Daughter of the Wolf (6 page)

‘What's it to you, Radmer, anyway, if there's a second priest at the minster?' Ingeld was still sporting that infuriating smile. ‘My business, surely, not yours?'

‘Your business?' Radmer wheeled once again, stabbing his finger at his brother. ‘While you have been living in idleness in Wulfhere's household all these years, Heahred and I have been managing the minster for you, day in, day out. I know the minster land, and its income, and its renders, and you have not the faintest idea. And you don't give a plucked hen for the minster, as long as it fills your belly and covers your back in silk.'

‘Radmer!' Abarhild felt the familiar tightness across her ribs. ‘Ingeld is a priest of God now.
Pro amur Deo
, show him a little respect.'

‘Priest of God,' Radmer said. ‘
Ingeld
.'

The pressure on her heart was harder than ever. She clamped her mouth and gripped her fingers around her stick, wishing she could strike him with it now as she would have once. Ingeld might be at fault, needling his brother, but surely to goodness Radmer could rise above the needling. One would hope a twelve-year gap would be enough to create a little distance between her boys.

But no, never. It had always been like this. Big and little piglet, squealing and shoving for the same teat. And such sharp teeth.

At times like this she was sick to death of them both.

‘If we had a second priest at Donmouth minster,' she said softly to her youngest, ‘he could take on all the pastoral work. You'd be free to spend more time in York.' She reached up to brush her fingertips against his wrist. ‘If that's what you'd prefer.' Away from her. But happy. In Abarhild's version of their story she had only ever wanted him to be happy.

‘Drinking the archbishop's wine,' Radmer said. ‘Well, better that than drinking mine.'

Ingeld's mouth twitched again. ‘Wulfhere certainly has better wine.'

Radmer turned on his heel for the last time and walked out of Abarhild's bower.

Grip the stick, hard. Never let them see how much it matters. The heat and pain were almost more than she could bear.

‘You never give up, do you, Mother?' Ingeld squatted easily at her side and put his hand on her back, warm and bolstering. ‘You'll try any twist and turn, if it gets you your way. As for the pastoral work, Heahred does most of that anyway.' He gave a little laugh, freighted with self-knowledge. ‘I'm not at my best at a deathbed.'

‘Ingeld, Ingeld.' She fought against the spell cast by his easy, beguiling voice, the warmth of his presence. He needed a firm hand, this one. ‘It should be such a comfort, having you here again. And instead it's nothing but trouble.' He was hunkered down behind her, and she couldn't tell without turning if her words had any effect on him. She wasn't sure she wanted to see his face. ‘Why can't you be a good priest? There is such good in you.'

‘There are no good priests, Mother.' He gave her shoulder a little rub, a little shake. ‘We are all just men. You know that. Weak, fallen men, subject to the changing moon.'

She twitched away from the pressure of his hand, holding on to the tatters of her anger. ‘York still calls you.'

‘Yes.'

‘Women? Drinking? Dice?'

‘Hunting,' he said agreeably. ‘Horses.'

‘And that's all you do with yourself.'

He shifted round so that he could look her in the eye. ‘Would you have me lie to you? I've never done that yet, and I'm not starting now.' He shook his head. ‘My friends are there. And York has books, as well, you know. Isidore, Pliny, Virgil, Ovid. Wulfhere and I talk about the stars. Time, and the tides, and how one might travel to Jerusalem. The monsters of the encircling Ocean. Where the barnacle geese hatch, and where the swallows go in the winter.' He put his arm around her shoulders. ‘Don't fret about me.'

No one else ever touched her these days, not with such affection, now that she was so old and ugly and bad-tempered. How she had missed him, cherished his visits, all the years he was in York. And, as always, his face and voice were working their enchantment. That painful heat was easing into gentle warmth, a soft drowsy weight. Abarhild felt she would sacrifice anything to keep him close to her. ‘Where do the swallows go in the winter, then?' She leaned into him again, as though she were the child, and he the parent telling some soothing story.

‘Well...' and she could hear the smile, the affection. ‘In Isidore we read that they go across the sea, and Pliny says they make for sunny valleys high in the mountains...'

‘But?'

‘But I prefer the tale that they clump together in great balls –
conglobulant
– and spend the winter at the bottom of ponds. Like avian frogspawn.' He gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. ‘You shall have your chaplain, Mother, if only because Radmer disapproves. Do you have a man in mind?'

