Daughter of the Wolf (3 page)

The steward listened, and nodded, and ducked into the tent.

And now Elfrun was beginning to realize that her father was not the only one to have been transfixed by the arrival of this stranger. The hangers-on were shifting, staring, regrouping. Men bending to mutter in each other's ears, listening with wary faces, drifting away from the quarter whence the stranger had come, to form new alignments. But that tight little clump of men from which he had emerged still clung together, all stout, weather-beaten, with something alien about them, though she would have been hard pressed to say quite what. The angle of a cap, the way in which leggings were bound, the nature of a pattern on a braid...

And then she realized as they moved and turned that they weren't all men, that the bundled figure of a woman stood among them, and a tall boy behind her, holding a horse.

Had he been alone, Elfrun might not have remembered the boy: she found boys of little interest in themselves. But she recognized his neat-boned bay mare immediately; the thrill of the race, and how even in the heart of the moment she had observed how mount and rider moved as one.

The boy had noticed her watching.

He was staring back, half raising his hand in acknowledgement. She stuck out her chin, forcing herself to hold his gaze. She could look, couldn't she? Even Abarhild couldn't object to her
looking
. What business did he have bringing a fine mare like that to the meeting if he wasn't prepared to let folk look? But the thought of Abarhild made her blush and shift her eyes elsewhere.

Now that Abarhild had left them, that round little woman in her swathes of brown twill was the only other female present. Were she and the boy kin, then, to each other and to the big bald man? The lad was tall enough, but russet-headed and slender, and looking every bit as out of place as she felt herself.

Her father was still set as though in stone. She noticed that the mutterers were glancing at him, and then back at the tent, an endless flicker of eyes. The big man, the ox-man, was still waiting, but even as she watched a couple of priests emerged, and then the new archbishop, the king's cousin. Wulfhere's narrow, vulpine face was pinched and annoyed.

And the big man was summoned in.

He was important, then. Important enough for the king to cut short a meeting with his grace of York and these foreign visitors.

And important enough, she realized with a little cold shock, for the king to break a promise to her own father. He had said Radmer would be next, and then this man had appeared out of nowhere and gone barging up to the steward as if he owned the place.

Abarhild would have berated her for worldly curiosity, but Elfrun dismissed all thoughts of her grandmother. She had to know what was going on.

‘Father?' He ignored her. ‘Father, who is that man?'

She put out her hand to tug his sleeve, but she was forestalled. One of the mutterers was making his way over to her father, cautious and stiff-legged as a cat approaching a mastiff. Elfrun recognized him, a distant cousin of her dead mother's.

‘Radmer.'

Her father nodded. ‘Edmund.'

Edmund was a liverish-looking man a few years older than Radmer, with weary, wary eyes and an ill-tended brown moustache. ‘So. He's back.' He sat down on Radmer's other side.

‘They. They're back.'

‘Osberht must have known. Did
you
know?' Edmund waited, but Radmer said nothing. ‘Well, it's been seven years. More.'

‘He's done his time in exile. He's entitled to ask forgiveness.' Her father's voice was studiedly neutral.

‘Men are saying they've been in the Danish marches all this while. Hedeby, and around the Baltic Sea. Making friends. That these' – he jerked his chin – ‘are some of them.'

Radmer shook his head. ‘They went to Frankia.'

‘That's where they were supposed to have been. But men say otherwise.' Edmund raised his eyebrows. ‘Do you believe it?'

‘I believe nothing on hearsay.' Radmer let out a sigh. ‘And ever since we exiled Tilmon it's been one goddamned rumour after another. That he's been in the Danemarch is only the latest. But the king he tried to force on us is dead, and Northumbria has changed a lot since he left us. New alliances. New faces.' Radmer paused, his face tightening. ‘With Wulfhere in the archbishop's seat Osberht has never been stronger. Alred has been well bribed to stay in line, and he's in the north. So, let Tilmon come back – at least let him try. See if it does him any good.'

Edmund glanced at the king's tent. ‘Osberht has a lot to forgive.'

‘And he's not the only one.' Elfrun stared at her father, startled by the sudden harshness of his tone, but he seemed oblivious to her presence.

