Daughter of the Wolf (40 page)

‘Go yourself.'

They stared at each other. Thancrad seemed about to speak, and then his face closed down. ‘Very well.' And he got to his feet. ‘What difference does it make, anyway, who gets the wood?'

Behind his back, Athulf and Addan exchanged glances.

Something was amiss. Elfrun had known as soon as she lifted the cloak from its peg. An unfamiliar lightness, a loss of balance, a change in the swing of the fabric. A long strip of braid was stitched to the shoulder, weighted at each end with a solid silver tag which then pulled through a loop to keep the cloak hanging properly.

And now one was gone.

A glance around the floor told her that the tag was nowhere to hand. It was nearly the length of her thumb, and the silver was heavy enough that she would certainly have heard it if it had come loose and fallen inside, on the hard boards. Which meant she must have lost it outside. But when? She used the cloak day in and day out: she could not imagine the tag working loose without her noticing the gradual slackening of the stitches.

Fifteen whole pennies. And that was just the weight of the silver. Never mind the labour of the king's smith, and the value conferred by virtue of it being a royal gift, and doubly from it being her father's loan to her. She stood perfectly still, the thick red wool clutched in her cold hands. She felt as though she had broken some spell of protection.

The surviving tag was tucked up in its loop, and she pulled it free and contemplated it. The woven strap was gripped by the split end of the tag, and then held by two little rivets. She gave it a tug. Strong enough. She turned her attention to the other end of the strap, and her frown deepened. Something else was wrong.

The end wasn't frayed, as she had been expecting. It had been cut.

She could see quite clearly how the knife had struggled and slipped as each of the tough woollen fibres had resisted and given way at last. The overall effect was ragged but each separate fibre had been neatly sheared.

Fifteen pennies. To almost anyone in Donmouth it was a small fortune.

‘I don't want this.'

She was fully aware that she ought to be moving already. Summoning Luda, ordering him to round up everyone in Donmouth, getting the men she trusted to strip bodies and rummage through bedstraw. That was what her father would have done. And in whose keeping would it be found, if they found it?

‘It's no good.'

It was too small, too easy to hide, too easy to melt down. To hide somewhere about a desperate body, if the search got that close. They wouldn't find it. And then everyone would be talking, saying the lady knew fine well she had lost it through her own carelessness and was seeking to put the blame on some innocent head. How petty she would sound, shrill and vindictive, where Radmer would have channelled the wrath of God and king combined.

But was this reluctance merely cowardice by another name? Dodging her responsibilities? She was folding and pleating the woollen strip between her fingers, thicker and tighter, until she reached the place where it was stitched into its loop.

‘I don't care who took it,' she whispered, ‘and I don't care why.'

But if she didn't find it, she would have to wear that cloak in public, and sooner rather than later someone would notice. And then everyone would be wondering what had happened to the tag, and why she hadn't asked folk to look for it, and somewhere in the crowd there would be that one knowing, nauseating glance. Perhaps more than one. That was if it had been someone from Donmouth who had taken it.

Names offered themselves, but she batted them away. No profit in travelling that road, not as a first recourse. Later, perhaps.

For now she had to think.

Fight
, Fredegar had told her. But there were other ways of fighting than going in bellowing and brandishing a sword.

She looked hard at the other tag. Its single spotted animal cavorted on a background of vines and tendrils. It was extraordinarily delicate work, and she knew that creating such a thing was far beyond Cuthred's capabilities. But could he
copy
one, with a model to work from? She could take fifteen pennies from the chest whose key she guarded, and Cuthred could melt them down. The prancing animal on the lost tag had not been an exact match for this one, although few folk ever came close enough to her to notice that kind of detail. Cuthred would know of the substitution, but no one else… And she could hold her head up, and pretend this abominable intrusion had never happened. And sleep in the cloak, if need be, from now on.

The fifteen silver pennies tight in her palm and the cloak bundled under her arm, Elfrun picked her way down to the forge.

But, ‘Look at my hands, lady.' Cuthred spread them out and she stared at them, the scars and the burns, the thickened joints and the missing nail on one index finger.