‘I have already sent word,' she said. ‘Weeks ago, to Corbie. My kinsman Ratramnus will find me someone.'

An arrow smacked into the tree trunk no more than a yard from Athulf's head.

He whipped round to stare at it quivering there, his body rigid with disbelief. The arrowhead had embedded itself in the slender birch's smooth bark. As the shaft stilled he noticed the fletching was swan-feather.

Everyone at Donmouth used grey goose.

But he was on the other side of the river from Donmouth now.

He turned his head slowly, gut tight, eyes flickering this way and that, gauging the little variations of light and shade, movement and calm, among the thick-leaved high-summer trees. The thongs of his sling slithered through his nerveless fingers.

Widia had told him not to cross the river. ‘What if you meet wolf? Or worse. Boar. I don't know the Illingham woods. There could be anything.'

Athulf had bristled. What did he have to do, to earn Widia's respect? ‘I can cope.'

Widia had shrugged. ‘Don't blame me if you get hurt.'

‘Nothing's going to hurt me.

But his uncle's huntsman had just lifted one dark eyebrow, in a way that made Athulf's cheeks burn again, remembering.
What if you meet worse...?

What was worse even than boar?

Men.

Three of them, at least. And one a fine archer, to send his warning shot through the dense undergrowth with that precision.

Damn Widia. Why did he always have to be right?

‘Name yourself.'

They still hadn't stepped out from behind the densely packed shoots of the overgrown hazel coppice, but he could tell the middle one had spoken. The leader, his bow in his hand, with a man on each side to guard his flank.

‘Athulf.' The word scratched his throat. He swallowed and spoke louder, trying to deepen his voice. ‘Athulf Ingelding.'

He could see them better now. Older than he was himself, but not by much.

‘And what are you doing in my woods?'

His
woods? Athulf raised his hands slowly. ‘Hunting,' he said truthfully. ‘No luck though.' He shrugged his cloak back so that they could see he didn't have so much as a leveret or a brace of ducklings about his body. The urge to cringe, to apologize, almost over-mastered him.

The youth in the middle stepped forward a couple of paces. He was tall, bony, with a glossy thatch of red-brown hair and cheekbones like clenched fists under the sun-gilded skin.

‘From Donmouth?'

Athulf nodded.

‘I didn't think the lord of Donmouth had a son.' A tone that Athulf interpreted as disbelief. ‘I heard he only had a daughter.'

‘Radmer's my uncle.' Athulf couldn't see much of the other two, in the shadows behind. One dark and thick-set, the other slightly built and fairer. Neither moving.

The bronze-haired stranger pushed past Athulf and began working the arrow out of the birch tree. Gentle little rocking movements that would ease the wicked little dart out intact. The other two came a little closer.

‘You could have killed me with that.'

One of the others, the dark one, laughed, but the tall stranger's face remained impassive.

‘If I'd wanted to kill you,' he said, ‘I would have.' One last tug and the arrow was free. The tall young man turned, and caught Athulf's eye. ‘I've seen you before,' he said, frowning.

Athulf couldn't remember. His scowl deepened.

‘At the spring meeting, three months ago. Racing, on that scrubby little pony? With that girl. But I didn't know you were from Donmouth.'

There was a half-smile on the other boy's face, and Athulf read it as one of contempt. He flushed. Bad enough having had to ride Apple; worse being beaten by Elfrun; worst of all to have had this witness. He wanted to say something witty, biting, but his mind was a blank.

At last the tall boy shrugged. ‘Pick up your sling.'

But Athulf didn't move. ‘Who are you?' For the last ten years the king himself had held the rich estate across the river from Donmouth, and his reeve had cared little who might be pillaging his woods and marshes. ‘What are you doing here?'

‘I'm Thancrad. These are my father's lands now.'

‘And who's he?'

‘Tilmon. Tilmon of Illingham, as of last week. And Switha's my mother.'

Athulf stiffened. He had heard no word of this at Donmouth. If they had known, no one would have been talking about anything else.

They didn't know yet.

Tilmon of Illingham.

‘Go on,' Thancrad said. He gestured. ‘Pick up your sling.'

