Daughter of the Wolf (28 page)

‘Is that really how you see me?' Elfrun stared down at the tip of the rusted and pitted blade. His words were hurting her much more than the metal. It was hard to breathe. ‘Be a warrior then, if it means so much to you. Find another sword. Maybe there's one lying around at Illingham. Join Thancrad's wolf pack' – she forced her eyes up to meet Athulf's – ‘if he's fool enough to have you. With any luck you'll both be killed. But you're not having my father's.'

‘I am, you know.' He prodded at her with the blade, and she could feel the point testing the soft flesh beneath its coverings of wool and linen, meeting the resistance of muscle and rib. ‘And, yes, perhaps we will be killed. Would you weep for me, Elfrun? Or would you mourn for Thancrad, instead?'

‘I hardly know him!'

‘He knows you.' Athulf gave her another little jab with the sword-point, hard enough to hurt properly this time; and now she was really angry, too much to respond easily. ‘He likes you.' A jeering note had entered his voice.

She turned her head away.

‘Look at me!' Reluctantly, she did. Athulf was smiling in a way she found unsettling. ‘Don't you want to know what he says about you?'

‘No, I do not! Stop this stupid game. And I don't believe for a moment Abarhild gave you her key. You stole it, didn't you?'

She jerked her head sideways and put up an arm to push the sword away, expecting resistance, a fight even, but to her surprise he stepped back and lowered the blade. When he turned away from her to the rack of pegs she thought that he would replace the sword where he had found it. But instead he unhooked the scabbard and sword-belt that went with his chosen weapon, and, with one last rueful glance along the length of the blade, he pushed it home. ‘These need refurbishing as well.' He gave the harnessing a shake. ‘The leather's all dry and cracking. But that I can do myself.'

And he walked out, right past her, without another word.

Elfrun was shivering with anger. She breathed in hard though her nose, forcing herself to unclench her fists, and leaned her back against the smooth-planed boards of the wall. She found herself sinking into a squat and wondered for a furious moment if she was going to faint.

At least there had been no witnesses.

She put her hands to her face. Thancrad and his wolf pack. Athulf had been nuisance enough when he and Cudda had run wild across the Donmouth hills and fields. Why was Thancrad encouraging him to lift his gaze higher?

Nothing but trouble from Illingham.

‘I want to leave him.'

Luda gave no sign of having heard. He was watching two of the hall-men high up on the sloping roof, weeding and pulling the thick growth of winter moss out of the thatch of the women's house.

‘Da?' Saethryth stepped closer. ‘I've had enough.' He didn't turn. She moved a step or two nearer still. ‘Da?'

He looked round at last, squinting at his daughter as though he'd never seen her before. ‘What are you doing down here? We're milking three times a day down here – you can't tell me there's not enough to keep you busy up at the sheep-wick.'

‘I'm doing my share!'

‘For the first time in your life, if that's true. Now go on back up there. I don't need you hanging around, wasting everybody's time and getting in the way.'

She scowled at him. ‘Didn't you hear what I said? I've had enough of the sheepwick. And him. The shepherd.'

Luda folded his arms and glowered at her. ‘You've made your bed. And sort out that sour face or you'll spoil the cream before you've had a chance to churn it.'

She glanced up at the men working on the roof, sensing their curiosity, and lowered her voice. ‘I can't stand him. I can't stand him touching me.'

‘Ah, well, daughter. That's marriage for you. Did no one ever tell you that?' Luda nodded sagely. ‘And where is it you would go, exactly, if you left him?'

Saethryth was surprised by her father's milder tone. She looked at the muddy ground and shifted her weight from one foot to the other. After a moment she said, ‘Come home?'

‘Really?' His smile broadened, showing his large yellow teeth. ‘Your mam would be pleased, especially now you've learned what hard work is like. She's short-handed enough.'

Saethryth chewed her lip, still scowling.

Luda leaned in and lowered his voice. ‘You think I don't know what you're really up to? That I don't know all about you and the holy father abbot?'

Her eyes widened but she recovered quickly. ‘What's to know?'

‘Your mucky little games? All Donmouth knows, and probably all Illingham as well.' His voice was tight with contempt. ‘The archbishop on his high seat in the cathedral, I expect. Everybody with eyes to see or ears to hear.'

