Daughter of the Wolf

by Victoria Whitworth

  Addan grinned. ‘Go and ask her, why don’t you?’

  55

  ‘You come between me and the sun. You dazzle me.’

  ‘Are you complaining?’ Saethryth leaned forward so that her hair tickled his face, and Ingeld brushed it aside, laughing.

  ‘No, not complaining. Never complaining.’ He gripped her waist hard, delighting in the play of her strong muscles under the soft sheathing of skin, running his hands lightly over her ribcage and up to her breasts. ‘Just thinking. Just looking.’

  ‘Well, stop it! You have to go soon. Don’t waste time.’

  ‘Fredegar and Heahred can look after the minster for me.’ He closed his eyes and lay back. ‘Do that thing with your hair again.’

  ‘Only if you tell me I’m pretty.’

  ‘You are pretty.’ He opened his eyes again and looked at her in mild incredulity. ‘Do you doubt it?’

  ‘And you’ve never loved anyone as you love me.’

  ‘I have never loved anyone as I love you.’

  ‘Not even your mother.’

  He laughed. ‘Not even my mother.’

  ‘Not even Athulf’s mother.’ Saethryth lowered her head and drew her hair across his chest, a back-and-forth sweep of gossamer, and he sighed. ‘Go on,’ she said.

  ‘I can’t say that. I don’t know if it’s true.’

  ‘You still think about her.’ She shifted sideways on to the thick-piled stack of straw that made their bed.

  The mood between them had sobered. Ingeld propped himself up on one elbow and tugged a strand of straw free. ‘No, not really. It was so long ago, and we were so young, and she died. But she was my first girl, and I thought she was very lovely.’ He pleated the straw over and over until the stem cracked and fell apart in many small fragments. ‘Does it bother you so much?’

  ‘Athulf isn’t very lovely.’

  ‘Athulf is a lumpen youth. Hard to believe I was no older than he is now when I got him. But nonetheless he has a look of her, and I find I tolerate him for it.’

  Saethryth sat up with her arms around her knees. ‘Move over. It tickles, with my arse on the straw.’

  He shifted sideways, making space for her on their makeshift coverlet. ‘She’s dead. We’re alive. Life is short.’ He stroked her cheek with the back of his hand. ‘Youth is shorter. Life is on loan, love is on loan...’

  ‘Stop it.’ She caught his hand and trapped it against her face, kissing the palm. ‘Pass me the flask.’

  ‘There’s not much left.’

  After she had sipped the sticky liquid she put the wooden bottle down on the floor, not bothering to replace the stopper. ‘Why don’t I feel guilty?’

  He propped himself up on one elbow. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘About this. About Hirel.’ She made a circular gesture, encompassing the makeshift bed, their entwined legs. ‘I never meant to be a bad wife. But I am, and I ought to feel guilty.’ She shrugged. ‘Why don’t I?’

  It was the most interesting thing he had ever heard her say, in nine months of her company. He knew fine well how the lord abbot of Donmouth ought to respond, that she was young and her conscience was unformed, that she needed instruction in the basic tenets of the commandments and the paternoster. Ne nos inducas in tentationem. Covet not thy neighbour’s wife. But that all seemed too simple, and he would not insult her with it. Such matters were better left to those who believed in them, like Fredegar. Life’s lease was too short, and the landlord ever-ready to foreclose...

  ‘Why don’t you answer me?’

  ‘I don’t know what to say.’

  Saethryth wriggled, pushing the side of her face against Ingeld’s shoulder as though she were a cat. ‘What I really feel is relief. I’ve been pretending to be good all my life, but inside I know, really, I’m bad. I’ve always known. And now my inside and my outside match, and it’s as though I’ve put down a heavy burden.’ She lifted her face and looked him in the eye. ‘Does that make any sense?’

  He smiled and shook his head. ‘I don’t have an answer. You call yourself a bad wife. Well, I am a bad cleric and I always have been, but I come closer to being a good man with you than I have ever done in all my life.’ There were tears prickling the edge of his vision, and he swallowed hard. She was looking at him intently, and he leaned forward and cupped her face, the palms of his hands moulding themselves to her cheekbones. ‘You are so pretty,’ he said, and again there was that obstruction in his throat and he had to swallow before he could speak again. ‘How could anyone so pretty be bad?’

