Another bark. Was that a man’s voice she heard too? She could not be certain. Sounds of passage through the brush grew louder.
“ Nal Wes ðu, Maria, mid gyfe gefylled, Drihten midðe. Ðu eart gebletsoð on wifum and gebletsod ðines innoðes wæstm, se Næland. ”
She began to whisper the words of the prayer urgently. All her brave ideas of returning to help her father, or fleeing from any pursuit, had vanished like smoke on the wind. She could not move. Fresh tears brimmed in her eyes, then fell unnoticed down her already streaked cheeks.
“ Nalige Maria, Godes modor gebide for us synfullum, nu and on pære tide ures forðsiðes. Amen. ”
The movements in the forest were growing louder. There was no more barking, but she was sure that at least one hound and several men were crashing through the ferns and brambles, unerringly closing in on her.
What should she do? What could she do?
Her mind raced, the words of the prayer blurring into nonsense as her fear engulfed her.
She must move. Run or perhaps climb a tree. But she did nothing; paralysed by fear and the fresh memories of her father’s echoing death-wails.
A huge mottled hound rounded the trunk of a tree. It halted, straight-legged, tongue flopping and hackles raised. Its teeth were white and very large. The dog fixed her with a baleful stare and she noticed it only had one eye. Was this a strange creature of the forest? Some devil hound of the Wild Hunt perhaps? It looked more wolf than dog, and its size was terrifying. It looked at her for a moment, as if it was as surprised as she was, and then it let out a peal of barking howls.
Someway off, Aedwen heard renewed sounds of people approaching. She could barely breathe now. The hound was still barking, but it had not attacked her yet. Her hand fell to the tiny eating knife at her belt. Perhaps, she would be able to halt the beast with the small blade. It only had one eye, so maybe she could blind it.
She pulled the knife from its worn leather sheath. The blade was scarcely the length of her finger. Still, it would take an eye out, if she could find her mark. She readied herself for the animal to launch at her. Gripping the knife tightly, she pressed her back to the tree’s bark and prepared for the attack.
Before the beast could pounce, a man strode into sight. He was not tall, but he was broad of shoulder and there was a presence about him. He wore simple clothes of wool and leather. His hair was black streaked with silver like the wings of a jackdaw. His beard was a jutting white and black thatch. He looked ancient to her young eyes, much older than her father. But he was no wizened greybeard. No gum-sucking old man, who sat staring out to sea on long summer evenings. This man was powerful, the way a waterfall or the sea in a gale has power. The instant he entered the clearing, the dog fell silent.
The man’s cool gaze took in everything in an instant. He must have been running to keep up with the dog, but he appeared to be barely out of breath.
“Well, girl,” he said, his voice gruff and clipped, “who are you?”
Aedwen could not speak. She opened and closed her mouth, but no sound came.
“You’ll not be needing that knife,” the man said, indicating the blade in her trembling hand. “I think you would just anger him, if you prodded him with it anyway.”
Seeming to sense her distress, the massive dog, quiet now, edged forward. She let out a whimper of alarm.
“Odin,” snapped the man. “To me.” His tone was commanding, but the dog ignored him and padded closer to Aedwen. She tried to push herself away from him, but the tree prevented her from moving further. She was crying uncontrollably now, tears flowing, mouth open and panting in terror.
The man frowned.
“Do not fear,” he said. “Odin won’t hurt you. Will you, boy?”
As if in answer, the dog licked her hand. Looking down, she saw the knife still clutched there. The dog looked up at her with its one, deep brown eye. It nuzzled its snout into her, inviting her to stroke it perhaps. Shakily, she sheathed the knife and reached out to caress the soft fur of the dog’s ears. Odin sat down contentedly and once again nudged her with his head, encouraging her to continue.
Could the man be one of the heathen Norsemen to have named his dog thus? she wondered.
“By Christ’s bones,” said the man. “Disobedient and soft.”
She noticed then that he had in his large hand a long seax. The blade of the knife glimmered dully as he moved. For an instant, her fear returned with a sudden icy chill. But as she watched, he slid the weapon into a scabbard that hung from his belt.
“Now,” the old man said, “who are you and what are you doing in my forest?”
“I—” she stammered, her voice catching, “I am Aedwen, Lytelman’s daughter.”
“And where were you headed?”
“To find my father…” she swallowed, not wishing to put words to what had occurred. “He— He was attacked.”
The man ran a callused hand over his face and beard. His eyes glittered, chips of ice in the crags of his face. She wondered if he ever smiled. His was a hard face, unyielding and unsmiling, so unlike her father’s. He always appeared content with his lot in life. She recalled his screams and shuddered.
“You will come with me and Odin. My home is not far. We will rest there and then, tomorrow, we will go to Briuuetone.”
“No,” she replied, “I must go to my father. He might need me.”
“He does not need you now, child,” said the man, his voice as cold and hard as granite. “Your father is dead.”
Three
Dunston stretched his feet out towards the fire. The flames had died, leaving writhing red embers that lit the small hut with a ruddy flickering glow. By Christ, he was tired. And yet he knew he would not sleep for a long while. He sipped the strong mead directly from the leather costrel. It was soothing, and he felt his shoulders relaxing.
He looked over the coals of the fire to where the girl lay. She was exhausted and he had needed to halt frequently on the journey through the woods. He wasn’t sure how old she was, he hadn’t thought to ask, but she was somewhere in that awkward time between a girl and woman. Something about her reminded him of Eawynn. Perhaps it was her determination. She had shown great strength when he had led her to the site of her father’s murder.
“You do not wish to see your father as he is,” he had told her.
She had argued, but he had been adamant, sending her to the cart to find something they could use to cover the man’s corpse. He’d ended up using the man’s cloak and the leather cover that had been on the cart. He had made her wait with Odin by the handcart and had set about tending to the girl’s father. It was a terrible task, as he had known it would be, and after a time he was covered in sticky gore.
Aedwen’s eyes had widened when she saw him step from the glade, arms and hands besmeared in blood. He had led her with him to the stream, where he had washed himself as best he could in the bitterly cold water, picking up handfuls of sand and rubbing away the grime. Then he had filled the girl’s bucket and carried it back to the glade.
“Wait a short while more,” he had said when she asked if now she could see her father.
He had wrapped the butchered man tightly in the leather and cloth, shrouding his body from view. He left his face visible, using a scrap of the man’s kirtle dipped in the bucket to wipe his cheeks, chin and forehead clean. Then he cut a long strip of woollen cloth from the cloak and bound it about his head, over the crown and beneath the chin to hold the mouth shut.