‘Hirel doesn't know.'

‘He will, soon enough.' Luda hawked and spat. ‘And look out when he does. I've told him you need a firmer hand.'

‘He won't find out.'

‘Why not? When everyone else knows!'

She pulled her shoulders back and raised her chin. ‘And if they do? I'm entitled—'

Her father grabbed her just below the elbow, hard enough that she felt the paired bones grind together. ‘You are entitled to nothing, you stupid little bitch. If you come back under my roof these bed-tricks of yours will stop. But you're not coming back. And that's an end to it.'

‘I can't stay with him!' She jerked away, tears of frustration in her eyes, rubbing the soft flesh of her arm. ‘I could just leave him.'

‘Leave him?' Luda feigned surprise. ‘Ah. Hirel, you mean? And go where, if you're not coming here?'

‘Ingeld would look after me.'

‘
Ingeld would look after me
,' he mimicked, high-pitched and nasal. ‘How can you be my daughter? Where's your sense? For half a year, maybe, until he gets sick of you and your whining and finds some other stupid girl ready to scratch his itch.' The corners of his mouth tugged down with disgust.

‘It's not like that with us.'

He father shot her a glance that made her redden with anger. He held up his hand. ‘Wait.' He limped over to the base of the ladder and barked a few instructions, waiting for the men to come down and move the base of the ladder-pole a few yards to the right, before they clambered up again.

Then he came back. ‘Not like that, eh? How old are you?' She opened her mouth, but he ignored her. ‘God knows, you look enough like a woman, and I thought you were old enough to know better, but maybe not. I'm of an age with Radmer. I've a decade on Ingeld. I grew up with them. Do you really think I've never seen this happen before?'

Saethryth wanted to stop her ears, or – better – shut her father's mouth. ‘He says I'm different.'

‘Aye, well, maybe that's true.' He paused, then spat out his next words. ‘Even more stupid than most. Readier to lie down and open your legs when he gives you that smile.' His face darkened. ‘Are you having a baby yet?'

Saethryth folded her arms and hunched her shoulders. ‘Not that I know of.'

‘Well, see that you get one going. It doesn't matter who the father is, but a wean or two will soon put a stop to this messing about.' He laughed shortly. ‘Then you'll find out what hard work really means.'

‘It's not fair.'

‘That's been your song all your life. God doesn't deal fairly with us, so why should we deal fairly with each other?' He turned to pick up the full basket of damp moss and rotten reeds, and thrust it into her arms. ‘Go and empty that into the ditch, and then get back to work.' His close-set eyes were hard and narrowed. ‘Shift on, lass. What you want doesn't matter. I need you married to Hirel, and I need you working harder at the dairy. Cheese doesn't make itself, you know.'

Saethryth stared at him, then glanced down at the filthy basket she was holding. Her face twisted. She shoved it back at her father, hard enough to make him stagger. He managed to regain his balance but not to hold on to the basket, which thumped down and toppled on to its side, spilling its load. She wiped her hands on her skirts. ‘You can't have it both ways. If I'm a married woman, then I'm not yours to order about any more. One master's enough. Go find someone else to bully. Try Mam.' Saethryth snorted, her cheeks pink with excitement, aware of fascinated eyes. ‘Good luck.' She turned on her heel and walked away.

‘They pay their geld to Burgred of Mercia,' Athulf called across. ‘They're fair game, never fear.' He and Thancrad were riding abreast, the latter on that truly fine horse of his, not large but nimble and responsive. Nine years old, Thancrad had said, and he'd been training her since she was a filly. Behind them Athulf could hear the hoof-beats of the ponies ridden by Dene and dark-bearded Addan, Thancrad's slightly younger cousins – and shadows, Athulf thought contemptuously. Followers.

Addan and Dene were riding serviceable skewbald nags, not like Thancrad's soft-eyed, proud-necked bay. To an impartial eye, Athulf's own mount, the elderly chestnut with a bristling blond mane out of his uncle's stable, might look little better than theirs but he and Elfrun had both learned to ride on Mara; the mare could read his half-formed thoughts and wishes before he could himself, and he would hear nothing against her. They were riding at a steady trot through the thin belt of scrubby woodland around twenty miles south-west of Donmouth, on the edge of the marches dividing Northumbria from Mercia, hills on the sunset side, bog and reed-bed on the other, stretching to the sea.

