Daughter of the Wolf
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Authors: Victoria Whitworth
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About
Daughter of the Wolf
Daughter of the Wolf
is set during the Dark Ages, in an England ruled by rival kings. Of the lords who serve them, none is more important than Radmer of Donmouth, known as the King's Wolf, guardian of the estuary gateway to Northumbria.
When the king sends Radmer on a mission to Rome, Donmouth is suddenly vulnerable, left in the safekeeping of his only daughter, Elfrun, whose formidable grandmother would force her to take the veil, while across the river, treacherous Tilmon of Illingham wants her for his son.
This is the story of daughters in a man's world. The story of Wynn, determined to oust her brother and take over from her father, the smith. Of Saethryth, wilful daughter of the village steward, whose longing for passion will set off a tragic sequence of events and of Auli, whose merchant venturer father plies his trade up and down the coast, spying for the Danes.
Above all, it is the story of Elfrun, left in charge of Donmouth, uncertain of her father's fate, not knowing whom she can trust, or whom she can love.
For Stella, my bright star
The Chronicle, York Minster Scriptorium
The Chronicle, York Minster Scriptorium
The Chronicle, York Minster Scriptorium
The Chronicle, York Minster Scriptorium
The Chronicle, York Minster Scriptorium
Coda: The Chronicle, York Minster Scriptorium
An Invitation from the Publisher
ART
O
NE
T
HE
C
HRONICLE
, Y
ORK
M
INSTER
S
CRIPTORIUM
25 M
ARCH
859. F
EAST
OF
THE
A
NNUNCIATION
.
The first day of a new year. Time to look back and take stock. The chronicler was making himself a new quill, splaying the tip and slicing with the lethal blade of his pen-knife: brief, accurate strokes. He eyed the nib approvingly before dipping the sharp, shaped point into the little pot of gall-black ink, letting one or two drops fall back into the tiny midnight pool before drawing his first mark on the fresh sheet of vellum.
Up at a slant. Down again. Across. Straight up. Downward curve. Gathering speed a little as his hand accustomed itself to the new nib, to the consistency of this batch of ink, to the slightly rough surface of this calfskin.
AD
DCCCLVIII
In hoc anno...
His quill was the flight feather of a wild grey goose, tense and powerful in his hand even in this denuded and reworked state. Late March, and just that morning he had seen the first of the great mournful flocks turning north again, arrowing already across the Northumbrian skies to their unknown summer homes. Today was a day fit for new beginnings. The anniversary of that first separation of darkness from light; and of the day on which Eva's catastrophe had been reversed by the angel's
Ave
to Maria.
He sighed, looking down at the still almost empty page.
In this year...
How powerful it was, the desire to make some kind of mark, leave some kind of record, ink patterning vellum like footprints on sand. How long would it be before some little wave, harbinger of the rising tide, broke over this desk, this room, this great church, and washed the marks away?
He mused over the events of the last year, the news that had come in, brought by legates and royal envoys coming along the old roads; by merchants and sailors putting into the riverside wharves of York, whose cathedral sat like a spider at the heart of its worked net.
Time to dip his pen again. It hovered, while he hesitated over what might be worthy of record. Some events were easy enough. Tap a superfluous drop from the nib, little serif, strong downward stroke...
In this year died King Cinaed ap Alpin of the Picts; and also Athelwulf Ecgberhting of the West Saxons. Domnall ap Alpin and Athelbald Athelwulfing succeeded to the kingdoms.
Clumsy phrasing: he should have drafted it first rather than gone rushing in. The story of his life. Never mind, the meaning was clear enough.
Also in this year the pagans burned the minster at Tours.
He wiped the nib on a square of linen, and gazed at the white-plastered wall. There seemed so little that merited the effort of writing down. Who on earth would be interested in the small events that had marked out this last
annus domini
for him?
In this year a girl gave me a flower on the kalends of March. Her face and bosom were freckled, and her eyes were blue. She made me think of a songthrush egg.
And what about the things that didn't happen?
