Daughter of the Wolf (45 page)

A thump. The six men had bundled the seventh headlong into the boat, his legs still flailing.

Six men. Luda the steward. Widia the huntsman. Cuthred the smith. Heahred the deacon. Fredegar the priest. And Athulf.

The seventh man was Hirel the shepherd.

Elfrun had insisted to Fredegar and the young deacon that they didn't have to be part of this, but Heahred had stared at her as though she had run mad. So she had nodded and let things run their course. Heahred had served at the minster since he was seven, and he had adored his father abbot all his life. Of course he needed to bring Ingeld's murderer to justice.

And Fredegar?

After Heahred had blundered out, still angry and confused, the priest had turned to her, his large, dark eyes remote. She had the sense that he was looking not at but through her.

‘You're a foreigner. A mass-priest. You don't have to be part of it. You shouldn't—'

‘This is my fault. I brought this about.'

For an insane moment she thought he was confessing to killing his abbot himself. ‘You? I – How, Father? Hirel—'

He put up a restraining hand. ‘Not Hirel. I am not to blame for anything Hirel has done.' He closed his eyes and turned away, and his words were low and rapid. ‘But the abbot –
pro Deo amur
, Elfrun, I could have talked to him. Persuaded him to go to the bishop, to mend his ways. Become the great man his mother wanted him to be – the man he could so easily have been.' His eyes were fathomless. ‘Instead I had nothing but contempt for his weakness. I turned my back.
Viso illo praeterivi...
'

‘You saw him,' Elfrun whispered, ‘and you walked by on the other side. But haven't I done the same?'

‘You? You're a child. A girl child.' His voice was dismissive. ‘But I? I might as well have done the deed myself.'

He had talked with Hirel, pressing him to confess and have his soul absolved in God's eyes, even though his body would still have to suffer the punishment the world dictated. Hirel had refused to say a single word in his own extenuation.

And here was Fredegar, weary and tight-lipped, in the execution party. Six men were needed, and he had said that he would help with the boat, and see that the others were no more brutal than they had to be.

Elfrun hugged herself tighter. Nothing felt real: it was as though the whole thing were happening in last night's dream, or an already distant memory. She watched Cuthred and Widia holding Hirel down in the boat. Athulf and Heahred binding those thrashing ankles. Fredegar and Luda pushing off, running the boat into the water and clambering soggily aboard.

Of all the men sending the murderer to justice, Athulf had insisted most loudly on taking part. She had stared at him, half-revolted by his feverish eagerness, half-baffled. ‘Of course. You more than anyone.' She had not thought that he would grieve so violently.

The tide was turning, but still high. Four men now at the oars, pulling hard. They would have no difficulty passing the sandbank. There was a place of deep water off the headland. Everyone knew where it was. The men never fished there, even though it had not been used for this purpose in Elfrun's lifetime. She tried not to think of Hirel's weighted body sinking slowly down into the unspeakable monster-haunted darkness.

She had had no choice. She knew, however, that among the hundred or so folk who stood on the dunes there were several who did not blame the shepherd, who muttered that their rutting goat of an abbot had had his judgement coming, that harsh jokes at Ingeld's expense – and no doubt hers too – were common currency at some firesides.

But when minster and hall were united, and when even those who thought the shepherd's anger justified had no doubt about his guilt, there was only ever going to be one outcome. And when Elfrun relived the nightmarish sight of Ingeld's body being turned face upwards out of the mud, her guts curdled and her nails scarred her palms, and she was ready to join the executioners in the boat herself.

Hardly bigger than a leaf now, it looked, bobbing on the gentle swell beyond the sandbank. A bevy of oystercatchers flew busily peeping over her head to land at the far end of the strand. The full moon was just beginning to lift clear of the south-eastern horizon.

A rustle of sea-grasses, and Elfrun sensed someone too close behind her. She turned to find Saethryth at her side. The girl looked terrible, her eyes swollen and pink-rimmed, her skin almost grey, with violet shadows around her eyes.

‘Go on,' Saethryth said quietly.

‘What?'

‘Ask me if I'm satisfied now? Everybody else has.'

‘That wouldn't be appropriate.'

