Daughter of the Wolf (55 page)

But a wise man doesn't say these things, not when the incomprehensible chatter is being uttered by folk who can call on sixty well-armed men within a few hundred yards. He looked around the hall, taking in the known and the unknown faces. He was not relying on the men of Illingham. The king had granted him the land but Tilmon knew he was still on probation, that Osberht had been testing him this year, tapping him all over like a bell-maker with a newly cast bell, listening for the false note. He had been holding his breath, all the while. But now it was time.

He stood tall and took a couple of steps forward.

So did Tuuri.

Tilmon stared at the other man, his face hard. He needed Tuuri, the information he brought and the links he embodied. The ships' crews took their orders from him only because Tuuri vouched for him. But Tuuri was not master here, in the hall.

Silence had fallen when he had first stood up, but now he could hear low murmurs, whispers running round the walls like the wind in the cracks between the boards.

Alred was in the north, beyond the Tyne in his own family's Bernician heartlands, raising his own men. They had talked, months ago now, about starting the war against Osberht by burning Donmouth, hall and minster alike, but when he had told Switha she had come up with her own ideas. ‘Save your men. The girl's the key to Donmouth. Quiet little thing. Thancrad likes her, for some reason.' She had smiled. ‘Leave this to me. It'll be easy.'

And so it was proving. He looked down at his wife with affection. She understood girls.

Girls. Useful creatures.

Another girl, the disconcerting one, Tuuri's daughter with the pale gold eyes. She was at her father's elbow, and she was looking angry, her head high and her lips thin.

After that susurrus of whispering the hall was quiet again. North and south door stood ajar, and Tuuri's men were between him and both. It occurred to Tilmon for the first time that, just possibly, this was a mistake. But his men outnumbered the strangers.

And besides, he had promised them silver. And more than silver, if the dice rolled right.

A horse whinnied outside, and another one answered.

Tilmon beckoned to Tuuri. ‘Come here.' Bring him over, put an arm over the man's shoulders, show the world they stood side by side. But Tuuri just stood and stared at him. Much more of this, and men's hands would be creeping to their hilts.

The south door darkened, and heads turned.

Tilmon raised a hand in greeting. That Donmouth lad. Athulf. Ingeld's son.

And Auli shrieked. Not a sound of fear, more like the scream of a tern about to attack some foolish trespasser on its nesting field. The cry of one of the old war goddesses, whom men still offered to in the north. She had drawn herself up, and she was pointing at the boy in the door. Every eye followed her accusing finger. The boy stood in a beam of low light, a cloud of dust motes. Tilmon couldn't make out the look on his face.

Two of Tuuri's men moved forward and grabbed the boy by his elbows, dragging him forward.

‘What is this?' Tilmon felt wrong-footed. This was his hall. No one else gave orders here. Switha's grip on his arm tightened, and he understood the silent message.
Steady, steady
. Other men might think that sudden clutch a sign of fear, but he knew his wife far too well for that.

‘Auli says there are two more. They killed three of my men, and my bear. They tried to kill her.' Tuuri's voice was harsh, his face red and blotchy.

Tilmon swivelled. Thancrad was only a few feet away, his face frozen in that habitual arrogant mask that infuriated his father so much. ‘What do you know about this?'

‘Nothing.'

Tilmon swung a massive back-hander that sent the boy reeling into the man next to him. They staggered for a moment before both went crashing down on the floorboards. When Thancrad picked himself up again his nose was bleeding.

‘Don't lie to me.' Tilmon gestured angrily towards the boy in the doorway. ‘He's your man. You've been shoulder to shoulder for months. What have you been doing?'

Thancrad was wiping the blood away with the back of his hand, staring at his father as though he was a stranger. He turned and levelled much the same look at Athulf. ‘He's not my man, though he may be yours.' His voice was thick, but there was no mistaking the anger. Tilmon raised his hand again, but Thancrad didn't flinch. He had the back of his hand pressed to his nose, and his lower face was a red-smeared mask. ‘Where are Addan and Dene? Go on, ask him that. What have they been doing behind my back?'

