Daughter of the Wolf (51 page)

The day was fading. They would have to slow down soon. The darkness would be her friend.

She just had to wait.

But the hectic pace wasn't slowing, and she could hear the other horses galloping alongside, and then she realized she was slipping slowly forward with every great stride, her head a little further towards the ground, that there nothing she could do to stop it, and that if she fell she could be trampled. Every rise and fall of the horse's head, every jolt of its withers, and she was another inch towards the ground. She twisted wildly, moaning with terror, knowing it was useless, knowing that she was letting fear win; and then she felt the cloth around the waist of her dress clamped in a strong hand slowly hauling her back to the centre. She was sick and dizzy with relief, and then furious with herself at her gratitude.

And then the pace did slow, and to her bafflement she heard the sound of splashing from the horses' hooves below her. She had had it so clear in her head that they would ride out of the Donmouth yards and head uphill that she was genuinely mystified for a long moment, before cold realization could break through. They were taking her across the river.

Dark of the moon. Low tide.

They were taking her to Illingham.

Outlaws in the pay of Illingham. There were too many implications here for her giddy brain to grasp.

She could hear the water around the horse's legs as it pushed its way through, the sound getting louder in her ears as the water deepened, and then she realized that either her dress or that grey cloak they had bagged her with was trailing in the water and wicking it up, because her legs were wet now, and she was getting cold. Colder still when they reached the other side and the horses lurched and swayed back up on to the opposite bank.

The horsemen had been riding mostly in silence, apart from the odd gasp or grunted word of encouragement to their mounts, but now the one who was holding her shouted something, and there was an answering call from ahead, and a whinny. Another horse trotting up.

There were words she couldn't hear, and then a deep voice saying, ‘Did she fight?' And a laugh from the man who was gripping her waist, echoed by the others, but nothing more. And then trotting, horrible trotting that bashed her ribcage repeatedly against the saddle's pommel until she felt bruised to the bone and giddy with nausea. And then the soft thud of hooves on grass slowing and giving way to the clatter of a metalled surface: they were coming into a paved or a cobbled yard with a jingling of tack and soothing words and slowing again, and stopping. And then someone was hauling her down and setting her on her feet, turning her round and pulling the wool away from her face.

‘You got the right one then.'

He wasn't talking to her. She blinked, light-headed.

Tilmon.

She had guessed as much already. But why?

If she spoke she risked being sick, and she was afraid of what she might say if she were to open her mouth, so she turned away and looked at the others, still mounted. A slight fair lad with a sulky face. Another young man, solider and with a dark beard that made him look older than she suspected he really was.

And Athulf, on Mara.

Elfrun closed her eyes, wrapping her arms around her ribs. There was nothing to say which could restore an ounce of her dignity. She had been wearing the same dress for two days and a night; she was dirty and wet. What price Elfrun of Donmouth now?

Athulf was watching her avidly, but when she swung round and stared him full in the face he dropped his gaze and wouldn't meet her eye.

Now they had her, they didn't seem to know what to do with her.

‘Where's my son?' Tilmon was moving away, towards their hall, a longer, more looming building than she was used to.

But it was his wife who came, Switha, that dark-eyed, kind-faced woman with a beaming smile and the manner of a hen fussing over errant chicks. Elfrun felt relief swamp her with all the shock of a freak wave.

‘Look at the state of you, child! Do I have to pick you up every time some Illingham oaf dumps you in it? Come with me,' she said pointedly, ‘into the women's house,' shooting hard dark glances at the young men. Athulf was scowling, but he didn't open his mouth. Suddenly Thancrad was there, with that set, immobile look to him. ‘Leave this to me,' his mother said, and he stared for a moment, then nodded and shrugged and turned away.

She was already shepherding Elfrun, who was trying hard to fight the sense of being overwhelmed. ‘But what—'

‘Never mind all that now.' Thancrad's mother was opening the door, ushering her into the cosy dark interior. ‘Here, Ada, get some warm water,' she snapped to another woman, who ducked her head and scuttled out. Switha was pulling Elfrun closer to the hearth. ‘Where's my comb? Let's get your wet things off.'

