Daughter of the Wolf (52 page)

‘Frightened senseless, lady, like a vole in the cat's jaws,' the little woman said, bobbing and ducking her head obligingly.

They really weren't helping.

‘I'm sorry,' Elfrun gabbled, hating herself almost as much she hated them. ‘I didn't understand – you didn't tell me... No one told me...' The dress felt heavy, the extra folds of linen were hampering her legs. She was almost in the corner now, backed and stumbling against a loom, the door as far away as it could possibly be, the three of them closing in on her, holding up the linen veil as huntsmen might a net.

But then Thancrad's mother stopped, and she gestured to the other two to do the same. ‘You poor thing. You're exhausted, and no surprise. We've asked too much of you. Settle down in here.' She was folding the veil in precise squares, corner to corner, while she was talking. ‘Ada, put a good log on the hearth, and make a bed. Put some ash in a bucket for her needs. Then come and find me in the hall.' She turned back to Elfrun, all smiles. ‘There's no hurry, after all, now that you're here.'

‘I just want to go home,' Elfrun said, squirming at the politeness, the apology in her voice. ‘They'll be worrying.' But would they? She couldn't imagine how they would be responding to the raid. Somewhere in the remoter wilderness of her weary mind, there was a lurking fear that no one would have noticed, that Donmouth would be trundling on, that her presence or absence would make no difference at all. But surely that was fatigue and fear talking. Abarhild would be half-mad with anxiety, surely. Fredegar, too. Widia – she could rely on him to track the horsemen here and retrieve her.

And Finn...

Would Finn care that she had vanished? Why would it matter to him what she did, or what was done to her?

Again her midriff contracted and twisted and a wellspring of misery threatened to overflow. She fought it back with anger. Did she need them to help her, any of them? If she could just get away, get down to the river, she would be fine. She would be out of this ridiculous situation.

And she hung on to that comforting word.
Ridiculous
. Not frightening, not nightmare. Nothing had changed. She wasn't hurt. She hadn't consented to marriage. Nothing had been done that could not be undone.

She watched Ada shuffle out, leaving her alone among the Illingham looms. Forcing herself to wait for as long as she could bear to after the door had closed behind the old slave woman, Elfrun counted a long hundred, then crossed swiftly and lifted the latch. The door didn't budge, wrestle with it as she might.

Barred from outside.

She counted again, trying to think, to get her pulse to slow, the panicky blood to ebb from her cheeks. Solid boards, pegged and lapped. Hard-packed earth floor. This wasn't some wattle hut through whose wall she could simply tear a hole.

But she could sleep. She was clean and warm, and she had eaten well, and there was an ash bucket. There was a straw pallet and a blanket. Yes, she could sleep. And make them let her go home in the morning.

29 S
EPTEMBER
860, F
EAST
OF
S
T
M
ICHAEL
AND
A
LL
A
NGELS

‘Don't touch!' The novice snatched his hand back as though he had been burned. ‘Those things are to be left as they are.'

‘But they're dusty,
magister
!'

‘Aye, they are. And your novice-master will beat you unless you do the job properly. I know, I know.' The boy was nodding emphatically. ‘But I will beat you too, harder and longer, if you meddle. Do you hear me?' The librarian had tears in his eyes. ‘Anything else in here, yes. Do your worst. But not this desk.'

Widia had seen the hawks and hounds properly tended, and was at last on his way to the kitchen for bread and broth, and a nip of ale if there was any going. Get himself fed and braced, and then it was time to have a conversation he'd long been planning. That done to his satisfaction, and he would go for a much-needed word with Elfrun. He was already close enough to smell the warm, savoury odours from the cook-fire, his mouth watering and belly growling, when he felt a frantic tug on his tunic hem. Turning in surprise, he found the dog-boy, his face twisted with evident distress.

‘What's the matter?' Was the boy hurt? Did he even understand the question? Widia was more than half-minded to send the boy away with a cuff round the ear.