There was a long silence. Then Athulf said, ‘Addan and Dene are where they belong. Shovelling sharn outside. In the stables.'

‘Get them,' Tilmon said rapidly. He didn't want Tuuri to beat him to it. He gestured furiously at his son. Thancrad pushed his way out, past the men who were still holding Athulf.

‘You then.' Tilmon stared at the boy. The same question. ‘What have you been doing?'

The boy stuck his chin out. ‘It was my right.'

Tuuri growled something, and the boy turned to stare at him with that same fearless gaze. He looked so young, especially flanked by two war-battered Balts, but he held himself with an effortless arrogance. ‘Your men insulted Donmouth.'

‘My men,' Tuuri said slowly. ‘Finn, a wandering pedlar. Holmi, a little boy who danced. And Myr, who cared for nothing but his bear. Even if they were disrespectful – which I doubt – is Donmouth's honour so brittle that it cannot survive a little challenge from such as these?' He clicked his tongue. ‘Take his sword.'

Athulf turned his head and spat eloquently into the straw, ignoring the man fiddling with the buckles at his waist and shoulder. He stared straight into Tuuri's eyes. ‘First, they mock our shepherd. Then they deceive my father into pitting his valuable dogs against the bear, in a fight your friends know the bear will win. And thirdly the pedlar and that girl' – he glared at Auli – ‘frighten and insult my cousin.'

‘And for this they have to die?'

Athulf jerked his chin at Auli. ‘We weren't going to kill
her
.'

Tuuri put a hand on his daughter's shoulder. ‘I'm glad to hear it.' His voice was quiet; Tilmon thought dangerously so.

‘We were expecting a fight. They had a bear! We didn't know they weren't armed.' Athulf spat again, and there was a rumble and a murmur from the men ranged along the wall. Tilmon didn't know how much they understood, but he could tell they were getting restless. Athulf said angrily, ‘We only meant to attack the bear, and frighten the men. I don't know what happened.' His voice tailed away, and for the first time, Tilmon thought, he looked uncertain.

And one thing was puzzling him. ‘Why wasn't Thancrad with you?'

To his astonishment Athulf looked up then, his face breaking into a smile. ‘I know he's your son, but Thancrad – Thancrad's soft.' His voice was intimate, confident, one equal addressing another. ‘I'd been watching them – the bear and the men – for a couple of days. I knew it was time, and that Addan and Dene would be with me. But we didn't want Thancrad. We all knew he would duck out. Or worse.'

‘Worse?' Tuuri asked, his voice a growl.

‘Try to warn them.' Athulf shrugged as eloquently as he could with his arms still gripped and forced backwards by Tuuri's men. ‘He's not to be trusted in a tight corner. You should know that.'

‘Stow it.' But Tilmon was impressed, both with the boy's courage and his tolerance of pain. He had been watching this lad for a while, and he liked everything he saw. He and Switha might not care to admit it, but Athulf was right. Somehow, at Thancrad's core, there was a fastidiousness, a distance, detachment, that made Tilmon profoundly uncomfortable.
Soft
. It was as good a word as any. Too soft for a hard world.

Where had Thancrad got to, anyway?

The door had thumped shut in Elfrun's face. She stared at it helplessly for a few moments. Had she been seen?

All those people out there in the yard, surely someone there would help her?

She should hammer on the door, kick and scream until someone came, but she found she still had a horror of an audience, goggling at the spectacle she presented, emerging smudged and blinking into the daylight in Thancrad's wake, sporting her straw-strewn wedding finery. Everyone would think that they were man and wife in truth...

No, she could not do that. There would be no retreat from that kind of public exposure. The folk outside would bear witness to what they had seen. What they thought they had seen. And then she would be trapped.

She put her hand to her breastbone, trying to breathe more slowly. This was stupid. Think like that, and she would indeed stay locked in this room for the rest of her life. She had not chosen to be here. And nothing had happened. Thancrad hadn't hurt her. Not in any way that really mattered.

Thancrad had heard her scream, and understood that she meant it, and let her go. She should hate him too much to be grateful, but she was grateful nonetheless.