‘What am I looking at?' Elfrun fought back a gust of impatience.

‘They shake.' His voice was flat.

It was true. Now she was aware of it, she could see the unwilling tremor that animated fingers, hands and wrists, the way a poplar's leaves would shiver even on the stillest day.

‘I can do the heavy work well and good enough,' he said. ‘But a dainty job like that?' He shrugged.

‘But – I need you to do it.' Elfrun stared at the smith, wondering how to put into words her feeling that all the authority vested in her came from the shield and guard of her father's cloak.

‘Don't you look at me like that, maid. I've not chosen this fate to spite you.'

‘I never thought you had.' She shook out the folds of the cloak and pulled it around her shoulders. ‘But you're letting me down, for all that. And after all this time you still haven't found someone to work the forge with you.'

‘I've tried.'

Elfrun knew that was true. And she knew exactly why the smith's quest was proving so hard. There wasn't a farm from here south to Dore and west to Elmet where they didn't know as cross-your-heart Gospel truth that the smith of Donmouth had killed his son by pushing him into the forge fire. She chewed her lip, remembering how she too had had her suspicions.

And now? Every time she remembered the smouldering depths and the charred edges of the craters in Cudda's flesh, she wondered again. The coals must have taken their time to have seared his flesh like that. She was willing to believe that the smith hadn't pushed his son into the fire-pit. But had he watched the boy stumble and left him there over-long, too angry to offer a hand? A son who ran wild, abandoned the forge to dream of a seat in the king's hall and a place among the young retainers of his wolf pack… enough there to have angered any father beyond reason. And everyone knew the smith's temper.

His wife better than any, and she was refusing to go back under his roof. Was that significant?

Elfrun sighed. If only she were Radmer, she would trawl the farm lads and the slave boys for some likely candidate and send him off to Cuthred with a cuff and a terse word. Her grandmother, too, would do it without a second thought.

‘He's got me.'

Elfrun turned, startled. She hadn't even realized that Wynn was there, so quiet and still the girl had been in the shadows beyond the fire-pit. Wynn came forward now, and without asking leave she pulled the woollen strap free and looked hard at the surviving tag. ‘I could do this, maybe.'

Elfrun started to protest but Cuthred held up a hand. ‘How?'

‘Sand mould.'

Cuthred frowned. ‘Damp sand? Baked sand?'

Wynn was still studying the tag, turning it over and looking hard at the pattern and the rivets. ‘Oiled sand, to get the detail. It'd be crude, but I could do the fine work after.'

Cuthred folded his arms. ‘Are you telling me that thing you're holding was made in a mould?' It was as though they had forgotten Elfrun was there.

Wynn snorted. ‘Acourse not. From a strip, folded and hammered and graved. But I couldn't make a new one that way, not if I wanted an eye-sweet match. I've not the skill, not yet.' She twisted the tag round and looked at the back. ‘I'd have to take the rivets out… It might not work.'

‘Sup it and see, lass.'

‘Wait,' Elfrun said. The conversation was running away from her. ‘You're telling me a child can do this?'

‘You've only four years on me, lady.' Wynn's blue stare was bold. ‘Even before Cudda—' she hesitated, ‘—there was nothing I couldn't do as well as him or better.'

‘She's right, lady.' Cuthred ran a battered hand through his shaggy grey thatch of hair. ‘You know I've been looking for a new lad, but it's not proving easy. Wynn's my right hand at the forge. She's strong and steady.'

‘So what happened to the other tag, lady?'

Elfrun looked down at the determined little face. ‘Why do you need to know?'

Wynn raised her eyebrows, folding her arms across her skinny chest. ‘I don't want to go to all that effort and then have you tell me,
Oh, sorry, Wynn, I found it down the back of my linen chest
.' Her mimicry was pointed, and Elfrun winced.

‘I don't keep the cloak in my linen chest.'

‘Found it anywhere, then.' Wynn's hand darted out, and Elfrun pulled away, but not quickly enough. The other girl was already tugging out the other end of the woven strap and eyeing it sceptically. ‘Cut.'

‘Yes.'

‘Stolen.'

‘Anyone could have taken it,' Cuthred said. ‘Silver's easy enough to melt.'