Not so Edmund. He caught her eye, smiled a little, then dropped a slow wink. Radmer frowned, a brief contraction across the brow, and he turned to look down at his daughter. ‘Big talk for my little girl to listen to.'

Edmund snorted. ‘That's not a little girl, Radmer. Not any longer. And more like her dear mother' – he signed himself with a sketchy cross – ‘every time I see her.'

Radmer's face tightened. He turned and stared across the grassy forecourt once more. ‘So Tilmon has brought his wife and son back with him. He must be very sure he'll be returned to Osberht's favour.'

‘Either that or he's planning to send Switha in to fight his corner for him.' Edmund grinned on an outbreath. ‘I'd rather take him on than her, any day.'

‘True. She always was a foe to reckon with.'

They laughed, but their words made Elfrun squint all the more curiously across the grass at the bulkily clad woman. Switha. She looked quite ordinary, so small next to the men. As big a menace as her husband, the ox-man? And so the boy with the bay mare, he was their son. What was it like, having a father like that?

‘If Tilmon has been in the Danemarch,' Edmund said slowly, ‘and if he is still shoulder to shoulder with Alred, then Osberht will have to buy his loyalty back somehow. How will he lime that branch? Do you know? Are you privy to this?'

Radmer eyed him sideways. ‘Think I'd tell you?'

‘Everyone's wondering.'

‘Let them.' Radmer stretched out his legs and clasped his hands behind his head. ‘You want to look at me?' His voice was louder, more challenging. ‘You want to speculate, boys? Come on then, and welcome. Be my guest.'

‘Don't push it, Radmer.' Edmund sounded nervous.

‘Don't push me, then.'

Elfrun's eyes flickered from one man to the other, wondering at the sudden thundery crackle in the air between them.

Edmund stood up and yawned, showing his back teeth. He caught her looking at him, and frowned. ‘And what about this one, Radmer? What plans?'

‘Elfrun's needed at Donmouth. She'll take over the hall from her grandmother. In the fullness of time.'

‘Not marriage?' Edmund looked at her appraisingly. ‘There's many a family would value a Donmouth alliance. Does the girl have a voice?'

‘She wants to stay with me.' Her father put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Don't you, Elfa?'

Elfrun squirmed at being the sudden focus of both men's attention. But she didn't have to answer. The king's steward had appeared at her father's side, beckoning urgently.

‘No, Radmer. Not the girl. Just you.' He glanced at Elfrun. ‘For the moment, anyway.'

Her father frowned. ‘Stay here, Elfa. I don't like leaving you on your own.'

Elfrun looked round, but there was no sign of Abarhild.

Her father was still frowning. ‘Keep an eye on her for me, Edmund?'

‘As though she were my own.' Edmund's voice was hearty.

She watched the king's steward usher her father to the tent and lift the heavy embroidered door-curtain. The ox-man, this Tilmon, he hadn't come out yet. So the meeting was between the three of them.

Edmund had drifted away a few feet. Little as she warmed to him with his sad, straggly moustache and his heavy, lingering eyes, he was at least kin, however distant, and her father had appointed him as a bulwark between her and all the other watchers. She tried to straighten her back and fold her hands in a way Abarhild would have approved. ‘Are you well, cousin Edmund?'

‘So, you do speak.' He sighed. ‘Well enough, cousin Elfrun. Well enough. Tell me, how are matters at Donmouth? Do you still have that fine smith?'

‘Cuthred?' She knew full well they had good men at Donmouth, but it was gratifying to know that the world had noticed. ‘Indeed we do, and his son has started working with him at the forge.'

Edmund shook his head. ‘Your father's a lucky man. Smith, steward, shepherd – it's a tight ship at Donmouth. And Widia – your huntsman is envied by the king himself. I hope Radmer counts his blessings?'

She nodded.

‘And, tell me, what has your father said about marrying again?'

‘Nothing!' She was startled into a yelp.

‘Nothing? Really? It's been a couple of years.'

Elfrun knew exactly how long it had been.

‘Nothing to you, at least.' Edmund ran his tongue over the lower edge of his moustache. ‘How about naming an heir?'

