Daughter of the Wolf

by Victoria Whitworth

  She still hadn’t said a word, and was looking at the fire; Elfrun wondered if she were crippled with shyness when she didn’t have her bowl and her smile to hide behind. Her clothes were so fine for all their strangeness, much better than Elfrun’s own.

  Was she Finn’s woman? She had seen no sign of affection between them – indeed, she wasn’t sure she had heard them exchange a word.

  And, if she were Finn’s woman, what difference could it possibly make to the lady of Donmouth?

  Just as these thoughts were rattling thorough Elfrun’s mind, Finn came in and set the wicker pack down by the door, Athulf at his heels. ‘That’s lighter by half.’ He ruffled Gethyn’s ears. ‘Glad to see this fine beast still with us.’

  ‘They can’t have bought that much!’ She glowed at his praise of Gethyn.

  ‘And my wares aren’t heavy.’ He grinned and came towards the women. ‘I was joking, Alvrun.’ He looked around, his quick gaze seeming to rest on nothing and yet take everything in.

  Blushing, she went over to the small table where the jugs were standing and poured wine into the waiting beakers. Only three had been set out, and she was determined not to let Athulf bully her into waiting on him as well. The wine was thick and almost black in the dim hall-light, and she tipped water in to thin it before bringing one to Finn. ‘Does – will—?’ She glanced at the mute girl.

  ‘Auli?’

  The girl said something rapid and incomprehensible, and inclined her head with dignity.

  ‘Yes, she will. And she says that, to thank you for your hospitality, she would like to tell your fortune on this fine midsummer morning. She’s famous at home for her fortunes. She and her mother both.’

  Elfrun busied herself with jug and beaker, hoping they couldn’t see how the hot blood was still coming into her face. The Donmouth women were obsessed with fortunes and omens, but she knew they kept it from her, as they had always kept so much from the lord’s daughter. And she in turn had come to despise this kind of talk, as Abarhild was training her to do. Those girls were just stupid; all they were interested in was men and babies.

  She looked sideways at her cousin, still lingering shamelessly inside the door. If she said yes to the fortune-telling, Athulf would doubtless tell everyone at the minster. Fredegar would despise her for it.

  Abarhild would be angry. Very angry.

  But this stranger girl, with her neat, oval face and her quiet authority, she was different from the gigglers in the weaving shed. She might know something different, something real. For a second she thought of vowing Athulf to silence, but that would be to give him too much power.

  By the time Elfrun had mixed Auli’s wine and brought it to her she felt composed again. ‘How do – does she tell fortunes?’

  ‘With running wax, or with lead, in water. Or reading the runes the fates have inscribed in your hand.’ Elfrun felt her palms prickle and she balled her fists to hide any treacherous lines. Auli said something and laughed softly, and Finn went on, ‘Or in the dregs of your wine cup, if you like.’

  ‘How—?’

  ‘Here.’ Finn got up and came over. ‘Pour the wine – no, don’t add water. Swirl it. Let it settle. Now, drink the whole cup, slowly and steadily – don’t drink the lees.’

  When she had finished the cup she felt warm all the way through, as though her blood had been drained and replaced with the syrupy liquid. Finn was nodding. ‘You need to think of a question. Something you really want to know the answer to. Have you got one?’ He smiled at her. ‘Think of one, but don’t say what it is.’

  Her thoughts scurried, frantic, like woodlice with their stone turned over. Half of her mind was telling her not to think of a question, not to get drawn into this dangerous game, just to observe. But the other half felt all the sick thrill that had run through her while watching the bear fighting Hirel, and the dogs. She didn’t want shock, blood, danger, pain. But – and at one and the same time – she could feel the craving for the excitement that went with them.

  And she could feel them looking at her, hooded-eyed Auli, and Athulf in the shadows, and Finn, whose eyes were limpid silver-grey, and kind, and sad.

  Why was he so sad?

  ‘Got a question?’

  She shook her head, feeling stupid and exposed. What did she really want to know? There were so many things about which she longed to be certain.

  Was Luda really cheating her in some way? Was Fredegar right, with his ominous warnings about the sea-wolves? Did Illingham still pose any genuine threat? Rattle, rattle, rattle went her thoughts, like the glass beads and gemstones that Finn had tipped into his bowl.