‘Have you wept for him?' Saethryth spat out the words.

‘My uncle? Yes.' Elfrun pulled the cloak tighter and turned away a little. She didn't want to listen. Saethryth was lucky that she too wasn't being taken out by Long Nab and tipped over the topmost strake with a stone bound to her belly. There were those who had pressed for it, Heahred the deacon among them, furious, red-faced, stabbing the air with his finger as he argued that if she had kept to her wedding bargain then their beloved abbot would still be warm and breathing. And Luda had nodded, and looked from stony face to stony face, and growled his agreement. But Elfrun had simply refused to listen to the men.

The matter was bad enough as it was. There was no sign that Hirel had been at the slaughter-place. He had sworn by every saint in the calendar that he was guiltless, until Luda had ordered him gagged. But then, what would they expect the shepherd to say? His guilt was manifest, and only compounded by his denials.

Who else had such good cause to hate Ingeld?

She could hear Luda's voice even now. ‘You have no choice, lady.' She had been disgusted by the steward's readiness in arguing for the death of his one-time accomplice, his daughter's husband, though she had said nothing to him about the theft of the lambskins – not yet.

Never mind his self-righteous eagerness to push for the drowning of his own daughter, who was now willy-nilly back under his roof.

Bile and acid rose from deep in her belly.

‘Elfrun? Lady?'

Was Saethryth still there? Elfrun didn't want to hear whatever it was she had to say. Wasn't it enough for the other woman that she still had life and breath herself? ‘What is it now?'

‘Lady, my man never did it.'

And at that Elfrun did turn round. ‘What are you saying?'

Saethryth was gazing out to sea, the setting sun gilding her uncovered hair. Elfrun saw her throat work as she swallowed. ‘Oh, I grant you, Hirel would have been glad to see Ingeld in his grave. But never to cut his throat. They'd have fought, man to man, like he did the bear. And he would never strip him. He wouldn't stoop to take the gold that was on his finger. He's not that kind of greedy.'

Elfrun thought of the purloined lambskins and anger swelled within her. ‘So you say. But maybe I know him better than you do. He is a liar, and a thief, and a cheat.'

‘So
you
say, lady. But there's one other thing you know as well as I do, and that's that Hirel was wax in my da's hands. You know what my da is like.' There was a new, keening edge in Saethryth's voice. ‘Hirel only hid those skins because he wanted a silver penny to buy me fairings, so I would love him.'

Elfrun felt her belly do a slow rise and plunge. She swallowed hard. ‘They worked together to cheat me.'

‘So you'll be sending my own da out to Long Nab next with a bag on his head?'

Elfrun turned on her. ‘For all his sins, it wasn't Luda who killed my uncle! And don't pretend you care what happens to him. He wanted to do the same to you.'

Saethryth was silent for a long moment. At last she said, ‘If Hirel killed Ingeld, then where did he put his clothes?'

‘They could be anywhere.' Elfrun shrugged, trying to pretend that the question had never occurred to her. ‘He could have buried them, burned them, thrown them in the sea, hidden them somewhere.'

‘Had he time? Had he? Really?' Saethryth sounded as though she had been drinking a bitter brew. ‘And another thing, lady. Ingeld's horse.'

Elfrun wanted to stop her ears. They had not found Storm. She had bolted, they had decided, floundered into the fen perhaps. There were places in there where a full troop of men and horses might sink and be lost in moments. But how far and how fast had Ingeld's grey mare had to run, that they had not found any sign of her?

‘Why are you telling me this, now, when it's too late?' Elfrun gestured out to sea, where the little leaf-shaped boat was already far beyond the reach of a human voice. Hirel was guilty. Hirel had to be guilty.

‘It wasn't him.'

‘Who then?'

No answer.

‘You can't just make claims like that. If not Hirel, who?' Elfrun's voice had a new edge of anger to it. Her own silent question of a few moments back returned to her. ‘Who else hated my uncle enough to kill him?'

‘I'd stake it was the priest. That foreigner.'

‘That's ridiculous.' Elfrun turned away. She knew folk were watching her, and she herself should be watching the boat.