She shook her head, increasingly uncomfortable under this arrow-storm of questions.

‘Well, well.' He looked at her for a moment, a calculating light in his eyes. ‘But that holy priest your uncle has a son or two who could step in, am I right? Is that the way the dice are rolling?'

And all at once Elfrun hated him, the hint of malice in his voice and the way that his moustache drooped raggedly over his mouth so that she could barely see his lips move when he spoke. ‘One son,' she said coldly. Athulf's parting smirk was still rankling.

‘Just the one? Really?' Edmund cackled. ‘And no chance for Ingeld to get more, I suppose, now that he has to leave York and head the Donmouth minster. Every step stalked by your father. That's made us laugh!' Suddenly he was looming down over her, close enough for her to see the red veins that threaded his eyes, the pores pocking the tip of his nose. ‘You want my advice? Don't let Radmer' – he jerked his head towards the king's tent – ‘keep you withering on the vine at home. He will, you know, just because it suits him. I know him.' He spat in the grass. ‘He should marry you off. You're getting valuable.' And now he sat down next to her and leaned in even closer, his thigh hard against hers, and she could smell last night's beef and beer on his breath. ‘Are you ready for a man? You're a skinny little thing, but one never can tell. And Donmouth could make any girl look attractive.' She pulled back as far as she dared without being rude, revolted by his proximity, and he laughed.

‘My father asked you to keep an eye on me,' she said stiffly.

‘So he did.' He looked her up and down in a way that made her skin crawl. ‘And that's just what I'm doing. And you know what men call Radmer?'

‘Call him? The King's Wolf.'

‘The King's Wolf. Indeed. And do you know why?'

He was leaning in, and she shifted another inch towards the end of the bench, talking fast to keep him at bay, repeating words she had heard in the hall. ‘Because Donmouth's the gate to Northumbria, and he guards it. Hold the river, and the estuary, and the kingdom is strong.'

‘And that's not all he guards, is it, Osberht's pet wolf?' He seemed to think this was funny. ‘Radmer's been growling and snapping at strangers on the king's behalf for twenty years. He's proud. He should be.' Edmund turned to look at the king's tent. ‘But with Tilmon back he won't be growling. He'll be wanting to go for the throat.' He laughed. ‘Exciting times.'

He was still much too close. Elfrun could feel the warmth and heaviness of him leaning against her, but she was right at the end of the bench now, the edge digging into her right buttock. Any further and she would fall off. All she wanted was to get up and walk away, but Abarhild would be shocked when she heard of such discourtesy to a kinsman.

And what if he followed her, shouted at her, made folk stare?

So she concentrated on her clasped hands, the pale half-moons on her thumbnails, not speaking, hardly even breathing. Edmund grunted enquiringly, but she kept her lips tight-pressed, and at last to her infinite relief she felt the bench tip as he hauled himself to his feet. When she dared to look up again she saw that he had rejoined one of the little clusters that hovered at the far side of the king's tent. Low muttering, sidelong glances – a few of them at her – emphatic gestures.

But it wasn't all about her. The Northumbrian riding-men and dish-thanes and hall-wards, with all their hangers-on, were clumping and forming larger groups. Tilmon's men were pulling closer together in response.

The boy with the bay mare had withdrawn himself a little, however, and was walking her up and down. Elfrun watched her neat lines, her forward-pricked ears and gleaming hooves, and the way the sunlight shone on her hide, so different from Mara and Apple. Her dainty head had something almost birdlike in its grace, as did her little pecking steps. That boy must spend hours clipping, and combing, and oiling. He turned his head and she looked away quickly in case he caught her staring yet again. It would be good to race that bay mare again, though Mara would never have a chance against her.

Dear, shaggy Mara and Apple – and a pang of conscience struck her. Could Athulf be trusted to look after the ponies properly, with all the distractions and temptations offered by the meeting? She cast a calculating look at the curtain screening the entrance to the king's tent. How much longer were they going to be? She could be quick: she could run.

Just to see that Apple and Mara were all right.

But what if they weren't? What if Athulf had just left them loose in the field? Still tacked up, even? She would have to catch them.

Elfrun half rose to her feet, then stopped, hovering somewhere short of standing.