Aedwen drank deeply, the cold water doing nothing to dampen the anger she felt. Refilling the flask, she hammered the stopper back in place with the heel of her hand and followed behind Dunston, once more too upset and disappointed to speak.
Five
They barely spoke for the rest of the day and the sun was low in the sky when finally they saw the cluster of houses known as Briuuetone. They had followed the course of the River Briw as it wound its way towards the settlement. As it progressed downhill, the river grew ever faster, its water changing from a burbling stream to a churning torrent. The Briw was ever fast-flowing, but after the recent rains, it was a raging, white-frothed deluge by the time it reached Briuuetone.
A few times during the afternoon Dunston glanced at Aedwen and was unsurprised to see her face set, her lips pressed tightly together in an expression of disapproving anger. If her situation had not been so dire, her childish rage might have amused him. As it was, he was saddened. He understood her desire for vengeance. She must feel lost and impotent in a world that had suddenly become frightening and more violent than she had ever known. But he was sure of his decision. To chase after the men who had slain her father would have been madness and almost certainly would have spelt his and Aedwen’s deaths.
For his part, he did not mind walking in silence. The path grew smoother as they approached the village, but it was still hard work to push the cart over the rutted track and he had little inclination to talk. Besides, he was accustomed to the hushed voice of the forest. The creak of tall linden and oak when the wind caught their highest boughs. A far-off cry of a sparrow hawk. The chatter of sparrows and finches. Odin’s panting breath when he ran past, flitting in and out of the undergrowth. All of the natural sounds of woodland life calmed him, giving him time to listen to his own thoughts. He pondered again who might have done this thing. He was convinced now that it could not have been Norsemen. It made no sense for such a small band to be here, deep within the kingdom of Wessex. But then why mutilate the man’s body in such a horrific fashion? What sort of men committed such an act if it were not in the name of their heathen gods?
Dunston walked on, brooding on that, his mind filled with dark memories of blood and screams. He knew all too well what sort of man took pleasure from torture and killing. He had believed he would never again need to face such men. Well, after he’d got the girl and her unlucky father to Rothulf, he would return to his home and try to forget this fresh horror he had witnessed. He knew Aedwen’s father’s blood-slathered and broken body would plague his dreams, just as so many other corpses did. Each pallid face of the dead had its own place in his nightmares. Lytelman was another innocent to join their ranks.
Aedwen stumbled. She was tired. It had been a long, hard day.
“We are almost there,” he said, making his tone soft.
The girl glared at him, still refusing to speak. With a flick of her hair, she turned away and strode with renewed determination down towards the smoke-wreathed settlement.
Despite himself, Dunston smiled. Eawynn would have liked the girl. They were both haughty and stubborn as mules when angered. With a grunt of effort, Dunston set the cart to moving faster to keep up with her. He thought about calling for her to slow her pace, but thought better of it. He would have to shout over the roaring rush of the river that flowed alongside the path. And anyway, she was heading in the right direction.
The road twisted around an outcrop of rock up ahead. Without looking back, Aedwen disappeared from view. Dunston felt an unexpected twinge of anxiety. Foolishness, he told himself. They were almost in the shadow of the thatched houses of Briuuetone. He could smell the woodsmoke from the haze of cooking fires. These were Rothulf’s folk. Good people. Nothing could befall the girl here. Surely.
As if he too felt nervous to have lost sight of the girl, Odin burst from the brush beside the path and sped past Dunston, running around the bend in Aedwen’s wake.
The Briw, fast and deep, churned and crashed over boulders. Dunston could hear nothing over the river’s rocky roar.
The cart’s left wheel caught on a protruding chunk of flint. Aedwen’s father’s shrouded body began to slip. Dunston lashed out a strong hand, hauling the corpse back onto the bed of the cart, where it nestled amongst all of Aedwen’s possessions. Dunston spied the leather-wrapped haft of DeaÞangenga and briefly he placed his hand upon it. He wondered what had made him pick up the great axe. He had scarcely touched it since Eawynn’s passing. Whenever he saw the weapon, it reminded him of why he had never been good enough for her.
“In love with your king and killing,” she had said to him once. He’d argued with her, unable to accept her words. But now, looking back across the dark frontier of time, he admitted she had been right.
He frowned. Pushing aside his memories, he turned his attention once more to the cart and with a great heave it was over the stone that had impeded its movements and was once again trundling on.
At last he rounded the bend in the road and brought the cart up short. It was quieter here, the outcrop and its encompassing blanket of sedge, nettles and butter dock muting the river sound to a rumble. Before him, several stocky kine were lumbering down the lane. The cattle lowed and rolled their huge bovine eyes at Odin, but the hound seemed oblivious to their unease, and he trotted along beside them, ignoring their baleful stares.
Behind the cows walked a slender man with a hazel switch that he used to goad the beasts forward. Aedwen walked close by and it appeared the two of them were deep in conversation.
“Hail, Ceolwald,” said Dunston, raising his voice more than he’d intended.
The slim drover turned and stared at Dunston. Placing his hands on his hips, he halted, waiting for him to catch up. The cart was cumbersome and it took Dunston some time to reach them. Neither Aedwen nor Ceolwald offered to help him.
“It’s early in the season for you to be down this way, Dunston,” said Ceolwald. “It’s not even St Vitus’ Day yet.”
“I know what day it is, and what day it isn’t,” growled Dunston.
The drover nodded, as if that explained everything.
“Well,” he said, “this young lady tells me she is walking to Briuuetone. I was just saying as to how she has just about reached there. We don’t often get visitors unless it’s a holy day. Funny you are walking that way too. I suppose we might as well all walk together.” He looked disappointed.
“The girl and I are travelling together,” said Dunston.
“Oh.” Ceolwald looked from Aedwen to Dunston and back again, as if he were trying to understand something unfathomable. After a moment, his gaze settled on the cart and its gruesome burden. His eyes widened, and he snatched off the woollen cap he wore, wringing it in his hands. “What’s this then?” he asked.
“The girl’s father.”
“Oh,” the drover said and made the sign of the cross. “You taking him to Godrum for a proper burial?” Before Dunston could reply, Ceolwald looked over his shoulder at the cows that were now some distance away. “Whoa there, girls,” he called, but the animals ignored him and continued trudging along the muddy path.
Shaking his head, Ceolwald said, “They know the way to the Bartons right enough. If we stand here dillydallying they’ll be there long before me and they won’t be happy. This time of year they need milking before they’re put out for the night. They’ll make a devil of a noise if they don’t get milked sharpish.”