Daughter of the Wolf (15 page)

A horse snorted, somewhere close.

Elfrun stopped dead in her tracks, head thrown back, ears pricked.

Another, softer, snort.

She could see the horses now that she knew where to look, four or five or them in the shifting moonlight, their outlines disguised by the tall thin tree trunks. No riders? But there were dark bulky shapes on their backs, shapes that made no sense... What trowie business was this? Why on earth had she dismissed her grandmother's fears so frivolously?

She leaned back into the shadows, not daring to breathe.

‘Who's there?' A hiss from an unseen speaker, somewhere below her. ‘Elfrun? It's me, Athulf.'

The breath went out of her in a long shudder. ‘Are those our horses? Is that
Hafoc
?' She moved down the slope towards his voice and nearly tripped over him. He was just getting to his feet. There were two other lads with him, their crouched forms barely visible. She couldn't make out faces, but Cudda was bound to be one of them. ‘How dare you ride Hafoc?' She was starting to be angry, now that the fear was ebbing out of her. She stumbled over a dead branch and put out a hand to the flank of one of the horses. ‘They're wet!' Realization dawned. ‘I can guess where you've been! Across the river to Illingham. You idiot, Athulf. You know better than that! You'd never dare do this if my father were here.' She lifted her hands to strike at him, but he grasped her wrists and held her at arms' length.

‘Never mind that.' His voice was impatient. ‘Look what we've got. Feel this.' She resisted, but he ignored her, pulling her towards him and guiding her hand to one of those big dark lumps burdening the horse. Her hand met the rough weave of burlap. He pushed her hand down into it. Something familiar ground and shifted under the pressure of her fingers.

‘Barley?' She had never heard of anyone stealing barley. Cattle were another matter, though surely Athulf wouldn't dare...

His voice was fierce with satisfaction. ‘Ten sacks.'

‘Did you meet anybody?' The ox-man, she thought. That boy with the beautiful bay mare.

But he shook his head. ‘We were in and out quick. Stole our moment. With this tide, the river's easily forded. Cudda's been back and forth, spying for days.' He clapped one of the seated lads on the shoulder and Cudda looked up, his fine-boned face and fair curls suddenly silvered by moonlight. ‘He told us the lord's gone away, and we struck.'

Cudda shuffled his feet in the dead leaves and muttered something, but Elfrun could sense his pleasure at Athulf singling him out.

‘But they'll miss it. They'll come looking...'

‘Let them.' His voice was larded with scorn. ‘We're ready. And they may not even miss it. Their granaries are full, compared to ours. Even their rats are fat.' He dropped his voice a notch and took her shoulder to turn her away from the horses. ‘What do you think, Elfrun? Did we do well?'

Ten sacks wouldn't fill the shortfall that she and Luda had been agonizing over. But they would go some way. ‘You did well, I suppose,' she said grudgingly. But she was still angry, beyond all reason, and she hunted around for a cause. ‘I don't know what you're thinking of, keeping the horses standing around wet in this wind.'

‘We'd only just—'

‘Don't
we'd only just
me!' Her voice was really sharp now and she twisted away from him. ‘What's the one piece of holy writ your father seems to know?
A righteous man regards the life of his beast?
Get them into the stable, and rub them down. And don't you ever dare to take Hafoc out again.'

‘You can't tell me what to do!' She had hurt him, she could tell by the edge in his voice. It had always been easy to goad him to tears.

Well, let him snivel, and if he was driven to do it in front of his friends then so much the better. While she had been fretting indoors over Luda's scratchings in the wax, he had been in the woods, plotting action with the other boys. Why should he have all the fun? ‘Of course I can. I'm the lord of Donmouth, not you.' Pushing past her cousin, she tugged Hafoc's halter, and the big horse fell in obediently behind her.

Thancrad stood in the great dim space, taking in the wash of rich background colours and small points of glimmering light. He had no memory of ever having been in this church before, although they had told him he had been baptized here. There were painted faces on the wall, their eyes large and lustrous, gazing right through him. In the woods and fields of Illingham, on the hunt, riding Blis, wrestling or at single-stick with Addan and Dene, he was in his element. But in here he was like a fish on the ebbing strand, or a kitten in a bucket of water, floundering.