In this year there was no famine, no murrain of cattle. The pagans were elsewhere.
Those were, surely, miracles in themselves.
He had never been to Tours, and now he would probably never get the chance.
Small events, unworthy of record.
In this year Ingeld was made priest against his better judgement and appointed to the abbacy of Donmouth.
He stroked the little tuft of remaining feathers that topped the quill against his close-shaven chin and smiled at the softness, lowering his eyelids the better to imagine the bird, high against the sun, heading north into a Hyperborean land of light. What did Northumbria look like to the geese? The estuary that gave the land its name, and the fan of rivers, the hills of chalk and limestone and grit stretching north and west until they ran out into the sea, the northern waters splitting the land, the territories of Dumbarton and the Picts. How far to the north had this supple quill carried its previous owner? His imagination lost itself in a dazzle of snow and sun.
Slowly he opened his eyes again, to the prosaic world of writing-slope and inkhorn, quill and knife and whitewashed wall. How marvellous it would be, to fly with the geese. To see the storms before they hit, to spot where armies were massing, the harbours in which the sea-wolves lurked, to swoop down and hear the treasonous speech men uttered in hall and bower when they thought themselves safe. To have all Northumbria in one's hand, its hills and waterways no more than the lines and curves that mapped his palm.
He smiled, and shook his head. That was a dream for the statesmen and the warriors, men like his brother. He would be happier with his eyes on the edge of the world, no care beyond the exquisite thrill of the moment, his wings riding the wind.
âEnd of the field and back?' Athulf was out of breath, cheeks pink and eyes bright under his rough-cut fringe. Elfrun thought he looked very like the unkempt ponies whose halters he was holding, hot in their shaggy winter coats and the late Easter sunshine.
She nodded. âDismount and vault three times, turn at the hawthorn tree, same again' â she gestured largely â âfinish here. And I'm riding Mara.' She glared at her cousin, challenging him for possession of their favourite, noting the beginnings of his frown, how that soft lower lip was already starting to pout.
âCome on!' Both the other boys who had accepted the challenge were already jostling their own mounts into position a few yards away. She knew one of them vaguely, had seen him before at other spring and harvest meetings, but his father's lands were in distant Elmet, several days from her own home of Donmouth. The other was a stranger, a tall, quiet-faced lad on a gleaming bay mare. They had come trotting up only moments earlier, just as the race was being planned.
Would Athulf throw a tantrum, with these strangers as witness? Elfrun braced herself even as she laid a possessive hand on Mara's halter.
Her cousin surprised her, however. âAs you like.' And he tugged Apple towards him.
But he was looking neither at her nor at the fat-rumped little pony whose bridle he was gripping. His gaze had gone flickering past her, and a look of calculation was crossing his round face.
âCome
on
,' the lad from Elmet shouted again, and all at once Elfrun decided that, whatever Athulf had seen, she didn't want to know. She tugged Mara round and scrambled on to her back, clapping her heels into the chestnut's flanks and screaming, âGo!' A crazy headlong dash ensued, with hardly time to swing herself down, find her stride and bounce back on to Mara twice, never mind three times, before swinging round the hawthorn tree in its fresh green leaf. Her plaits were coming free, and though she had kilted her skirts they unknotted themselves, flying out and hampering her. No room in her head for anything but the exultation of the moment, not for her bashed ribs, not for the other riders, not for the clamour of rooks that rose raucous from the stand of elms at the bottom of the field; and certainly not for any of Athulf's funny faces. Elfrun came in a screaming second, mud-spattered and exhilarated. The tall lad on the bay had won.
But not by much, and he had noticed. âWell ridden!'
She reined Mara in, narrowly avoiding riding into his horse's rump, grinning in return, flushed and too breathless to answer.
She might not have won outright, but she had beaten Athulf. Beating Athulf was harder than it used to be, and the pleasure that much greater. Sweeping a tangled skein of hair out of her eyes Elfrun slithered triumphant down from Mara's sweaty back.