Blood flooded Athulf's cheeks. ‘You can't tell me what to do.' He wasn't going to scrabble in the nettles for the son of a notorious traitor, no matter how high he and his might now stand in the king's favour. A strip of leather could always be pilfered from the tannery to make another sling. He stuck out his chin. ‘Make me.'

No one moved or spoke for a long moment. Athulf forced himself to hold Thancrad's gaze, but he was very aware of the shorter figures to either side, especially the darker one with the grimace and the balled fists.

The dark one said, ‘I know who he is.' His voice had a mocking edge. ‘
Ingelding
. His father's the abbot.'

Athulf tensed.

Thancrad shrugged. ‘What does it matter who his father is?' He turned back to Athulf. ‘Get your sling and go.' He jerked his head.

Athulf folded his arms. ‘I told you. Make me.'

The dark lad stepped forward, bristling, but Thancrad gestured him away. ‘Stop it, Addan.'

‘We should teach him a lesson.'

‘Why? He's done no harm.' Thancrad looked back at Athulf with a shrug. ‘Please yourself. It's all the same to me.'

Athulf turned with all the arrogance he could muster, and started for the river, half expecting the thud of a dart between his shoulder blades. The blood had drained from his face, leaving him cold and shaky. When he was sure he was out of sight he paused and leaned against the hollow bole of an old willow, fighting the hot, sour bile that came flooding up from deep in his belly. It had been so close.

But he had stood his ground.

Against three of them. As his fear ebbed little rills of pleasure came rushing in to replace it, as lively as the currents that patterned the river water where it met the salt of the estuary. It belatedly occurred to him that that last exchange had been interesting. Thancrad hadn't wanted a confrontation, even three against one. It had been scowling Addan who had wanted to fight, and Thancrad had stopped him.

Had he been afraid?

But then there had been that little smile, still rankling... And he had shot that arrow, close enough that Athulf had felt the wind of its passing on his cheek.

Athulf jerked to attention. The ripples on the water told him that the tide was on the turn. If he was going to ford the river he would have to do it now, before the water from the estuary came flooding up into the narrow channel.

And he knew he had to get back with the big news.
Tilmon of Illingham.
It might be that no one at Donmouth, hall or minster, would thank him for it, but still they had to know.

‘When I get married...' Saethryth glanced around to make sure she had an audience. She dropped her voice even further and the other girls leaned in towards her. The sun glittered on the loose curls of her hair, pale and shimmering as freshly retted flax. ‘When I get married, it'll be to a proper man. You know what I mean? I've been looking around.' Her eyes were gleaming, lips moist. ‘And I've got a few in mind. One in particular, although it's a shame to have to choose...' A stifled giggle erupted. Abarhild raised her head sharply.

Instant silence.

They were outside because the summer light rendered the interior of the weaving shed gloomy beyond all bearing. The stink from the urine-vats, with their ill-fitting lids, had been making the girls' noses run and their eyes water; and even Abarhild had conceded that some work could be done as well in the open air. ‘Just make sure you tether the goats first.' So they were seated on the grass in a ragged circle, heads bent over their carding combs and the little looms for weaving braid. Abarhild squatted on a creepie-stool, one eye on her embroidery, the other on her deceptively meek-looking charges.

Elfrun sat at her grandmother's feet, outside the inward-facing circle of the other girls. She was stitching a new border on to the skirt of her blue dress. Athulf might have overtaken her, but she too had grown lately and her grandmother had scowled at her exposed, winter-pale shins and wrists. ‘You've just grown up and down,' she had said, rubbing the nap of the blue with her knotty fingers. ‘Not outwards. No need for a new dress, not yet. Plenty of life in this one. And I want to see some more modesty from you.
Deo amur
, Elfrun! Behave like your father's daughter for once.'

Saethryth was talking again, low and intense, and the closed circle of other girls was listening avidly, but Elfrun couldn't hear the hissed words, and she wasn't sure she wanted to. Saethryth really got under her skin, the way she breathed through her mouth, her pigeon-plump body, her air of knowing more than she should. Saethryth, who had been the first of all of them to start her monthly bleeding, and planned to be the first to marry. She was the daughter of Luda, the hall steward; the two girls were of an age, and if anyone at Donmouth should have been Elfrun's natural ally, it was she. Yet Saethryth had always irked her, like a sharp-edged pebble in her shoe.