Daughter of the Wolf

by Victoria Whitworth

  Finn closed his eyes. What kind of welcome would he be given at Illingham? He knew he had an obligation to go there, and to go now, and this had nothing to do with whoever had taken Elfrun. He had lied to her, saying that he would head for York. If Auli were anywhere up and down the Humber coast she would be there, and so would the rest of the crew. And he would be coming back to them with their most valuable assets squandered. Never mind the variously cheap and costly treasures from his pack – it was coming back having lost Myr and Varri that would anger Tuuri.

  Holmi less so. Boys who danced on ropes were easily picked up in any market. But a good bear was hard to find, as was a man to lead him.

  Varri had been an excellent bear.

  Nothing to do with who had taken Elfrun – and everything. He might not know the ins and outs of the rivalries between Illingham and Donmouth, but he knew who Tuuri’s paymasters were, and he could guess at which target they were aiming their first shots.

  Finn stared into the darkness behind his eyelids. He should have told Elfrun everything, warned her properly, not let her touchy pride – and his – stand in the way. What business did he have hanging on to the rags and shreds of his pride, anyway? He thought of Elfrun’s upright stance, her strongly marked eyebrows and the dusting of freckles across her nose. The earnest little frown that tugged constantly between her brows, and how from the first time he had exchanged words with her, almost a year ago, he had felt the urge to touch a fingertip to those furrows and make them vanish.

  He should have told her of the threats that hung around Donmouth, as present to his eyes as the skeins of mist and hearth-smoke that even now were looping and curling around the low, reed-thatched roofs. But he had not told her. Stupidly, he had thought her burdened enough. And he had let her walk away from him, straight out of the stable and into immeasurable danger.

  Widia thought she was safe at Illingham?

  Then Widia was a fool.

  The sun was rising, reddening the blood in his closed eyelids. Elfrun had been gone all night, and him just sitting here.

  ‘It was you. You brought that mirror.’

  His eyes snapped open. The mist was tinged with gold.

  The speaker was a skinny creature who looked as though childhood were reluctant to relinquish her. She wore a dress that she had clearly outgrown, all bony wrists and bare calves. It was a moment before he recognized her. Her mention of the mirror was the clue. The child from the drear November beach with her skirt full of cockle shells. Her eyes were huge, her face shining.

  ‘Yes,’ he said mildly.

  She nodded, as though satisfied with his brief answer, and hunkered down beside him. ‘I was looking for the lady.’ There was a pause. ‘I even went into the hall. Her red cloak’s hanging up there, so she must be around somewhere. She always has it close by her, now. Always, always. But no one has seen her.’ She looked him up and down. ‘You’re hurt.’ An observation, that was all.

  He nodded. Then, ‘Go and get her cloak.’

  Her light-blue eyes widened.

  ‘Go on,’ he said.

  She looked at him hard for a moment, then slowly rose to her feet. ‘God help me if that sour-faced misery guts Luda catches me.’

  She was a long time.

  When she came back she was bright-eyed and tight-lipped. ‘I’ve given it a brush,’ she said. ‘I’ve never seen it in such a state. And I told Luda the lady was asking for it.’

  Finn reached out to touch the soft red folds, but Wynn pulled away. ‘The lady trusts me with her things,’ she said pointedly, and he nodded, accepting her suspicion as his rightful portion. ‘Are we taking it to her?’

  Finn made up his mind. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Now.’ He had to break this inaction or go mad. He pushed upwards, using the trunk of the ash for support.

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘At Illingham.’

  Wynn nodded thoughtfully. ‘She’ll want her cloak.’ She fell into step beside him, with Gethyn and the dog-boy at their heels.

  The tide was coming in and the river was high. They stripped off to wade across, the water chest-deep on the dog-boy, their clothes and Elfrun’s cloak bundled on their heads. Gethyn was unhappy but took to the water in the end when he saw what they were all doing.

  Hardly were they dressed again – Finn taking the longest, clumsy with his bruised and swollen shoulder – when his ears pricked. ‘I can hear horses,’ he said. ‘The far side of the river. Into the bushes.’

