her eyes followed his to watch Athulf’s ungainly scramble, and she smiled unwillingly. Luda was helping Abarhild up to sit in front of her grandson.

  Elfrun thought of riding three miles with Thancrad’s arms tight round her and his breath hot on the back of her neck, and she felt queasy and a little giddy. ‘I’ll go up behind you.’

  ‘As you will.’

  And she didn’t want Luda to help her, either. She called with relief to Widia, who seemed to be in urgent conversation with the dog-boy. Had they found a common means of understanding one another? He patted the lad on the shoulder and came over to make a step of his hands and throw her up, with her skirt rucked up to her knees.

  She had ridden behind her father a hundred times. Why should this be so different? She gripped loosely with her bare calves, feeling the calm, gentle lurch of Blis’s pace, leaning away from Thancrad and putting her hands on the mare’s warm back rather than around his waist. But then Blis moved into a trot, and she had to hold on to him, trying to clutch the soft brown of Thancrad’s tunic rather than his midriff, uncomfortably aware of his rangy strength beneath the cloth. She had known he was strong from the easy way he had handled her after her ridiculous tumble at the spring meeting, helping her to his parents’ tent. As Blis picked up her pace Elfrun had to hold his waist harder with her left hand while she rubbed at her eye-socket with her right, feeling the shape of the bone beneath. Finn’s mirror had told her that the bruising had long gone, but even all these weeks later a tenderness lingered.

  Blis had a lovely, forward-going pace, much smoother than Elfrun was used to. She couldn’t help saying as much.

  ‘You like her?’ She could hear the smile in his voice.

  ‘I love her,’ she said frankly, and bit her lip.

  ‘She’s my truest friend.’ He dropped his voice, and sitting behind him as she was she had to lean forward to hear. ‘My parents and I, we were always moving from one court to another. Here and there in Frankia, the Danemarch. It’s strange, being the son of an exile. You have no kin, no foster-father, godparents.’ He shrugged. ‘Athulf is always complaining about being left out, but from where I sit...’ He let out a long breath. ‘And now it’s strange having land, being the son of somebody embedded... My father has fitted right back in. But me...’ He half twisted so he could look at her. ‘Sorry. Very dull
. I just wanted you to see why Blis matters to me.’

  Not dull. Certainly not dull, though the thought of him unlocking his heart’s secret for her made her profoundly uncomfortable. She made some non-committal noise, and they rode on in silence, with the colour slowly leaching from the sky.

  Athulf and Abarhild had been left well behind. Elfrun tried to keep her breath steady. He was her good neighbour, doing her a kindness, nothing more. The familiar path wound up and down and to and fro, avoiding the patches of bog to one side and salt marsh to the other. The stream was high with the rain of the previous day, and Blis splashed through the rills that ran down among the trees before the path made for the higher ground over the big spur and down at last into the sheltered, spring-rich combe where the minster sat on its little plateau. Blue smoke curled gently up into the dusk, smelling comforting and homely. Abarhild’s women would have some broth or some porridge waiting, and at the thought her stomach grumbled loudly.

  Thancrad laughed. ‘Ready for your dinner?’

  Oh, Lord in Heaven, did he expect to be invited? But as they jolted into the yard she saw Fredegar ducking out from under the thatch of the clergy house, and she slithered and bumped down even before Blis was quite at a standstill, hurrying to him in relief. The priest was frowning at her, but his brow cleared when she said loudly, ‘Athulf is bringing Grandmother, and Thancrad kindly carried me,’ and then in a hurried mutter, ‘Please, get rid of him, Father.’

  Fredegar nodded, his face still stern, and he put his hand on her shoulder. ‘Thank you, young man, for bringing our daughter home.’ His voice was loud and firm, his tone both courteous and dismissive. ‘Go into your grandmother’s house, child, and see that all is ready for her.’