But more tugging followed, and anguished gesturing, and in the end Widia was convinced against his better judgement to follow him back into the twilit courtyard. The child was pointing at the dog, that wretched dog which had failed in its fight with the bear. Widia's lips tightened. Elfrun was soft, even if it was her good companion. He still thought it should have been destroyed with the others.

Elfrun's shadow.

Why was it here? And what was it doing?

Gethyn was crouched, his tail down between his legs, his head lifted, and he was making odd noises, half-whine, half-bark. An uncanny sound that made the hair prickle on the back of Widia's neck. The dog was staring fixedly into the distance, but when Widia turned to follow his gaze he could see nothing but the track that wound in and out of the buildings and enclosures on its way down through the fields and ultimately to the river. Gethyn took a couple of paces forward, followed by another couple back. That whine again.

‘What's wrong with him?' Widia crouched down and held out a hand. He might not have much respect for a dog with no fight in him, but it went against the grain to see an animal so distressed and not lift a hand in response.

Gethyn ignored him.

‘Is he hurt?'

The dog-boy shook his head. So, he did understand something.

‘Where's Elfrun?'

The boy shrugged expressively, lifting his hands up and out, then pointed down the track.

‘But why hasn't he gone with her?'

‘She went on horseback.'

Widia swung round to see the grey-faced stranger, that wounded man Elfrun had brought back with her to the yards that morning. He had come out of the shadowy entrance to the stables, his left arm held across his chest, with his right hand cupping the elbow.

‘But surely she would still take Gethyn? I've told her enough times, God damn it, always take the dog.'

‘I don't think going anywhere was in her mind.' The stranger shook his head. ‘I didn't see. But I was in there, and I heard the pounding of hooves. Not a sound you'd expect to hear in the yard. It was only a few moments ago. I couldn't get to my feet in time.' He gestured at himself in evident frustration.

‘You mean this has only just happened?' Widia shook his head, frowning. ‘Which horses? Ours?' He pushed past the stranger and walked briskly along the stalls, peering into the gloom at the shadowy animals. ‘Mara's not here. Was she riding Mara? The little chestnut?' Widia was frowning. Athulf had been out on Mara all day. The lad would have had to come back and stable the little mare, and then Elfrun have her out again; and he didn't think all that could have happened without him noticing. And Elfrun wouldn't take out a tired horse.

But, ‘She didn't take a horse out.' The stranger was frowning, evidently trying to make sense of the sounds he had heard. Widia was tempted to shake him. ‘She walked out of here on her own feet. She was angry with me.' He closed his eyes. ‘And then almost at once I heard the horses.'

‘
Horses?
More than one?'

‘Yes, two or three. I'd swear to it.' He sighed thickly. ‘But it took me a moment to get to my feet. By the time I was at the door they were gone. There was nothing to see.'

Widia had already moved away from him. He crouched down, looking at the hard earth, and shook his head. ‘There have been too many horses in and out of here today.' He started walking away, in the direction in which Gethyn was staring, still making that unearthly sound.

‘I'll come with you.'

‘What use are you?' The stranger flinched at that. Widia went on walking. ‘You're hurt. He's voiceless.' He gestured at the boy. ‘That damn dog isn't worth the feeding, as I've told Elfrun half a dozen times.' Bafflement and hunger were making him snappish. ‘And you don't belong here. This – whatever it is – is nothing to do with you.'

‘The damn dog saved my life last night,' the stranger said quietly. ‘Him and his lady together.'

Widia stopped at that. ‘I see. Yes. Very well. That – that gives you an interest.' He turned back. ‘Did no one else see what happened? One dumb boy and one useless dog?'

But the boy was there again, pointing insistently down the track. He took Widia by the elbow and began trying to push him onwards. The stranger had turned back to Gethyn, and was fondling his ears with his good hand. When he straightened up the dog was calmer, and he came trotting after them. ‘Let's go.'