Elfrun hugged herself tighter than ever. She was beginning to shake, now that the shock of the ride was over, and she staggered suddenly as her knees threatened to give way beneath her.

‘Come on, girl.' There was a new edge to her voice. ‘You're soaked.'

And it made sense. Elfrun didn't want to be cold and damp and dirty either. Unfastening her girdle with its burden of keys, she hauled her dress off over her head and passed it to the older woman.

‘And your shift.'

‘My shift?' Elfrun stared at Switha. She was painfully aware now of other eyes, other voices, in the dark corners away from the hearth. ‘But I'll have nothing to put on.'

‘We'll find you something.' Thancrad's mother was the voice of sweet reason. ‘You're soaked and filthy. I knew your mother, dear child. What would she say to me if I failed to care for you properly? Or Abarhild? I don't want her telling me off for not looking after you, do I? Just
look
at yourself!'

Obedient to the tone of command, Elfrun looked down the length of her body to where her pale ankles and mud-spattered feet emerged from the sorry hem of her linen. Tattered, and stained, and wet enough to cling. Switha was right. ‘Yes. I'm sorry. If you can find me...' But when she heard the note of apology in her tone she was furious with herself. She had not asked to be here, after all.

‘Come on, then. Hand it over.'

Hot-faced and shivering, Elfrun pulled off the linen shift, more aware than ever of those eyes on her exposed skin. The room was too warm and close, and she could feel trickles of nervous sweat running down her ribs. She had her girdle and keys and pouch bundled awkwardly in her hand.

Trying to shield her nakedness with her hands, she looked around for the promised garment, but instead to her disbelief she saw Thancrad's mother pick up her discarded dress and shift and drop them on the fire.

‘I – You – What – what are you
doing
?' She darted forward, but the linen was already darkening, charring, red-gold edges appearing to the holes, the old blue dress half smothering the flames, the room filling with the stink of burning wool.

‘Don't be silly. You won't need that patched old thing.' There was a purr of complacency in the older woman's voice that made Elfrun uncomfortable. ‘Come on, dear one. Let's get you clean.'

The diminutive slave woman at whom Switha had snapped when they first came in was now reaching into the hearth with a pair of tongs to pull out a hot stone; she dropped it, with a hiss and a bubble, into the bucket of water she had just fetched. Dipping a rag into the water, she stepped forward and reached to pull Elfrun's arm away from her body.

It was an effort not to scream and fling her off. ‘I don't need washing,' Elfrun said through clenched teeth. She wrapped her arms around herself again.

‘Don't be so silly,' Thancrad's mother repeated. She didn't sound so patient now. ‘Mud from top to toe. Anyway, what have you got to be so shy about? More like a boy than a girl.' She stepped forward and grabbed Elfrun's wrists, forcing her arms aside and scanning her up and down. ‘Look! I can count every rib. We'll have to do something about that.'

Elfrun was far beyond humiliation now. She twisted violently out of the other woman's grip. ‘Let me go! I want to leave, now.'

She had expected a fight, but: ‘Go on then.' Switha stepped back and crossed her arms. ‘There's the door. It's not locked.' She jerked her chin. ‘Off you go.'

‘I can't go naked!' Elfrun could hear the beginning of ragged, childish tears, and again she was furious with herself. ‘Give me something to wear.'

‘Then let us help you get cleaned up and we'll find you something to wear.' Soothing, unctuous tones. ‘You must be hungry, too.'

Elfrun closed her eyes. Again it sounded so reasonable, even attractive now that the jolting nausea had ebbed. Hadn't she been on her way to find herself food when the horsemen came riding in? She had told Finn to get some bread, but she had eaten nothing herself that day.

Finn
.

Tears pricked her closed eyelids. How stupid her pride felt now. That sudden blaze of self-righteousness had been fuelled by anger too, and the shame that had come in the backwash of desire.

Pride, anger, lust. Such familiar words.

Three of the seven capital sins.

Abarhild had been lecturing her about sin all her life, but now for the first time she began to realize what the word might mean. This wasn't really about disobedience, wilfulness, the way Abarhild made out – though that might yet prove to be part of it. Sin was a bramble thicket made of her own selfishness, tearing at her, blocking her view, stopping others from coming close. Hurting them too.