His baptism had been long ago, when he was a baby, when they were last in the king's favour. He had been ten when his father was exiled, but the years before the exile had been unsettled, harrying, campaigning, always on the move. And then seven years on the fringes of Frankia and the Danemarch, living on promises and threats and charity.

No one trusts a traitor, no matter how useful they might find him.

And a traitor's son is tainted by association.

Thancrad took a step forward. There was an unfamiliar scent, half-sweet, half-acrid, and a little grey haze in the air. The rise and fall of holy song from somewhere ahead of him.

The guards on the great gate had told him the man he wanted would be here somewhere, but Thancrad was nervous of interrupting.

There had been no churches like this in the Danemarch.

His parents were lodged with a Frisian contact in the merchants' quarter. Muttered conversations and sidelong glances. He couldn't stand it. They had paid no attention when he had slipped away.

The song was coming to an end: even he could recognize an
amen.
Figures in long robes coming from behind the screen of carved stone. He caught at a sleeve. ‘Excuse me...'

A lad younger than himself. When he heard the question he grinned. ‘Try the library. That door, and across the courtyard. Right opposite.'

Stone buildings, limewashed, patched and thatched. Hearth-smoke and dusk. A door stood ajar, and he pushed it a little further open on silent iron hinges. The room was full of presses and chests. Two men seated on stools, a book open in front of them on a slanted stand, their backs to the door. Half a dozen honey-scented candles. One man, taller, broader, was reading aloud to the other, in Latin. Thancrad had no idea what the words might mean, but the rhythm and the music of the language was intoxicating.

After a long moment, hoping they would realize he was there, he lifted a hand and rapped on the doorjamb.

They turned as one, almost guiltily. ‘Yes?' It was the slighter, plainer one, his narrow face annoyed.

Thancrad ducked his head respectfully. ‘Father Ingeld?'

The other man smiled. ‘Leave me to tidy away, Wulfhere. It was getting too dark to read, anyway.'

Thancrad stood back as the narrow-faced man came towards the door saying over his shoulder, ‘We can read some more tomorrow.'

‘I should start back for Donmouth tomorrow.' The other man beckoned Thancrad in. ‘What can I do for you?'

Thancrad looked at the book open on the desk. It was huge, the vellum impossibly smooth, like the surface of a bowl of cream, the little scratchmarks like insects that had fallen in and drowned. He had never been so close to a book before. ‘Is this a bible?'

‘This?' The priest laughed. ‘No, this is the
Historia Naturalis
of Pliny. The best guide to all the wonders of God's creation. I was reading to my lord archbishop about the manticore, which has three rows of teeth and sings like a pan-pipe blended with a trumpet.'

Thancrad nodded, disconcerted. Now he had found the man he didn't know what to say to him.

The priest waited, one eyebrow raised. ‘Do I know you?'

Thancrad shook his head. ‘No, Father. I am Thancrad of Illingham.' He waited, and watched the expressions flicker across the man's handsome, mobile face. He was expecting the shutters to go up, but the hazel eyes met his frankly.

‘And?' The priest's eyes went beyond him, to the door. ‘Do you want to make your confession? There are more experienced confessors than me at this church, you know.'

Thancrad had no more than a hazy idea of what the man meant, but he shook his head firmly. ‘I want your advice.'

‘You would do better—'

‘Not a priest's advice.' He was gaining confidence. ‘Yours. Ingeld of Donmouth.'

After a long moment Ingeld nodded. ‘Go on.'

‘Radmer is away. Who makes the decisions in his absence?'

‘His daughter. Her grandmother has retired to live with me at the minster.' The priest's mouth twitched as though he found something funny.

Thancrad nodded. ‘My parents...' This was harder than he had anticipated. ‘My parents want me to marry her. But Radmer has said no.'

And now the shutters did come down. Thancrad watched the priest retreat to somewhere deep inside himself to think about his words and their implications.

Then: ‘And you want me to say yes?'

‘Is it in your power?'