Elfrun was startled by the defensive tone. Again, she wondered about the state of the smith's conscience. ‘I know that.' Could he conceivably have taken it? Or Wynn? In a sudden rush of distrust she wondered whether they had planned exactly this, and they would take her coin and give her back her own stolen tag, claiming to have made it new.

But she would recognize it, if they gave her back her own. They had to know that. She felt as though a cloud of gnats were dancing around her face, buzzing in her ears, crawling in her eyes and mouth, making it hard for her to see the truth. It was all she could do to keep her hands from batting the imaginary creatures away. This was the road to madness.

Wynn was back, with a tiny pair of tongs. ‘Let me get the rivets out, lady.'

‘What?'

Wynn's voice was rich with exaggerated patience. ‘I have to keep it, to copy it. It's high summer, lady. No one will notice if you leave the cloak at home for a few days.'

She submitted unwillingly to the girl's attentions, watching the neat, triangular face screw up in concentration, the tip of Wynn's tongue sticking out of the corner of her mouth. As the rivets parted and the surviving tag came free Elfrun felt another pang of loss.

‘Where's Thancrad? I need to talk to him.' Athulf slipped down from Mara and knotted her reins over a low hawthorn branch.

‘We've not seen him for weeks.' Addan's voice was sour.

‘Days,' Dene amended. ‘He's with the king. Him and his father both.'

‘Again.'

Dene nodded. ‘Nearly two weeks,' he added, his tone conciliatory.

Athulf had found them high in the woods on the steep slope between hall and minster. Addan's bitch had brought down a hare, and they had come under the shelter of the trees to light a fire and cook it.

‘Hunting my hills,' he said. His tone was neutral but the words were offensive, as he had intended.

‘Your hills,' Addan agreed. ‘Your hare. Want to do something about it?' He was skinning the wretched creature with swift strokes of his belt-knife, and he paused, blade jutting upwards.

Athulf folded his arms and stared for a hard moment, before Addan turned his gaze aside. He smiled then and shrugged. ‘It's all the same to me. I've plenty to go around, after all.'

Addan grinned. ‘Don't mind us, then. Just scooping a few crumbs from the rich man's table.' With an abrupt gesture he flipped the hare, stripping the skin off whole and skewering the corpse with a sharpened stick before propping it over the fire.

‘That'll take ages,' Dene complained. ‘I'm hungry now.'

Addan wiped his knife front and back on the grass and thrust it into the sheath at his belt. ‘Then hunger must be your master. That's the lot of younger sons and little cousins the world over. We do the dirty work, we can't afford pride or principles, and we're the last to be fed. Where have you been that you don't know that?'

Athulf tried to hide his pleasure in Dene's discomfiture. Dene eyed him sideways. ‘Your hills. So, are you the heir to Donmouth minster? That's the plan, isn't it? Making a priest of you.' He grinned.

Athulf was surprised by the needling tone. It was usually Addan who led any riling. ‘Plan? Not mine. My grandmother's, maybe.' He stretched out his legs and yawned, hiding his discomfiture. ‘And I'm not sure about taking orders.'

Addan barked with laughter, but Dene looked more curious. ‘Holy orders, you mean? And you're not prepared to do that?'

‘Be a priest? Rather than be in the king's war-band?'

Dene shrugged. ‘Donmouth minster's rich, they say. What are there, forty hides of land? Fifty?'

‘Something like that. But what does it matter?'

‘You wouldn't catch me turning an offer like that down because I thought I'd look silly in a tonsure. Being in orders never seems to stop your father from enjoying himself, from all I hear. Hunting, and women. Lots of women...'

‘But not battle.'

Dene sat up. ‘That matters to you?'

Athulf thought of the handful of times he had seen the king's war-band riding out, those young men glamorous beyond all measure in their shining corslets, the gilded saddlecloths, the horses with their oiled hooves and knotted tails. The youngest warriors were no older than he was himself. He said, ‘With Radmer dead, maybe I'd rather have Donmouth hall than the minster.' Abarhild had been dropping hints. But he knew fine well the hall wasn't hers to give.