  No.

  The question, above all, to which she needed an answer was, Is my father really dead?

  She had questioned Dunstan endlessly once the first shock had worn off, and the freezing numbness had ebbed a little. And the answer had always been the same. They had been beating up the coast of Iberia, with a powerful westerly and a lee shore, and the strain on the ship had had her bucking and twisting. There was no room for passengers on such a voyage, and Radmer and his men had been working as hard as they could, baling side by side with the crew, crammed in alongside the unstepped mast and the sodden heaps of sail. ‘Nine men were lost,’ Dunstan had said. ‘It was a wave like I’d never seen, out of nowhere.’ He shrugged. ‘I loved him too. It was no one’s fault.’

  No land within a mile, and then jagged rock. No other ships. Just a remorseless mountain of cold water, breaking over the strakes, and sucking her father under.

  ‘He was there.’ Dunstan had swallowed and looked away. ‘And then he was gone.’

  She looked at Finn, and nodded that she was ready, her throat too tight to speak.

  ‘Now, carry the cup in both hands to Auli.’

  She did as she was told, the yellow-trailed glass cold and ridged against her palms. Athulf was watching, fascinated.

  Auli twirled a finger in the air above the rim, and obediently Elfrun swirled the claggy lees round the cup, faster and faster, the must and fragments of grape skin straggling around the inner curve of the glass, until the other girl held up her hand abruptly and bent forward.

  ‘What is she looking at?’

  Finn shook his head and put a finger to his lips.

  Auli was bent so far forward that Elfrun could see that the twist of plaits on the pale nape of her neck had been sewn into place with dark-red silk threads. She was muttering something under her breath. Finn was alert, still as a cat at a mouse hole.

  Elfrun could feel beads of sweat prickling her scalp, forming on her upper lip. Were they trying to frighten her? She felt a sudden gust of anger. She had protected them, invited them into her father’s hall. Why were they doing this?

  Finn’s voice startled her. ‘Do you have your question? No! Don’t say it aloud. Just hold it in your mind.’

  Auli was jabbing a finger at the rim of the beaker furthest from her and gabbling something.

  ‘What—?’ Elfrun jerked the glass away.

  Finn put a steadying hand on her arm. ‘Wait. I’ll tell you everything she says.’ He was following the finger and the muttered words intently. His hand was still clasping her arm, just next to the wrist, where her skin was bare because she had pushed her sleeves up and out of the way when pouring the wine. His grip was gentle and firm, the skin of his palm warm and hard. She could feel the ball of his thumb pressing into the flesh below her wrist-bone. Her breath caught in her chest.

  Auli finished with an emphatic statement of which Elfrun understood not a syllable. She was looking intently up into Elfrun’s face, and Elfrun realized with a shock that the other girl’s eyes were the same shadowed gold as her amber beads.

  ‘This is you,’ Finn said. He released her arm to point into the beaker, and the letting go was like a small bereavement. But any pang was overtaken by her almost equally shameful rush of desire to know what Auli had been saying. ‘This part here, the wavy line. Frustration, delay.’

  She nodde
d. That made sense. But they could have worked that out. They must have known that these had been the warp and weft of her life in the nine months since Radmer had sailed south.

  ‘And this here, in the middle? The whale?’

  ‘Whale?’ Now that he was pointing she could see a blob with a curved back, but she would never have known it was a whale.

  ‘That is your fate. A journey, and also a transformation.’

  ‘For me? A sea voyage?’ As ever, a shiver at the thought of the deep sea, and its creatures.

  ‘Perhaps. Across water, for certain.’ He was frowning, and said something to Auli; then, ‘The answer depends on the question. And then this last bit, nearest you, this is the person who matters most in the world.’

  Her breath caught again. ‘And?’

  ‘Alvrun, look at the pattern.’ His voice was gentle.

  She looked and saw nothing. She turned her face to him, shaking her head, frowning. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘This person will be there for you. But it will be hard. Through deep water.’ Auli said something, and he added, ‘And blood. And fire.’

  Deep water. She stood still. Gethyn lifted his head and whined softly.