Ingeld thought for a moment. ‘Probably. The king wants an alliance between Illingham and Donmouth; I did know that. But that marriage was in the wind... no.' He looked hard at Thancrad. ‘Do you want it?'

‘I – I've never met the girl.' Thancrad squared his shoulders. ‘But does that really matter?'

‘She's a good girl.' Ingeld sounded as though his thoughts were elsewhere. ‘Radmer has said no? In no uncertain terms? And contradicting the king's will?'

Thancrad nodded. The candles were drowning in their own wax, guttering, melting together and dying, and he could hardly see the priest's face, just their tiny flames reflected in his eyes. From the courtyard outside an evening blackbird burst into song.

He said, ‘My parents have told me to make her marry me. But I don't know where to start.'

Ingeld laughed. ‘Two things, young man. Always query your parents' wishes. And never ask a priest about women. Good priests know nothing, and bad priests know far too much.'

Thancrad could feel himself reddening, half-embarrassed, half-angry. Coming to find this man was perhaps the hardest thing he had ever done, and now he was regretting ever having entered under the shadow of the great gate of the minster precinct.

‘Sorry. I can't help you.' Ingeld stood up, and the conversation was clearly over. Thancrad nodded, and muttered something, and found his way back into the yard.

Behind him, Ingeld stared at the door, unseeing. Thancrad's words had set his head spinning. What a chance to thwart Radmer, in all seeming-innocence and with the best of excuses.
The king wanted it...
Ingeld chewed his lower lip and stared unseeing at the floorboards. If Elfrun went to Illingham, she would need a bride-gift, but the estate would be left intact. This marriage might – just – free the way for Athulf, if he could coax the dice to fall right. His good boy, for whom he had never done anything. Donmouth hall, falling to him on Radmer's death, if the king approved. And this lad – Thancrad – seemed decent enough, though surely one should be wary of any child raised by Switha and Tilmon.

He had been on the verge of saying,
Yes, let's have a wedding.

And then Elfrun's face had come to mind, her clear brown gaze, her little frown. So eager to please, so hard-working, so desperate to show she was lady of Donmouth and lord as well.

He had been unable to betray her, despite the powerful temptation. He closed his eyes, his gut tight and his fists clenched, and he prayed that he would never have to explain himself to Athulf. After a moment he opened his eyes again, and trimmed the wicks of the candles. In the last few moments of light remaining to him, he turned back to Pliny.
The manticore has the face of a man, and a man's eyes. It dwells in India, and it loves the taste of human flesh...

Saethryth was kneeling on the ground with her skirts hoicked up and the little churn clamped between her thighs. She had been thrusting the dash-staff up and down for what felt like forever, but the butter showed no sign of coming. Pulling the end of the staff out once more, she peered at the bole of wood from which the cream still stubbornly dripped, and heaved a sigh. Why wouldn't the butter come? This late in the year, there wouldn't be much more milk.

Marrying Hirel had been the stupidest thing she had ever done. Looking back over the last few weeks, she didn't know what had possessed her. Yes, she had been furious over Widia's injury; and yes, she had been worried that there was a baby coming. Widia's baby, from that one time when she had given in. Two months skipped, and then she had bled, but by that time it was too late. She had already stood up in the hall and been handfasted to Hirel, the yards of gauzy white linen that symbolised the marriage draped over her head and shoulders, with Elfrun looking on with that steady brown gaze which had always made Saethryth feel about as small and dirty as a woodlouse or some other scuttling thing which came out when you moved a stone.

Three months now since the boar had gored him, and Widia was back on his feet, and hardly even limping any more. Not as pretty as he used to be – well, that was true enough, but there was more to a man than his looks. He'd not come within spitting distance of her, though.

Damn this trowie churn. She could hear her mother's voice, loud and clear:
With a face like that you could churn till Doomsday and the butter not come
. She had so looked forward to marriage and getting out from under her father's heavy hand. How could she have known what it would be like up here, all on her own out in the sheepwick without a single gossip to pass the time of day with? Even the two beardless lads who helped Hirel were away up in the pastures, looking for strayed sheep. They could be away for days.