  Just one horse, with a young man in the saddle, heading for the ford. He would pass very close to them as he emerged, but it was too late now to move. Finn watched, hardly breathing. He recognized Athulf at once, but, just as he had the previous morning, he kept his suspicions to himself. The men who had attacked him and Holmi and Myr had had their hoods pulled down. One stubby chestnut with a stiff blond mane looked much like another. But he had been fairly sure, watching Athulf ride out of the Donmouth yard yesterday, looking at the set of his shoulders, the defensive jut of his chin, the way he held the reins; and watching him now as he encouraged his horse down to the river’s edge Finn was ever more convinced that those initial misgivings had been right.

  Elfrun’s young cousin, the lad with the hunched shoulders and the permanent sulk, was one of the killers.

  One of the men who had come thundering out of that little valley cut by the stream and made straight for Varri, circling and jabbing with spears, howling and whooping now, and then when Myr had pushed in front of his beloved animal, shouting for help, for mercy, his empty hands spread wide, they had attacked him too. Finn and Holmi had been out on a little swampy island, and Auli further out still, keeping watch for the boat, but Holmi had loved Myr and Varri and he had gone floundering back, for all Finn could do to stop him. And then that spear like the wrath of an angry god out of nowhere, with such force, sending him flying backwards...

  He still couldn’t quite believe that he had not been transfixed by the spear, that his blood had not all seeped out into the brackish, muddy water of the estuary, that his body was not even now rolling, cold and limp, with the tide.

  And so he should have been. But Auli had come back.

  It was something he never would have expected from her, to hold him just out of the water, and half float, half drag him somehow on to the land, to stagger with her shoulder under his armpit into the shelter of the brambles.

  And Elfrun had found him there.

  Elfrun, who had given the cloak off her back and the warmth of her own wonderful, fragile, sturdy body to stop his life ebbing away into the damp ground.

  Was it remotely conceivable that the arrogant young man who was now urging his mount up the bank only a few feet from them carried out deeds like this with her blessing? And her other men – what about them? Who were the other two members of that murderous band? Finn had looked hard at Widia and the other men in the Donmouth search party yesterday morning, but no one except Athulf had brought him that sickening lurch of recognition.

  Finn watched Athulf and his little mare vanish among the trees, her wet hide gilded and dappled by the long transverse rays of autumn sun. Long experience had taught him that no deed was so bad that someone wouldn’t do it; and that, no matter how dark his imaginings, the truth was usually darker still. But he nonetheless could not, would not, believe that Athulf had been acting with Elfrun’s benediction, or even her blind eye.

  ‘One way or another, I am going to get you, young cock of the walk,’ he said below his breath. ‘Let’s see how you crow then.’

  71

  The hall was thronged with strangers, even though most of the crews were still down with their boats. Only the masters and a couple of men from each boat were here, but with Tuuri’s own men that still meant a dozen fighters who answered to someone else, and in Tilmon’s considered opinion that was quite enough. Over their heads he could see Tuuri and his crew of eastern Balts, talking in quick voices, their foreign babble which Tilmon found infuriating. Bad enough when men
spoke in Danish or Frankish, which were enough like proper human speech that he could get the gist. This incessant sibilant nonsense, however, which sounded like nothing so much as the twittering of birds in the rushes: this felt like a personal insult.

  But a wise man doesn’t say these things, not when the incomprehensible chatter is being uttered by folk who can call on sixty well-armed men within a few hundred yards. He looked around the hall, taking in the known and the unknown faces. He was not relying on the men of Illingham. The king had granted him the land but Tilmon knew he was still on probation, that Osberht had been testing him this year, tapping him all over like a bell-maker with a newly cast bell, listening for the false note. He had been holding his breath, all the while. But now it was time.

  He stood tall and took a couple of steps forward.

  So did Tuuri.

  Tilmon stared at the other man, his face hard. He needed Tuuri, the information he brought and the links he embodied. The ships’ crews took their orders from him only because Tuuri vouched for him. But Tuuri was not master here, in the hall.

  Silence had fallen when he had first stood up, but now he could hear low murmurs, whispers running round the walls like the wind in the cracks between the boards.