  ‘Is it my father?’

  ‘Do you love him most in the world?’

  ‘Your father?’ Athulf was very close suddenly, crowding her, trying to peer in. ‘Is that who it means? He’s coming back?’ Elfrun turned her shoulder, trying to block his view of the beaker. ‘But he’s dead!’

  Auli said something further. Finn listened, nodding. ‘Auli says she thinks not dead. Some other kind of change.’ He took the beaker gently from her cupped hands. ‘It could be good news.’

  ‘My father is dead,’ she said. A ringing in her ears; a tightness under her heart. ‘You must have known that. Everyone knows it. Dunstan saw him drown.’ She was amazed she could speak at all, her teeth were so tight-gritted. ‘There is nothing there that you could not have learned from what I have told you already, or from the gossip you might have picked up around the place.’ And now she could hear her words fraying round the edges, unravelling in the bitter wind. ‘You are playing with me. You are cruel’ – Luda’s angry words of a few moments earlier came back to her – ‘cheating vagabonds, and you abuse my hospitality. You will please me by leaving.’ Now she knew why canon law denounced divination. It was the Devil’s own game.

  ‘Alvrun—’ Finn reached his free hand out towards her. ‘Don’t—’

  She grabbed the beaker from him and hurled. It shattered against the doorjamb in a spray of splinters. Gethyn set up a frantic barking. ‘Get out!’

  52

  ‘Did you see the bear? What did you think of it?’

  It was a mild night. The hobbled horses were grazing not far off, and Athulf could hear them tearing up mouthfuls of the sweet new grass.

  ‘Which bear?’ Addan sounded bored.

  How many bears could there be? Athulf bit back his irritation. ‘A few weeks back. It came through. Did you really not see it?’ Athulf’s eyes brightened. The wolf pack hadn’t run for several weeks, and he had been afraid that the others would lord it over him, but now he had something big to tell them. ‘You should have seen its claws! It beat our shepherd, and it killed Ingeld’s dogs.’

  ‘A wild bear?’ Addan sounded disbelieving. He reached out and poked the fire with a branch. ‘I’ve never heard of wild bear in these hills.’

  Athulf shook his head. ‘No, a tame one. With a bridle, and coloured ribbons.’

  ‘Coloured ribbons!’ Addan snorted. ‘Listen to you. So a pet bear killed your father’s poor little dogs? What did you do in return, skin it for its fur?’

  Athulf flushed. ‘We had to let them go. Elfrun wouldn’t let me sort them out.’ He looked at Thancrad, who had been silent for some time. ‘Didn’t it come to Illingham then?’

  Thancrad shrugged. ‘How would we know? We’ve been with the king.’

  ‘What – all three of you?’ Athulf felt the slow burn of envy. He did his best to keep his voice steady. ‘There were dancers, too. Musicians. Acrobats. You should have been there.’ He wanted the story to sound as good as possible. ‘We’ve had lots of visitors. A pedlar came by later, just a few days ago, with a girl. She told Elfrun’s fortune, and—’

  ‘What did she say?’ Thancrad’s voice had woken up.

  Athulf tried to remember. ‘Some stupid stuff. About delays. And that whoever it is Elfrun loves most is coming to her through fire and water. Oh – and she’s to go on a journey.’

  Thancrad appeared to have lost interest. He got to his feet. They were in a sheltered little dip in the hills above Illingham, and the sparks from their fire swirled and eddied upwards in the slight breeze until they were lost against the midnight sky. The Milky Way was a silver stripe above their heads. Athulf, feeling slighted, watched Thancrad carefully. Thancrad was sometimes warm, almost affectionate, but at other times, like now, withdrawn, gruff, given to talking in riddles and ambiguities. His angular face was fire-lit from below, hard to read. After a long silence, Athulf said, ‘So what were you doing? With the king, I mean?’

  Thancrad shrugged, still looking off into the distance.

  Addan said, ‘Riding with the war-band, of course.’ He laughed. ‘What did you think?’

  ‘Collecting taxes,’ Thancrad added. He turned to the fire again and squatted, warming his hands. ‘We weren’t fighting. Don’t worry. My father had business at court, and he took us all with him.’