  It was no kind of answer, and they both knew it.

  She pulled away from him and dipped her face, her hair swinging forward. ‘I am bad,’ she said, ‘and you love it.’

  He reached for her and pulled her down on top of him into a bone-crushing embrace.

  Afterwards, when the hot tide had ebbed, she said, ‘Tell me again about running away.’

  ‘Come close then.’ He lay back and pulled her in tight-curled against his chest and flank. ‘Let’s go south. We’ll take a boat through the waves of the Ocean, past Iberia and into the Middle Sea past the Pillars of Hercules.’

  ‘Is it hot there? Hotter than here?’

  ‘Always.’ He thought of the maps in the pages of Isidore and Adomnán in Wulfhere’s lovely library, the fruit and the music and the laughing girls in the old Roman poetry he loved so much. ‘There will be figs, and olives, and spice trees. All the wine you could want.’

  ‘What’s it called, the land where we’re going?’

  ‘The Earthly Paradise.’ He sighed, and she cuddled closer into him. ‘There is no sin there, and everyone goes naked and unashamed, like children.’

  ‘Like us.’

  ‘Yes,’ and he kissed the top of her head. ‘Like us. The streams run with honey, like sunshine you can drink. And every daisy is made of pearls. There are wonderful creatures there. The phoenix, who makes her nest from aromatic twigs.’

  ‘What’s a phoenix?’

  Ingeld began to tell her, but before very long her breathing slowed and deepened into a light snore. When he was sure she was asleep Ingeld pulled his tingling arm out from under her shoulders and lay down next to her.

  He had no illusions. She was silly, and shallow, and capable of moments of spite that he found distressing. But at the same time there was an innocence there, a simple, childish greed for the good things of the flesh. She made no crippling moral judgements: she saw something, she wanted it and she reached for it. She wanted him. Eve, he thought, in Eden, must have been like this girl. He had never been so happy. He dropped a kiss on the lovely curve where her neck met her shoulder. Her skin smelt strong and musky, and he inhaled deeply.

  Before long he too was asleep. In the long, slanting light the motes of dust and straw rose and fell in the warm air.

  56

  Elfrun clicked her fingers and Gethyn fell in at her heels. Widia was coming away from the stables and she waved him over. ‘Saddle Mara for me.’

  His expression shifted subtly. ‘Athulf is out on Mara.’

  ‘Athulf? Again?’ Elfrun glanced at Widia’s carefully composed face. ‘Oh, never mind.’ She knew only too well that stopping Athulf – short of shutting him in a heavy-lidded chest and turning the key – was a near-impossible task.

  ‘Where would you be riding to, lady?’

  ‘Up to the sheepwick.’ She wouldn’t normally go herself, but she didn’t quite trust Luda to give her a report she understood. ‘I need a word with Hirel, about the shearing.’

  Elfrun had thought Widia’s expression guarded before, but it was nothing to the one he now assumed. She had never realized that his mouth and his dark eyebrows could make such perfectly stern, horizontal lines, broken only by the jagged-lightning line of his still-raw scar. But when he spoke his voice was mild. ‘I’ll saddle Hafoc for you, if you like?’ He jerked his head. ‘He’s in the home field.’

  Elfrun nodded. She watched Widia go into the stables and emerge with the fri
nged saddlecloth draped over one arm and a bridle in his hand. ‘Lady,’ he called, ‘will you use your father’s saddle?’

  She was about to shake her head, but thought again. She had been wearing her father’s cloak – though she was still waiting for the new silver tag – and sitting in his chair; and now she would be riding his horse: how would using his saddle be any different? Athulf may have been riding Mara without her leave, but at least he hadn’t dared to take Hafoc again through the winter and the spring, not since the raid on Illingham’s granaries.

  Widia came back leading the dun gelding by the bridle and hitched him to a post while he went back in to get the great saddle. Silver-gilt studs sparkled in the late-afternoon sun. Widia stood holding Hafoc’s bridle for her, but the horse jibbed, swinging his head, and Widia had to shake the bridle in his face and back him up a few paces before bringing him forward again. ‘Restless,’ he said. ‘Not been ridden for too long, lady. I’ve taken him out when I can, but it’s not enough. You should ride him regularly.’