But he thought they were married. And in his place – lied to by Athulf, lied to by his mother – she might well have thought the same.

Oh God.

Athulf.

She sank down with her back to the wall, and the glint of silver in the rushes caught her eye. She had thrown the little cloak-tag away in revulsion in the night, but now she scrabbled for it, her heart thumping painfully. Her fist closed around it, the edges digging into the soft flesh of fingers and palm.

Why had Radmer ever gone away?

Athulf was the traitor. She should have known that, all the way through. There she had been, agonizing over Luda and the petty pilfering of lamb-leather, and all the while Athulf had been plotting her destruction.

How he must hate her.

She uncurled her fist and looked at the blithe little prancing animal, black on silver. It had its head thrown back, and it seemed to be laughing at her. Or rather, inviting her to laugh with it. Such energy. The king's gift to her father, and it had come back to her.

Elfrun closed her fist again, feeling how the silver was warming under her touch, and scrambled to her feet, tucking the tag into the little pouch at her waist. Something had been nagging on the edge of her awareness for the last few moments. There had been no second thump when the door had fallen shut behind Thancrad. Had he neglected to bar it?

As soon as she realized that the heavy oak was yielding to her hand her movements became more tentative. She eased it away from her until a minute crack appeared, and peered out.

She had expected to see the yard crowded, but it was sunlit and empty, at least of human life, though there were bags and rolls and bales in abundance. Had she really caught that fugitive glimpse of Auli? The girl was so distinctive, with her neat, oval head, her stitched and coiled braids, her amber eyes, but what on earth could she have been doing at Illingham? Elfrun peered this way and that, trying to orient herself in this strange yard. The direction of the sun told her something, but she had to remember that she was over the other side of the river now, and familiar clues would lead her astray; and she was muddle-headed with weariness.

That way, it must be.

Another cautious glance through the crack, and she eased the door a little wider.

Still no one, though she could hear the mutter and rumble of voices from the hall. Its door was closed, though.

Elfrun stepped out into daylight, the hampering folds of the alien wool and linen bunched in her hands, placing her bare feet carefully on the unknown soil. Her senses felt strained, scalp tugging, shoulder blades high and twitching, nostrils flared. Another swift look around. There was no point in dragging this out. If they saw her, they saw her. She walked fast and straight across the yard, aiming for the gap between the buildings which by her reckoning should lead out towards gate and river.

The buildings were laid out differently from home: Illingham's long block of horse-stalls stood right on the far side of the yard, away from the hall, and blocking the view of the gate. She had almost made it when she heard new voices, clearer and closer. Two of them: young, male, question and response; and then a third, further away, calling their names.

Not shouts, just a brief, hard-edged exchange from around a corner, but enough to make her throw herself through the open door of the stable and hurtle, clutching her skirts, to the far end of the row of half a dozen stalls, waiting for the doorway to darken.

She crouched herself down against the wall, as much out of the sightline as she could manage, and waited, hardly daring to breathe, eyes darting left and right, looking for better places to conceal herself. There was a mound of hay, with a pitchfork left in it. Hiding place and weapon in one? Her dress was much the same colour as the hay.

Or among the horses?

She shifted her weight and rebalanced, a tiny, silent motion, so that she could look into the closest stall, the end one.

A grey mare stood with her head down, tugging wisps of hay from a manger. Elfrun couldn't see her face clearly, and she had never tended her day in and day out as Athulf had since Ingeld's return from York, but she knew the ripple of that tail, the whorl of the hair on her flank, the fall of the mane.

‘Storm,' she said, disbelieving.

The mare's ears pricked.

Elfrun clicked her tongue, and the mare lifted her head and looked round.

‘Hey, girl.' Still making soothing noises, she eased herself in alongside. Her hands were damp and her heart was hammering, but she moved and breathed as gently as she could. There was no question but that this was Storm.

She looked well tended enough, even fat, if not quite the gleaming creature on whose care Athulf had prided himself.

Elfrun glanced around, but there was no sign of Storm's tack. ‘Oh, Storm.' And for the first time she missed Ingeld with a visceral intensity that astonished her.