After a time Aedwen spoke.
“And Beornmod told them that Ithamar was the one they sought?”
“I think he just wanted them to stop,” Nothgyth hesitated, unsure now. “To stop what they were doing and he shouted that the monk had carried a message.”
“A message?” Dunston asked.
But before Nothgyth could respond, Aedwen said, “I re-member the monk. He too had stopped here at the hall for rest. He’d only meant to stay one night, but there was a sick traveller and Ithamar was tending to him. My father and the monk spoke together long into the night, after I had gone to sleep.”
“That traveller died in the end,” Nothgyth said, crossing herself. “We were all frightened it was the pestilence. The Lady had been terrified his illness would kill us all. She had me and Wynflaed burn all his belongings and Tilwulf and Frithstan buried him right out by the great elm in the top field. Far from the house.” She sniffed. “It weren’t the pestilence that got them in the end though. Goes to show.”
Dunston thought on what the girl had said. Could it be that Ithamar and Lytelman had learnt some terrible secret from this sickly traveller?
Nothgyth was peering at Aedwen in the firelight.
“I remember you now,” she said. “The Lady let you sleep with us in the back of the hall.” And then her eyes widened. “Your father is the peddler they spoke of.”
“That’s right,” said Aedwen. “He was.”
“I thought this one was your father,” said Nothgyth, nodding towards Dunston.
“No. My father’s dead.”
“Killed by the same men?”
“We think so,” Aedwen said.
“But why?” asked Nothgyth.
“We do not know, child,” said Dunston. “But we mean to find out. And when we do, we will make them pay.” She was no fool this one, Dunston thought, and he could see her thoughts clearly on her face. First confusion, then inquisitiveness and then, finally, a sudden dawning fear.
“If they find that I am alive and I saw the things that happened here, they will return and slay me.” She spoke in a matter-of-fact monotone. And there could be no arguing with the sense of her words.
“You must be gone from this place at first light,” said Dunston. “And never speak of what you have seen here.”
“But where will I go?”
“Do you have kin?” he asked.
Tears tumbled down her dirt-smeared face and she sniffed.
“These were my kin,” she said, her voice desolate. “I have no others.”
“Take what you can of value and head east. Make your way towards Witanceastre. The land is safer there and a clever girl like you will find a way.”
Nothgyth stared at him, frowning in the ember glow of the fire. She swiped at the tears on her face with the back of her hands.
“And what of you?” she asked.
Dunston drained the ale from his cup and stood. His knee ached and his back was stiff. But he would walk around the settlement before he slept. He was sure the riders would not return and yet he could not shake the feeling that despite hunting these men, he too was their prey. Who would be first to bring their quarry to ground he could not tell. But of one thing he was sure. There would be more blood spilt before the end.
“We will continue with our quest to find the truth,” he said.
“And how will you do that?”
“We must try and find this Ithamar before the others.”
And with that he picked up his axe and stepped out into the cool darkness of the night, leaving the two grieving girls alone in the flickering firelight of the house.
Twenty
Aedwen was surprised that she slept so well. As she had lain in the quiet warmth of the hut the night before, her mind had thronged with the horrors she had seen. She had fought against sleep, fearing that her dreams would be filled with the swollen faces of the hanged men, the blood-streaked corpses of the bondsmen in the yard, the pale skin of the dead in the hall and the mutilated, butchered body of Beornmod. But worse than all of these fearful apparitions in her mind had been the sightless eyes of the girl in the storeroom, throat gaping like a hideous, monstrous, impossibly wide grin.
Aedwen had prayed to the Blessed Virgin for the girl’s soul. And she had prayed for Nothgyth, that the girl would find a safe haven, far from all this tragedy. Somewhere she might find people she could call her kin once more. And, as Dunston had returned from his patrol of the steading, she had prayed for herself. She asked the Virgin that She might help them find her father’s killers so that they would be able to avenge him and the poor people of Cantmael. Aedwen was not sure that the prayer was worthy of the Virgin, for surely the Mother of Christ would frown upon one of her own seeking vengeance instead of spreading love and forgiveness. But Aedwen could find no space in her heart for love. Her thoughts were dark and twisted, and so, she had thought, would be her dreams.
But she had dreamt of a warm summer’s day. In her dream her mother, fit and hale and full of life, had embraced her and brushed her hair. Aedwen had awoken refreshed and relaxed. For a time she had lain silently with her eyes closed, clinging to the feeling of her mother’s warmth against her. She could hear Dunston quietly rekindling the fire and moving about the house. But she did not wish to open her eyes, for when she did she knew that the world would be as it had been the day before, her mother would yet be dead, as would her father. And she was sure that her future would not be warm and full of light, but dark and filled with death.
The illusion of lying in her mother’s embrace was shattered when Nothgyth, who had slept beside her and had wrapped her arms about her in the night, awoke and rose to her feet, coughing.
As much as Aedwen felt rested, so Dunston seemed all the more tired. The skin beneath his eyes was dark and bruised-looking and despite his broad shoulders and muscled arms, she thought his face looked slimmer, his cheekbones more pronounced.
He looked old.