  She patted the snuffling whiskery nose and let Hafoc lip and nuzzle the palm of her hand. ‘You’re all right, aren’t you, boy?’ Widia made a step with his hands and boosted her up. She ran her finger over the studs, noticing where the gilt was rubbing off, where the underlying silver had the purple bloom of tarnish. ‘I remember when I was a little girl, sitting up here perched on this saddle-bow in front of my father.’

  ‘I don’t like you riding out on your own, lady.’

  ‘It’s only to the sheepwick. And I’ve got Gethyn.’ Still that grim face. ‘Come with me then, if you’re so fretted.’ She didn’t care what he did, as long as he made up his mind.

  He paused. ‘I have nets to mend, but...’ He was forestalled by the sound of hooves. They both turned to see Thancrad of Illingham riding through the gate on Blis, sunshine glinting in the glossy russet of his hair.

  He raised a hand in salute. ‘I was looking for Athulf.’

  Widia laughed shortly. ‘Good luck. He’s gone out on Mara. I thought he was meeting you – he said as much. Or at least that he was going to Illingham.’

  Thancrad looked puzzled, then shrugged. ‘I’ve not seen him on the way. We’ve only just got back from Driffield.’ He turned to Elfrun. ‘That’s a fine horse you’re riding.’

  Elfrun reached forward to pat Hafoc’s neck, hiding her smile. ‘My father’s.’

  ‘Where are you taking him?’

  She hesitated, feeling shyer than ever in the aftermath of her talk with Fredegar.

  ‘She’s going up to the sheepwick,’ Widia said.

  ‘On her own?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, and at the same moment Widia said, ‘I don’t like it, either.’ His eyes met Thancrad’s, and there was a silent moment of masculine complicity which Elfrun found deeply irritating. Then Thancrad tugged Blis round.

  ‘I’ll ride with you.’ He paused. ‘If you like.’

  She didn’t like, but she didn’t know how to refuse. Be rude, Fredegar had said. But how do you refuse simple courtesy?

  It had rained earlier in the day, and now a light steamy mist was rising from the young barley. The sky had cleared, but there was more rain to come to judge by the dampness of the air and the shifting clouds to the west. Hafoc ducked his head and broke his stride. Lurching in the saddle, Elfrun gripped the edge of the pommel and pulled herself forward until she felt secure enough again to lean forward and pat his neck. He snorted and shook his head. She was very aware of Thancrad riding just to her side and behind her. Did he think she couldn’t manage her father’s horse? Warm damp air rose up from the long grass, thick and slightly sour with the scent of elder-blossom from the bushes that fringed the track. The sheepwick stood on the edge of the outland, three miles above the hall. They came up the little combe, following the dry course of the winterburn, and out of the stand of elder and alder, rowan and birch that grew on the little plateau which held the feed-barn and house and sheep-pens.

  Elfrun jerked back harder on the reins than she had meant. A snowy mare was already there, dazzling in the sunlight, her back bare of anything but a blanket. She was tethered to a post of the fence that surrounded the lambing pens, empty now, with the flocks scattered across the rough grazing of the hills to which they were hefted. She had her head down, grazing among the sweet weeds that grew as high as her belly, but hearing other horses approaching she lifted her head and whickered an enquiry. The saddle was propped against another post.

  ‘It’s Storm. My uncle’s horse,’ Elfrun said. ‘He must be here about the shearing too.’ She frowned. ‘Funny, that he would come himself.’ Minster sheep and hall sheep ran side by side, with only the differently cut nicks in their ears to mark them out, but she would have expected Heahred or one of the minster servants to be running such an errand.

  ‘Maybe someone’s borrowed his mare?’

  ‘Storm?’ She tried to repress a snort. ‘You clearly don’t know my uncle. No-one would dare’ – she thought of Fredegar coming to Cudda – ‘not without it being a matter of life or death.’ Elfrun looped the reins over the high, carved saddle-bow and grabbed it with her right hand before leaning forward and grasping a slithery handful of Hafoc’s dark mane, swinging her right leg over the cantle and pushing herself away from his flank as she thumped down into the grass, winded but with her skirts in place and her dignity intact. ‘Good boy!’ Gethyn came trotting up, panting and pink tongue lolling, brown eyes eager. ‘Not you! Well, you are too.’