  Alred was in the north, beyond the Tyne in his own family’s Bernician heartlands, raising his own men. They had talked, months ago now, about starting the war against Osberht by burning Donmouth, hall and minster alike, but when he had told Switha she had come up with her own ideas. ‘Save your men. The girl’s the key to Donmouth. Quiet little thing. Thancrad likes her, for some reason.’ She had smiled. ‘Leave this to me. It’ll be easy.’

  And so it was proving. He looked down at his wife with affection. She understood girls.

  Girls. Useful creatures.

  Another girl, the disconcerting one, Tuuri’s daughter with the pale gold eyes. She was at her father’s elbow, and she was looking angry, her head high and her lips thin.

  After that susurrus of whispering the hall was quiet again. North and south door stood ajar, and Tuuri’s men were between him and both. It occurred to Tilmon for the first time that, just possibly, this was a mistake. But his men outnumbered the strangers.

  And besides, he had promised them silver. And more than silver, if the dice rolled right.

  A horse whinnied outside, and another one answered.

  Tilmon beckoned to Tuuri. ‘Come here.’ Bring him over, put an arm over the man’s shoulders, show the world they stood side by side. But Tuuri just stood and stared at him. Much more of this, and men’s hands would be creeping to their hilts.

  The south door darkened, and heads turned.

  Tilmon raised a hand in greeting. That Donmouth lad. Athulf. Ingeld’s son.

  And Auli shrieked. Not a sound of fear, more like the scream of a tern about to attack some foolish trespasser on its nesting field. The cry of one of the old war goddesses, whom men still offered to in the north. She had drawn herself up, and she was pointing at the boy in the door. Every eye followed her accusing finger. The boy stood in a beam of low light, a cloud of dust motes. Tilmon couldn’t make out the look on his face.

  Two of Tuuri’s men moved forward and grabbed the boy by his elbows, dragging him forward.

  ‘What is this?’ Tilmon felt wrong-footed. This was his hall. No one else gave orders here. Switha’s grip on his arm tightened, and he understood the silent message. Steady, steady. Other men might think that sudden clutch a sign of fear, but he knew his wife far too well for that.

  ‘Auli says there are two more. They killed three of my men, and my bear. They tried to kill her.’ Tuuri’s voice was harsh, his face red and blotchy.

  Tilmon swivelled. Thancrad was only a few feet away, his face frozen in that habitual arrogant mask that infuriated his father so much. ‘What do you know about this?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  Tilmon swung a massive back-hander that sent the boy reeling into the man next to him. They staggered for a moment before both went crashing down on the floorboards. When Thancrad picked himself up again his nose was bleeding.

  ‘Don’t lie to me.’ Tilmon gestured angrily towards the boy in the doorway. ‘He’s your man. You’ve been shoulder to shoulder for months. What have you been doing?’

  Thancrad was wiping the blood away with the back of his hand, staring at his father as though he was a stranger. He turned and levelled much the same look at Athulf. ‘He’s not my man, though he may be yours.’ His voice was thick, but there was no mistaking the anger. Tilmon raised his hand again, but Thancrad didn’t flinch. He had the back of his hand pressed to his nose, and his lower face was a red-smeared mask. ‘Where are Addan and Dene? Go on, ask him that. What have they been doing behind my back?’

  There was a long silence. Then Athulf said, ‘Addan and Dene are where they belong. Shovelling sharn outside. In the stables.’

  ‘Get them,’ Tilmon said rapidly. He didn’t want Tuuri to beat him to it. He gestured furiously at his son. Thancrad pushed his way out, past the men who were still holding Athulf.

  ‘You then.’ Tilmon stared at the boy. The same question. ‘What have you been doing?’

  The boy stuck his chin out. ‘It was my right.’

  Tuuri growled something, and the boy turned to stare at him with that same fearless gaze. He looked so young, especially flanked by two war-battered Balts, but he held himself with an effortless arrogance. ‘Your men insulted Donmouth.’

  ‘My men,’ Tuuri said slowly. ‘Finn, a wandering pedlar. Holmi, a little boy who danced. And Myr, who cared for nothing but his bear. Even if they were disrespectful – which I doubt – is Donmouth’s honour so brittle that it cannot survive a little challenge from such as these?’ He clicked his tongue. ‘Take his sword.’