He knew quite well that Addan and Dene were not pleased at him leading this raid. But they didn't know the paths through the trackless watery lands that spread so far around the estuary. Without him they would flounder into the fen and be swallowed up. And if they didn't show him more respect he might just let them go right ahead.

Athulf's pilfered sword banged against his thigh, giving him a deep sense of satisfaction. He had replaced the key on its hook before Abarhild and her women had emerged from the minster church. So easy, as though he had been meant to have the sword. He clapped his heels to Mara's flanks and pushed her into a faster trot, eager to keep ahead of Thancrad and the others, though the going was rough and the light fading. They were cresting a low ridge, coming through a gap in the trees, and the ground fell away before them, down into the broad lush stream-threaded plain of the Trent valley. He reined his horse in just before the thick-crowded trees petered away into lighter cover of hazel and rowan. ‘I was last here a week ago.' He pointed to where a lazy coil of smoke unravelled in the early spring air. ‘Their hall's there.' His arm swept westward. ‘They've been outwintering some of their cattle on the high ground, with only a couple of little lads to watch them.'

‘Seems rash,' Thancrad said.

‘They've stopped thinking that danger might come from the north.' Athulf grinned, a wolfish look that transformed his soft, round features.

‘What are we waiting for?' Addan urged his pony forward.

Thancrad's hand shot out and grabbed his cousin's rein. ‘Dark, you fool. Listen to Athulf. And don't let yourself be sky-lined.' He jerked his head backwards, indicating that they should return the way they had come. Once they were back under the cover of the trees they all slid down from their mounts and hobbled them to let them graze, then sat or squatted deep in shadow.

Athulf looked thoughtfully at the other three. Thancrad was the oldest; Thancrad's father was one of the king's thanes; Thancrad was the unacknowledged leader of their little group. But this was his raid, and he intended to lead it. He was prepared to let Thancrad show some initiative. If either scowling Addan or taciturn Dene tried it on, though, he would discover his mistake. They had never yet warmed to Athulf or admitted him as one of their tribe.

He had unbuckled his sword, and now he was sitting cross-legged with it lying across his lap. Reaching down into his pouch, Athulf pulled out a little lump of suet wrapped in a scrap of muslin. He began working the grease with his fingers and rubbing it into the dry, peeling leather of his scabbard. The light was fading fast, and his fingers were stiff and cold.

He glanced up suddenly to find all three of the Illingham lads were looking at him.

‘What?'

Addan was grinning. ‘They say you shouldn't judge a sword by its sheath, but I don't know.' He shook his head. ‘Where did you find that one? Your mother's midden?'

‘Don't be too hard on him.' Dene glanced warily at Thancrad for approval before going on. ‘Poor little Athulf didn't even have a sword last time we saw him. He doesn't have a mother, either.'

Addan laughed. ‘Is there really a sword in there? Or are you just posturing with an empty old scabbard your uncle had thrown away?' He rose to his feet and started walking towards Athulf. ‘Let's see your blade.'

Athulf looked at Thancrad, but he had risen silently and was seeing to his horse, his back turned to the others. Athulf was absolutely certain that Thancrad was listening, but he gave no sign. Addan was standing over him now. Athulf clenched his fist on the warm lump of suet, feeling it softening and moulding to the shape of his fingers and palm.

‘What's the matter?' Addan looked ostentatiously around him. ‘Not got your little churl-bred friends with you? What kind of warrior are you? Oh, I forgot. Your mother was a slave, wasn't she? No wonder you're tongue-tied when you're out with your betters.'

‘Be careful,' Athulf said softly.

‘As careful as you and your little friends when you were sneaking around pinching our barley last autumn? What?' Athulf heard Addan snicker. ‘Did you think we didn't know about that? You should have asked. We'd have taken pity on poor, hungry Donmouth if you'd begged us hard enough. Maybe you should beg now.' He glanced round, assessing the mood of the others. ‘On your knees, slave boy.'