  She looked back at Thancrad looping Blis’s reins over a post.

  ‘Thancrad, could you hold Gethyn? There might be late lambs around, and I don’t trust him.’ Thancrad took Gethyn’s collar with one hand and Hafoc’s bridle with the other. He opened his mouth but she forestalled him. She had had more than enough of being fussed over. He was as bad as her grandmother. ‘Wait for me here.’

  Without staying for his answer, she went through the gate.

  The place seemed deserted. Elfrun frowned. The overwintering shed stood to her left and Hirel’s little house to her right, and ahead there were the hay store and the dairy. Hirel’s old dog was tethered by the dairy. He lifted his greying muzzle and stared at her, but didn’t bother to struggle to his legs. She went over to the house, noting the smoke trickling out here and there through the thatch, and the door ajar and sagging a little against the ground on its leather hinges.

  ‘Hello?’ The little house was dim after the enamel-bright sunshine of the midsummer late afternoon, but she could tell from the dull fall of her voice that the place was unoccupied despite the smouldering hearth. She came out again, past the stacked barrels and the cords of firewood and went over to the silent pens. Standing on tiptoe she peered over the top of the wattle panels, her gaze sweeping round the empty stalls. The door to the fodder store loomed, a gaping mouth waiting to swallow the imminent hay-harvest. Elfrun crossed herself hastily. If only this fine weather would hold.

  She picked up her skirts to step over the high threshold. It was dark inside, punctuated by stabbing lines of bright light where there were holes in the thatch.

  The entrance was flanked by mounds of last year’s hay as high as her head, an old cartwheel looking for all the world like a giant spindle-whorl, random lengths of wood, little pots for tar and raddle. She took another couple of paces. This was silly. If folk were about they would have hailed her by now. Perhaps Hirel and Ingeld had gone on foot up to the high pastures, with the two lads who helped out.

  But Saethryth should be here somewhere, surely.

  Elfrun’s lips tightened. Too many prickly memories of coming into the women’s house to a babble of happy chatter that fell silent at the sight of her, and Saethryth’s sidelong eyes, her sulky mouth and her muttering to her neighbour. But that was last year. Saethryth was a married woman now. She would be different.

  The air in the barn was thick and sweet with the ghosts of last year’s ingathering: hay and pea and vetch. Sparrows chirped incessantly in the rafters and
from somewhere there came the buzzing of insects. A stir in the straw caught her eye, and a little sighing sound.

  For a wild moment she thought it was a ewe, a marvellous ewe with a great cascade of long silky fleece, caught in a net of sunlight. And then she realized it was human hair.

  Saethryth’s hair, unbound.

  It flowed over the girl’s shoulders and down her back in a curly tangle that had all the pallid sheen of the best flax. A wooden flask, its stopper out, lay on the earthen floor beside her. Its contents had spilled and the sticky mess was alive with feasting wasps.

  Saethryth shifted again and muttered some unintelligible words. She was deep asleep, lying with her near leg bent at the knee and her other leg over something colourful spread over the hay. Something with even more of a sheen to it than Saethryth’s hair.

  Silk.

  A wasp buzzed in Elfrun’s face and she batted it away.

  Familiar silk.

  Ingeld too was asleep, naked, his arm around Saethryth’s waist and his face buried in her breasts. And they had spread out his chasuble, the best one, the yellow silk from Pavia, as a coverlet over the straw.

  Elfrun blinked. The heat – it was hard to breathe.

  Saethryth sighed and turned closer to Ingeld, wrapping her leg around his. Elfrun could see the pale swell of the other girl’s buttock and her uncle’s hand, sun-darkened as no priest’s should be, cupped possessively around the smooth curve. Gold shone on his finger.

  The air had so thickened and filled with dust, it was hard to drag it into her lungs. She took a careful step backwards, then another, and turned round. Her head jerked back. Thancrad was just a few paces away, a silhouette against the light, staring as she had stared. She walked straight past him, eyes fixed out on the rectangle of daylight. She could feel the pulse thudding hard in her neck, her wrists, her groin.

  The yard was painfully bright and she shaded her eyes with her hand and stumbled over a long-dried rut. Where had this heat come from, this inability to draw breath?