Dunston had been up early and had already milked the cow, so they had fresh milk and the remainder of the bread and some cheese to break their fast.
“You must take the cow with you,” Dunston said to Nothgyth. When she protested, saying she was no thief, he had raised up his hands and told her that without her to milk it the cow would grow ill. “You said the people here were your kin, or as good as.” Nothgyth nodded. “So then,” Dunston continued, “you are merely taking what your kin have left you. They would want you to do well with your life and I’m sure they would not want the cow to go un-milked and abandoned. That animal has been well-loved and cared for.” Nothgyth acquiesced in the end and they waved her farewell as she forlornly led the beast along the path back towards Spercheforde.
Aedwen noted that the corpses no longer hung from the tree in the yard. And the farmhand who had lain in the mud in a pool of congealing blood was gone. It seemed that Dunston had done more than merely tend to the cow that morning. He said nothing of the dead and so Aedwen did not speak of them either. But she was thankful that she did not have to face the staring eyes of the corpses in the bright summer sun.
There were only the merest wisps of cloud in the eggshell blue of the sky as they set off following the path to the southwest. Dunston had picked up a few things from the house, stuffing them into his hemp bag, and he had told Aedwen to fill a sack with food from the house. From somewhere he had found a good seax, complete with a tooled red leather scabbard, and a belt, which he fastened around his waist. For Aedwen he produced a small eating knife. It had a polished antler handle and when she pulled it from its plain leather sheath, she saw that the blade had been sharpened many times. It was a short blade, but it was wickedly sharp and even though Aedwen had no idea what she would do with it in a fight, wearing it from her belt made her feel somehow safer.
When they had walked a short way from the steading Dunston knelt over the path, gazing at the mud and grass that grew there. After a long while he rose to his feet and set off with a determined stride
.
Aedwen trotted to keep up.
“What do you see in the ground?” she asked.
“The signs are confused,” he said, a tinge of annoyance in his tone. “The horses went this way, but I had hoped to be able to see the sign of the monk. But I was unable to discern anything for certain.”
“Well, Nothgyth did say that Ithamar left two days ago,” said Aedwen.
“And it has rained,” he said. “It would be much to ask that I would find his tracks easily on such a busy path.”
As they walked along the track, leaving the looming hill of Cantmael and Beornmod’s hall behind them, Aedwen watched as Dunston continued to survey the ground. Sparrows and finches twittered in the bushes to their left and a crow flapped lazily overhead. Dunston glanced at the birds, nodding as if they too spoke to him, telling him what they saw from their lofty positions.
“How did you learn?” she asked.
“Learn?”
“To read the tracks of men and animals.”
“My grandfather taught me first,” he said. “And after him my father.” They walked on for a time without speaking and when Aedwen looked at Dunston she saw a wistful glint in his eye. She supposed his grandfather and father must have died many years before. She wondered what it would be like for her as she grew old, when her parents would be nothing but a distant memory, half-forgotten ghosts that had at one time been her whole world.
Reaching the brow of a rise Dunston halted and lowered himself down onto his left knee with a grunt. His pale ice blue eyes were surrounded by wrinkled skin and yet they were clear and bright, showing no sign of age. They flickered as his gaze took in the hidden details strewn before him in the muck.
“There,” he pointed to a twig that had been snapped and pressed into the soft earth of the track. “See,” he said, “I’d wager that’s Ithamar’s print. A soft leather sole. See how the horse’s hoof snapped the twig when the riders passed yesterday?” He touched the print softly, rubbing a pinch of soil between thumb and forefinger. “It is as the girl said. The monk is two days ahead of the riders. But he is on foot and he does not know he is being pursued. If he sticks to the path, or if they have a woodsman in their number, one who can read sign, they will run him to ground before we can reach them.”
He heaved himself to his feet and set off once more.
“Much of what I have learnt, the forest has taught me,” he said after a pause. “You can learn much if you watch and listen. With patience and time the woodland will give up its secrets. All learning comes from being patient and thinking what you can glean of use from what is around you.”
“It is as though you can see things in the ground that nobody else can see,” said Aedwen.
“Anyone can learn the things I know. Would you like to learn?”
“Would you teach me?”
After a brief hesitation, Dunston said, “I will if you would like. We cannot tarry if we mean to find these men, but I can tell you some things as we go. Would you like that?”
Aedwen thought for a moment. She tried to remember the last time her father had taught her anything of value. Nothing came to mind.
“Yes,” she said. “I think I’d like that very much.”
And so as they walked briskly southwest, Dunston began to point out things of interest. They passed a thicket of linden trees and he told her of how the bark could be used to fashion containers and the inner bark produced good string. Spotting a fallen beech just off the path, Dunston led her to the rotting wood and showed her where dark, smooth lumps of fungus grew. He collected some, telling her how the charcoal-like fungus could be used to hold an ember when lighting a fire. He pulled a tuft of straggly lichen from a branch, explaining that it would easily catch fire with the merest of sparks. He plucked leaves from a sorrel and nibbled at them.
“These are good eating at this time of year,” he said, passing a handful of the leaves to her.
She sniffed them. They smelt green and fresh.
“Go on,” he said. “Try one.”