She knew she had hurt Finn: she had seen his face.

Worse: she had meant to hurt him.

And the fight went out of her.

She stood passive as a post, her arms outstretched and her eyes closed, to let a couple of the Illingham slave women wipe her face, her arms and legs with warm water; unplait her dishevelled hair and go through it as gently as they could with fine-toothed combs. Being tended; giving up her will to theirs: it was deeply soothing. She was almost asleep on her feet, swaying slightly and longing for oblivion, only the occasional sharp tug on her scalp keeping her awake, not responding even when she heard them muttering about the bruises rising on her ribs; and she was almost sorry when she heard Thancrad's mother say, ‘Lift your arms above your head,' and she felt the fresh, crisp linen slither against her skin and fall to her feet. It was too long, and too large for her, the hem pooling around her feet, but it was such a relief to be covered again, and she hugged the extra folds of fine white fabric around her as though it afforded as much protection as a mail-shirt.

‘Here.' And turning she found at her elbow a wooden platter with warm wheaten bread, and new butter, and honey. The smell of the bread was almost more than she could bear. She tried not to stuff herself ravenously, to take small mouthfuls and chew properly as Abarhild would have told her, but it wasn't easy, with the bread soft and crumbly on her tongue, the thick layer of faintly salty butter, the unbearable sweetness of the honey. She had to stop, however, when she realized to her shame that the other women were standing around her, just watching her cram her face while trying to keep the honey out of her hair.

‘Is no one else eating?'

Thancrad's mother was smiling. ‘We're looking after you just now. Here.'

A horn beaker of mead, sticky and syrupy, with that undertaste of bitterness she always found present, that sense of something lurking in the depths. She sipped and tried to hand it back, but the smiling, tiny slave woman pressed it into her hand, and she had to be polite, to drain it to the cloying, emetic dregs, and then have her hands and face wiped again. Her hair was pulled back, and combed again until it crackled. Thancrad's mother was standing back a little and eyeing her critically, and again Elfrun noticed the unsettling way she had of darting out the tip of her tongue to touch the bristle at the corner of her mouth. Perhaps the woman didn't know she was doing it.

Old Ada was tending the fire, dragging Elfrun's charred clothes from it and dumping them in a corner, feeding the flames with curls of birch-bark from a wicker basketful that stood hard by.

‘Here.' A dress was being unfolded, a warm length of wool the colour of ripe wheat, and Switha looked approving. ‘That'll look fine well with your hair.' She was nodding. ‘Darker than Thancrad's, but not by much. You two could be brother and sister instead.'

Instead of what? But the dress was being pulled over her head, and her question went unspoken. It was beautiful, a fine diamond twill, softer than anything she had ever owned, soft as the moth-eaten grey she had given Finn and even lighter. There were bands of dark-red braid around the cuffs. She retied her girdle, and began to feel more like herself again.

‘Lovely. Stand up straight.' Thancrad's mother was moving towards her, unfolding a length of white linen, fine as cheesecloth but a tighter weave, with white-on-white embroidery around the edge. ‘Here, let me.' And she lifted up the veil to drape it over the crown of Elfrun's head. ‘Funny to see a bride who already has her own keys.'

And Elfrun screamed.

She couldn't help herself. She stumbled backwards, batting at the cloud of white fabric, suddenly aware of the spider's web into which she had blundered. Accepting those ells of gauze would be tantamount to saying yes to Thancrad's family. If she took it then no accusation she might make, of abduction, of rape, would be believed. How had she not noticed, not understood? How stupid they must have thought her!

But no. They hadn't thought her stupid: they had believed her acquiescent, meek, even pleased. Happy. Grateful for the honour they were doing her.

All this flashed through her mind while she was stepping backwards, breathing hard, her arms up in front of her to fend off the danger.

‘Of course you're nervous.' Thancrad's mother was smiling, but it didn't reach her eyes. ‘You should have seen me on my wedding night. I was a lot younger than you, my dear.' Flick went her tongue on the stiff dark bristle. She looked at the slave women. ‘Do you remember, Ada?'