It was getting dark, and darker as they went under the trees and down the slope, but Widia crouched from time to time, checking the tracks, once they were well away from the churned and trodden ground around the sheds and the common pathways.

‘Three horses,' he said at last, straightening up. ‘Going flat out by the time they got down here.' He was beginning to take the story more seriously. ‘We know there are outlaws in the hills, but here in the yards? And heading for the river?' He shook his head. Attacking wandering bears and entertainers was one thing; attacking a woman in her own yards was another matter altogether.

The stranger was staring at the path where it went down to the water. ‘They've taken her to Illingham. I should have known.'

Widia swivelled. ‘What do you mean, you – whatever your name is.'

‘Finn,' the stranger said bitterly. ‘I've heard enough. I knew they had their eye on Donmouth.' He stared into the darkness across the river. ‘I should have tried harder to keep her safe.' He had his hand on the back of Gethyn's head. The dog was still whining softly.

‘That's not exactly your job.' Widia was baffled, trying to make sense of all this. If they were taking her to Illingham they were likely to be Illingham men. Not outlaws, who might grab a girl at random for their use. Not slave-dealers. If Illingham men had taken Elfrun it was because she was the lady of Donmouth. It would not be in their interests, surely, to treat her badly. ‘Best not meddle. For all we know she went willingly.'

‘We don't know that,' Finn said.

We?
Widia turned on him with a curse. ‘Would you let me think?' He exhaled heavily. ‘We can't barge into Illingham making wild accusations, after nightfall, unarmed, just the two of us.'

‘The steward?' Widia watched Finn's face hardening.

Widia thought about it for a moment, then shook his head. He had no love for the steward. ‘No, the lady Abarhild would be the person to turn to. I'll send to the minster.' He eyed Finn sideways. ‘But it can wait. If she's at Illingham they'll treat her well enough.' His belly growled, and he gave his twisted grin. ‘I haven't eaten all day, and I've things I have to do. Time enough in the morning.'

This was her chance. Her aunt would be brewing, and her mother had taken the little ones over so they could be up and doing before dawn. Only a few hundred yards away, but they would be busy gossiping around the warm hearth. She neither knew nor cared where exactly her father was. Somewhere up at the hall, making other people's lives a misery for a change. Some risks had to be run.

Saethryth looked round the dim room. If she were her father, where would she have hidden it? A lot of silver could pack into a very small space. The worst would be if he had buried it. She couldn't dig up the whole floor. And it might not even be inside. The earth of the floor was hard-packed, filthy and rush-strewn. Well, there was a job for her. Clear those to the midden, and bring in fresh from the stack, and while she was at it look at every inch of the surface, to see if it had been disturbed.

It took her long enough, but she was sure in the end that her father had dug no hole inside the house. That only left the whole of the outside world.

But the sunset was still warm in the western sky, and the waxing moon would soon be rising. She picked up a digging stick and went out to hoe the little kitchen-garden, looking, looking all the while in the thickening light, poking among the dying beans. He would have had to mark the place somehow, surely. The hens and the ducks followed her, pecking at the slugs and creepy-crawlies her stick unearthed. As the light faded she worked harder, peering under the withered leaves. The pile of hoed weeds had grown impressive, and the poultry were looking sleek and cheerful, but there was no sign anywhere that the soil had been disturbed out of the usual way.

Saethryth gritted her teeth.

It could be anywhere.

Her back ached and her hands were blistering. Why, when she worked so hard at the churn and the cheese-press, should a digging stick still raise these weals?

‘Do you still think about him?'

She lifted her head.

Widia, with a dog as always at his heels, was standing at the fence, looking down at her. She stood up. They were very much of a height.

‘Let me put the fowl away for the night,' she said.

‘I'll help.' He clicked his tongue at the dog to lie down and came inside the enclosure. Shooing chickens and cockerel into their house, the ducks into their pen, was so much easier with two, and she was grateful. Once the little wooden door had clunked into place, she turned to him.

‘You asked me something.'

He nodded. ‘But it doesn't matter.'