Only then, when he was sure he had done all he could to make Aedwen’s father look at peace, had Dunston heaved the man’s corpse up and carried him to the cart. They had cleared the bed of the cart and Dunston had laid the man down as softly as he was able. The girl had gazed at her father’s face for a long while.
Dunston had been nervous, peering into the forest and listening for any sign that the men who had done this thing might be returning. But they had disappeared and now that he had found the girl, he did not regret letting them be on their way. Nothing he did would bring Aedwen’s father back. And men capable of this kind of violence would meet a bloody end themselves one day, of that he was certain. Sweat-drenched and breathless from his exertions, Dunston drank cool water from the bucket while Aedwen cried silently.
They had piled the goods from the cart around Lytelman’s corpse, even placing a couple of sacks, one of feathers and one of smoked mackerel, on his chest. Dunston had said they could leave the contents of the cart hidden and return for it, but Aedwen would not hear of it.
“This is all that is left of my father’s dreams,” she had said, sniffing. “I will not leave it or throw it away.”
Dunston had not replied, merely helping her to arrange the sacks. The cart creaked and groaned and was difficult to coax along the root-snarled paths to his hut, but Dunston understood Aedwen’s anxiety at leaving the things untended in the wood. He had asked about her kin and found she had none. She was an orphan now, and this was all she owned. It was not much, but it was better than nothing at all.
Taking another swig of mead, he looked down at the girl where she slept in the fire-glow. In sleep, her face was soft, trouble-free. How would such a young child survive in this world? Well, that was no concern of his. He would do his duty and take her to Briuuetone. Let Rothulf there find a home for the orphan. Not for the first time, Dunston wished he had not left his hut that morning. Nothing but trouble had come his way. Everything had changed when he’d stumbled upon the blood-soaked corpse of the girl’s father. Well, as Guthlaf had so often told him over the years, there were only two things you could ever be sure of in life: the passage of time and the unexpected. Today, he had been reminded of both. He twisted his head around and his neck gave an audible click. He grunted, feeling his age of close to fifty summers.
Odin let out a suppressed growling bark, dreaming of the shade of some woodland creature no doubt. His legs twitched as he ran in his slumber. The animal was stretched out beside Aedwen and one of his huge paws rested on her arm. Dunston snorted and sipped again from the costrel. He had never seen the hound take to someone in this way. The dog was friendly enough with him, and fiercely loyal, but he usually slept alone beside the fire, or curled up close to the door. He never came close to Dunston’s bed at the rear of the hut.
The foolish beast would miss the girl when they left her at Briuuetone. All the more reason to be done with it. At first light they would set out. He could not have the poor girl weeping and complaining around the place.
*
Dunston awoke with a start. He yet sat in the high-backed chair he had carved many years ago. He made to rise and his spine cried out in agony at having rested so long against the hard oak of the seat. The half-full flask of mead toppled from where it had perched atop his belly. Cursing, he lunged for the falling costrel, sending fresh stabs of pain down his back and neck. Too slow, his fingers brushed the leather and it fell to the packed earth floor.
“By all that is holy,” shouted Dunston, angrily heaving himself to his feet and snatching up the flask before all the mead had been spilt.
Light streamed in through the hut’s open door and at the sound of his voice, Odin padded inside to gaze up quizzically at his master. The sun had risen long ago and Dunston could scarcely believe how long he had slept. The exertions of the day before must have taken their toll on his body more than he had imagined. Thank you, Lord, for yet another reminder of how old he was becoming.
Beside the hearth knelt Aedwen. She had rekindled the flames and was now placing oatcakes on a griddle. The smell of cooking brought saliva rushing into his mouth. They had been too tired to prepare food when they had arrived the previous night and his stomach grumbled now at the prospect of eating.
Odin nudged Dunston’s hand with his cold wet snout. To Dunston, it looked as though the dog was grinning at him.
“What are you looking at, fool of a dog?” he growled.
Aedwen looked up from where she was cooking. Her eyes were red-rimmed and sparkling. Dunston noticed that she had brushed her hair, and it shimmered in the morning sunlight from the doorway.
“You’re awake,” she said. “The oatcakes are almost ready.”
“You should have woken me,” Dunston said, pushing himself up from the chair and stretching. He winced as his body protested. “I wanted to be gone long before now.”
“You looked tired.”
“There’s strength enough in these old bones to get you and your father to Briuuetone.”
She cast her gaze down to the griddle, poking at the cakes with a stick to check whether they were done.
“Well, I thought it best if I fed you first. Neither of us ate yesterday, and you’ll need to keep that strength up.” She decided that the cake closest to the flames was ready and prised it from the metal and scooped it onto a wooden platter. Dunston recognised the plate as one he had made. She handed it to him and, after a slight hesitation, he accepted it. The oat cake smelt good. He broke a piece of it off and the warm fragrance wafted up to him. He tested it with his tongue. It was hot, but his hunger got the better of him and he popped it into his mouth. The crisp outer shell broke under his bite, exposing the steaming soft centre. Gasping, he breathed through his mouth, waving his hand to indicate he was burning.
Aedwen smirked and handed him a wooden cup of ale.
He filled his mouth with the cool liquid, sighing as it lessened the scalding and dissolved the mouthful of oat cake.
“You’ve certainly made yourself at home,” he said, frowning.
“I thought you would be happy for me to cook. It is the least I can do. You have been kind to me.”
Dunston grunted and took another bite of the cake.
“These are good,” he said grudgingly, taking a second draught of ale.
“My mother taught me,” said Aedwen, before falling silent. She busied herself with the griddle, flicking more of the oatcakes onto another plate.
“I’ll have another,” Dunston said, suddenly awkward. “And I thank you.”
Aedwen beamed and slid two more cakes onto his plate. Then she nibbled one herself and nodded, seemingly content with her handiwork.
“Do you live here alone?” she asked.
Dunston nodded.
“Just me and Odin.” At the sound of his name, Odin raised his head. Dunston glowered at the dog for a moment, before breaking one of the cakes in two and tossing half to the hound. Odin caught the offering and in a heartbeat the food had vanished.
Aedwen watched the dog, a small smile tugging at her lips despite the horror and loss she had suffered.
“You have no kin?”
For a moment, Dunston chewed in silence. He glanced over to where the girl had laid out the cooking utensils neatly beside the hearth. Everything was just so, ordered and tidy. How long had it been since a woman had been in this hut? It seemed like a lifetime. His gaze flicked to Eawynn’s silver plate, hanging on the far wall, where it reflected the light from the fire.