  Athulf turned his head and spat eloquently into the straw, ignoring the man fiddling with the buckles at his waist and shoulder. He stared straight into Tuuri’s eyes. ‘First, they mock our shepherd. Then they deceive my father into pitting his valuable dogs against the bear, in a fight your friends know the bear will win. And thirdly the pedlar and that girl’ – he glared at Auli – ‘frighten and insult my cousin.’

  ‘And for this they have to die?’

  Athulf jerked his chin at Auli. ‘We weren’t going to kill her.’

  Tuuri put a hand on his daughter’s shoulder. ‘I’m glad to hear it.’ His voice was quiet; Tilmon thought dangerously so.

  ‘We were expecting a fight. They had a bear! We didn’t know they weren’t armed.’ Athulf spat again, and there was a rumble and a murmur from the men ranged along the wall. Tilmon didn’t know how much they understood, but he could tell they were getting restless. Athulf said angrily, ‘We only meant to attack the bear, and frighten the men. I don’t know what happened.’ His voice tailed away, and for the first time, Tilmon thought, he looked uncertain.

  And one thing was puzzling him. ‘Why wasn’t Thancrad with you?’

  To his astonishment Athulf looked up then, his face breaking into a smile. ‘I know he’s your son, but Thancrad – Thancrad’s soft.’ His voice was intimate, confident, one equal addressing another. ‘I’d been watching them – the bear and the men – for a couple of days. I knew it was time, and that Addan and Dene would be with me. But we didn’t want Thancrad. We all knew he would duck out. Or worse.’

  ‘Worse?’ Tuuri asked, his voice a growl.

  ‘Try to warn them.’ Athulf shrugged as eloquently as he could with his arms still gripped and forced backwards by Tuuri’s men. ‘He’s not to be trusted in a tight corner. You should know that.’

  ‘Stow it.’ But Tilmon was impressed, both with the boy’s courage and his tolerance of pain. He had been watching this lad for a while, and he liked everything he saw. He and Switha might not care to admit it, but Athulf was right. Somehow, at Thancrad’s core, there was a fastidiousness, a distance, detachment, that made Tilmon profoundly uncomfortable. Soft. It was as good a word as any. Too soft for a hard world.

&
nbsp; Where had Thancrad got to, anyway?

  72

  The door had thumped shut in Elfrun’s face. She stared at it helplessly for a few moments. Had she been seen?

  All those people out there in the yard, surely someone there would help her?

  She should hammer on the door, kick and scream until someone came, but she found she still had a horror of an audience, goggling at the spectacle she presented, emerging smudged and blinking into the daylight in Thancrad’s wake, sporting her straw-strewn wedding finery. Everyone would think that they were man and wife in truth...

  No, she could not do that. There would be no retreat from that kind of public exposure. The folk outside would bear witness to what they had seen. What they thought they had seen. And then she would be trapped.

  She put her hand to her breastbone, trying to breathe more slowly. This was stupid. Think like that, and she would indeed stay locked in this room for the rest of her life. She had not chosen to be here. And nothing had happened. Thancrad hadn’t hurt her. Not in any way that really mattered.

  Thancrad had heard her scream, and understood that she meant it, and let her go. She should hate him too much to be grateful, but she was grateful nonetheless.

  But he thought they were married. And in his place – lied to by Athulf, lied to by his mother – she might well have thought the same.

  Oh God.

  Athulf.

  She sank down with her back to the wall, and the glint of silver in the rushes caught her eye. She had thrown the little cloak-tag away in revulsion in the night, but now she scrabbled for it, her heart thumping painfully. Her fist closed around it, the edges digging into the soft flesh of fingers and palm.

  Why had Radmer ever gone away?

  Athulf was the traitor. She should have known that, all the way through. There she had been, agonizing over Luda and the petty pilfering of lamb-leather, and all the while Athulf had been plotting her destruction.

  How he must hate her.

  She uncurled her fist and looked at the blithe little prancing animal, black on silver. It had its head thrown back, and it seemed to be laughing at her. Or rather, inviting her to laugh with it. Such energy. The king’s gift to her father, and it had come back to her.