‘Look how he put down Cudda, like a beast. He's a cold, hard man. And I know he spoke against us, me and Ingeld.' Saethryth's voice rose to a wail. ‘And even if it wasn't the priest, it still wasn't Hirel. Couldn't you just have driven him away?' Saethryth sank to her knees and put her face in her hands.

Elfrun closed her eyes.

Unseen, unheard by either of them, a long dark shape slid overboard from the little bobbing leaf and splashed heavily into the sea.

‘How about taking the four-oarer out to the sandbanks and hunting seals?' Athulf unhooked one of the big knives and hefted it admiringly. ‘The dog-faced ones are pupping. Easy game.'

Widia shrugged. ‘I don't fancy it.' The thought of going out in the boat made his stomach turn, although common sense told him that in the weeks since Hirel's drowning the crabs and little fishes would have picked him clean, and his bones would have sunk down into the dark. But it didn't take much these days to bring about that giddy lurch in his guts.

Athulf grinned. ‘Get some white fur to make a hood for Saethryth?' He replaced the knife and half turned, watching Widia's face carefully.

‘What do you mean?'

Athulf raised his eyebrows. ‘Oh, is it meant to be a secret? The whole world knows, Widia. You're still besotted enough to hope to pick up dead men's leavings, when she's out and about again.'

‘You disgust me.'

‘I only know what they told me.'

‘Who? Who told you?'

‘You know what they say about widows.' Athulf shrugged, and smirked. ‘Common knowledge – once they've had a man they're never happy without something between their thighs—'

Widia shoved him hard against the wall, grabbing the neck of his tunic with one hand. In the other he had a foot-long knife. ‘Who?'

‘Someone who thinks you can do better.' Athulf kept his voice light, but he was mesmerized by the killing edge on the blade. Perhaps he should have brought his sword to Widia after all. ‘Maybe it was Elfrun.'

‘Elfrun? I don't believe you.' They stared at each other across the gleaming surface of the knife. Athulf was unnerved by the speed with which Widia had moved, and by the contorted rage on the huntsman's damaged face.

‘Put that knife away, you fool.' Athulf's mouth was dry. ‘If it wasn't Elfrun it was some other silly gossiping girl. They're all the same. Why does it matter to you which one you take?'

‘All the same?' Athulf watched Widia's knuckles whiten. ‘My God, but you're like your dead da. People's lives are just one great joke to you, aren't they?'

‘Put the knife down.' Athulf was breathing slowly, waiting for his moment. ‘And don't ever say I'm like Ingeld.'

‘I'll say—'

Athulf brought his knee up hard, at the same time punching Widia in the midriff, aiming for the scar tissue and the badly mended ribs, a blow with all his body weight behind it. The knife clattered as Widia bent double, choking and taken as completely unawares as Athulf had been a moment earlier. He straightened up slowly, clutching his ribs and his groin. The boy had put on weight and breadth of late, and Widia felt as though someone had driven a pile into his flank with a mallet.

‘What a family you are,' Widia said, his voice ragged. ‘Your da was a disgrace to the name of priest, your uncle broke his promises to me and abandoned his people, and you – you think you're a warrior and leader of men but you're no more than a spiteful child.' He bent down and picked up the knife, checking the blade for damage. ‘The sooner the king finds a new lord for Donmouth, the better. And I don't mean you.'

Athulf shrugged. ‘Luckily for me, nobody cares for your thoughts.' He moved towards the door, but on the threshold he paused and turned back. ‘But don't think that means I'm going to forget a single word. I'm going to be master here, you know. Hall and minster. Then you'll see.'

The knife was undamaged, and Widia shoved it back into its sheath, his breathing still ragged. He wondered yet again why he stayed at Donmouth, when he was a free man. His mother's family were from north of York, and he knew his kin would welcome him. A place could always be found somewhere for a good huntsman. He wasn't going to stay to be at Athulf's beck and call, not for much longer. The mews felt close and airless, and he had a sudden longing to be out and alone. There was that young peregrine he was training, and he decided he would take her out with a lure. The summer evening was young yet and he could lose himself in the fierce joy of the bird.

‘Widia?'

He paused, his back to the mews doorway, the falcon on his glove, his right hand reaching out for the lure.

‘Can I come in?'