Taking a deep breath, she bit off part of the leaf and chewed. It tasted sharp and sour, but pleasant and refreshing. She smiled.
Every now and then, when tracks joined the path they followed, Dunston paused and checked for sign of the monk and his hunters. But now, instead of silently scanning the ground, he explained to Aedwen what he saw. The depth of a print. The tiny prints of insects, rodents or birds could show the age of the impressions in the earth left by man and horse. There were many details that later she could not remember, but in this way, the long tiring day passed quickly and she had little time to dwell on the evil that had been done to her father and to the people of Cantmael.
During the morning they saw nobody save for some shepherds, glimpsed through a stand of hazel far in the distance on the slope of a hill. But sometime after midday the track they followed joined a larger road that ran north and south. The sky was clear, the day was warm and it seemed that many had decided to take advantage of the fair weather to travel and so in the afternoon, they crossed the path of drovers, shepherds and several individuals walking about their business that took them onto the roads of Wessex. They even passed a waggon that was escorted by four mounted warriors in byrnies of iron. The cart was well appointed, covered with a frame from which hung patterned curtains. Aedwen imagined it must have carried a noble woman, hidden behind the fine drapes. She was desperate to know the identity of the lady who rode within the covered waggon, but Dunston hushed her and pushed her into the long grass and nettles that grew in a tangle on the verge. The nettles stung Aedwen’s legs and she rubbed at the rash as they carried on their way.
Dunston grew tense and taciturn with each traveller they passed.
“I don’t like it,” he grumbled. “Too many people have seen us. We are not a pair to be easily forgotten. And travellers talk.”
For a while she did not reply. Her legs itched and she scratched at them, until he plucked a large dock leaf and handed it to her.
“Rub this on where it stings,” he said. “It will help.”
She did as he said.
He was right, of course. They would be remembered. The young girl accompanied by the hulking brute of a man with a bushy greying beard, a great battle-axe resting on his shoulder. As if he was not memorable enough, the iron head of his axe, embellished with whorls and symbols in silver inlay, certainly drew attention as it glinted in the afternoon sunlight.
“At least there is something good that comes of being on this road,” she said with a grin. Her legs were feeling better already.
“And what is that?” he growled.
“We can travel faster.”
“And how do you propose we do that?” he said, frowning. “Unless I’m not mistaken, our legs have not grown since this morning. And I do not believe either of us are ready to run.”
She chuckled.
“No, that is true. But we can still move more quickly.”
“How?”
“By not needing to stop to look for sign,” she said. And then, when she saw the blank look on his face, she continued: “We can ask the people on the road whether they have seen a group of riders. They may even have seen Ithamar, if they have been travelling for a few days.”
For a moment, Dunston did not reply and then he smirked, his smile twisted behind his beard.
“I am glad you have been paying attention to my teaching,” he said.
“But you have been telling me about tracks, fungus and eating leaves.”
“Yes, that is so. But the most important lesson of all was the first one I taught you this morning. That you can always learn new ways of doing things, if you listen and pay attention to what is around you.”
Twenty-One
During the rest of that long warm day, they did as Aedwen had suggested and spoke to some of the travellers they passed. One man, who was leading a heavily laden cart drawn by two oxen, seemed pleased at the chance to stop and talk. He was accompanied by two thickse
t men who looked like brothers, or maybe cousins. They both had the same small piggy eyes and massive shoulders almost as broad as the oxen. Each of them carried a stout cudgel and Dunston thought they would be deterrent enough against all but the most determined brigands. When the carter halted, the two guards slumped into the grass at the edge of the path. They said nothing, but their gaze did not waver from Aedwen and Dunston.
The carter offered Dunston a drink of ale from a costrel which he took from the bed of the cart. He didn’t offer any to his escorts, who just glowered from the shade of the verge. It was good ale, fresh and cool and despite his reservations about being seen on the road, Dunston found he trusted the carter implicitly. Unlike the cudgel-bearing louts, the man had an open face, a quick smile and guileless eyes.
He was taking a load of salt and smoked fish to Bathum and had been on the road for two days already. When asked whether he’d seen a large group of riders he answered immediately.
“I saw the king himself riding out to hunt with his nobles. A fine sight it was, all those horses trotting high-hoofed in the sunlight.” He looked wistful at the memory. “Like something out of a song.”
“The king, you say?” Dunston asked. “When was this?”
“That was on the morning I left Exanceaster. The king arrived a week ago with so many hearth warriors and thegns, they must have eaten all the meat in the city by now. Perhaps that’s why they went hunting.” He laughed.
“Have you seen any other riders more recently? A band of them?”
The carter took back the costrel from Dunston with a nod.
“Oh yes,” he said, taking a draught of the ale. “A group of horsemen galloped past and I called out to them. Asked them whither they were headed in such a hurry. I didn’t really expect a reply. They looked a rough sort, if you know what I mean. But the last one shouted out to me as he passed. He looked even more vicious than the rest. I’ll never forget what he said.”
“What was that?”
“He said, ‘Just be thankful we’re not looking for you.’ Then he laughed. It sent a chill right through me, I can tell you. I pity whoever it is they are after. They looked fit to murder someone.”
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