  ‘There isn’t any fighting to be done,’ Addan said. ‘Not real fighting. What’s the use?’

  ‘My father’s always saying that the king’s too strong.’ Thancrad sat back on his haunches. The firelight in his hair glinted red. ‘And it sounds as though you agree with him?’ He looked at Addan. ‘I’d say he keeps us safe, rather.’

  ‘Safe!’ Addan stirred the fire. ‘If there’s no fighting, there’s no winning. And no winning means no rewards. Look at the way Osberht treats us. We should be in his war-band.’ He glanced at Athulf, then said, ‘All of us. But he knows fine well that if he takes us on we’ll be asking for prizes. Not just food and a roof.’

  ‘I’d serve him,’ Athulf said. ‘I’d take him my sword, if he asked me.’

  ‘So would I...’ Addan broke his branch in half across his knee and threw both pieces into the fire, sending up a blaze of sparks. ‘...until something better came along.’

  ‘Something better?’

  Addan’s teeth glinted in the firelight. ‘Tilmon is promising better things. Hasn’t he had a word with you yet? Switha said he was going to. Or that she would herself. She said you were important.’

  Important? Him?

  Athulf bit his lip. Switha had spoken to him more than once, and always with that affectionate, admiring tone to her voice. But never about her husband, and Athulf was still wary of Tilmon’s solid bulk and gruff presence.

  Thancrad was snapping pieces of tinder into smaller and smaller fragments. ‘Something better? What’s wrong with peace?’ Athulf looked up and found Thancrad looking at him intently. ‘I’ve been watching my father, all the while we were in the Danemarch, and ever since we came back this side of the sea. He never stops, him and my mother both. Him and Alred—’ He stopped abruptly.

  ‘I though Alred was up in the north. That’s where he was bribed to be.’

  ‘That’s where the king thinks he is.’ Thancrad sounded as though he was regretting having brought the name into their talk. ‘But we’ve had him under our roof at Illingham. And my father’s Hedeby men. And their friends, too.’

  ‘Sea-wolves.’ Addan bared his teeth. ‘Not such bad souls, when you get to rub shoulders with them.’

  Athulf found a cold knot of unease tying itself tight in the pit of his belly. ‘Sea-wolves?’

  ‘My father thinks we need to talk to these people. Make common cause if necessary – use them to get what we all want. It’s not what men at court want to hear. But like it or not, they’re not goin
g to go away – if we learned anything from seven years in the Danemarch we learned that. Things are changing over there, like here. More power in fewer hands.’ Thancrad threw his handful of tiny fragments of twig into the guttering fire. ‘Addan, go break up a few more branches.’

  ‘Go yourself.’

  They stared at each other. Thancrad seemed about to speak, and then his face closed down. ‘Very well.’ And he got to his feet. ‘What difference does it make, anyway, who gets the wood?’

  Behind his back, Athulf and Addan exchanged glances.

  53

  Something was amiss. Elfrun had known as soon as she lifted the cloak from its peg. An unfamiliar lightness, a loss of balance, a change in the swing of the fabric. A long strip of braid was stitched to the shoulder, weighted at each end with a solid silver tag which then pulled through a loop to keep the cloak hanging properly.

  And now one was gone.

  A glance around the floor told her that the tag was nowhere to hand. It was nearly the length of her thumb, and the silver was heavy enough that she would certainly have heard it if it had come loose and fallen inside, on the hard boards. Which meant she must have lost it outside. But when? She used the cloak day in and day out: she could not imagine the tag working loose without her noticing the gradual slackening of the stitches.

  Fifteen whole pennies. And that was just the weight of the silver. Never mind the labour of the king’s smith, and the value conferred by virtue of it being a royal gift, and doubly from it being her father’s loan to her. She stood perfectly still, the thick red wool clutched in her cold hands. She felt as though she had broken some spell of protection.

  The surviving tag was tucked up in its loop, and she pulled it free and contemplated it. The woven strap was gripped by the split end of the tag, and then held by two little rivets. She gave it a tug. Strong enough. She turned her attention to the other end of the strap, and her frown deepened. Something else was wrong.

  The end wasn’t frayed, as she had been expecting. It had been cut.