Daughter of the Wolf (21 page)

His eyes and nose and mouth were full of water. The whale was somewhere above him; he could feel the water pushing this way and that as it thrashed past. The force pulled the gaff from his hand and tumbled him round till his head spun, and he lost all sense of where up was, and where down. He wasn't sure whether he was being bumped against silt and sand or the belly of the whale.

His only thought was for the knife. He would need it to kill his whale; he mustn't lose it. And, oh God, he mustn't fall on it. His free hand flailed wildly, finding the slick surface of the whale's skin above him, but no purchase was to be had. His whale was literally slipping through his fingers.

Where was the air? Why couldn't he see anything? He opened his mouth to breathe, to shout, and swallowed half the sea.

Someone had him by the scruff of the neck.

Athulf came choking and spluttering back into the world, his sinuses burning from the through-rush of salt water. The sea had turned a startling red. His whale. Where was his whale?

‘Come on.' His saviour had him by the shoulder still and gave him a slight shove. ‘You don't want to be the last to make your kill.' They were chest-deep in the scarlet water, and the whale was right there, between them and the shore. Athulf pushed the sopping hair out of his stinging eyes, still gasping for breath that wouldn't come.

No one else had claimed it. He felt a surge of power. No one would dare claim prey to which he had once raised his hand.

Where was the place to strike? The whale might be grounding, but it was still thrashing around, more than three times his length and vastly bulky, the tail whacking the water with unbelievable force, sending the spray yards into the air and soaking him again. He forced his way through the foam to its head and stared at the tiny eye and beaky nose, panic rising inside him.

Beyond the bulk of his whale, through his stinging eyes, he caught glimpses of Widia and Fredegar, expertly dispatching another leviathan. And beyond them, on the shore, others were already dragging their kills on to the beach where the women were waiting with gutting-knives. Elfrun was in charge, her skirts kilted, standing in the foam, shouting and gesturing, but he couldn't hear what she was saying.

The whale writhed its great body, sending a wash of water that nearly knocked Athulf down again. He was chilled to the marrow and he knew he wasn't thinking clearly. The air was filled with whimpers and cries, the voices of the animals being slaughtered all around him.

‘I've never done this before,' he said aloud.

‘Me neither.' An urgent voice at his shoulder. ‘But I can see what the others are doing.' A hand with a gaff reached past him and hooked the whale in the blow-hole. ‘Quick. You've got the knife. Just there. A foot or so down the spine.'

Athulf shoved the hair out of his eyes again with the back of his left hand, and brought his knife down hard, slicing into the gleaming black skin till only the hilt was standing proud. A great red spray of blood leaped out and soaked him once more, startlingly hot after the numbing cold of the sea, and he stifled a gasp. The blood stung his already sore eyes and was warm and sweet in his mouth.

The whale gave one final, immense shudder and was still.

‘Here, I'll finish it off.'

Still blinded, Athulf relinquished the knife.

When he opened his eyes, he was shocked to recognize Thancrad of Illingham, his strong, bony face streaked red, standing across the great bulk of their kill.

‘That was well done,' Thancrad said. ‘Now we need a rope.'

Athulf turned, eyes blood-bleary and still stinging, and peered up the beach. ‘Elfrun!' He could do no more than repeat Thancrad's words. ‘We need a rope.' Their whale was one of the biggest, he realized, coming nearly up to his hip. One of the big bulls of the herd.

Their whale?

His
whale.

He had spotted the whales first. The rest of the meat would be divided up and shared out according to household, but he had the right to a whole carcass.

Now that the water had stopped foaming it was redder than ever. The boats were putting into shore.

‘That girl.' Athulf followed Thancrad's gaze. Elfrun was making her way towards them, skirts kilted high above her knees, coils of rope in her arms. She was soaked, breathless and bloodstained. ‘Who is she?'

‘My cousin.'

‘That's Elfrun? But she's the girl who was racing with us. At the meeting.'

‘Yes, that's right.' Athulf wasn't sure he liked Thancrad's expression, and he certainly didn't like being reminded about that race. What was so interesting about stupid bossy Elfrun, anyway? He turned back to the corpse of the whale, rocking gently in the ebbing water. ‘Where do we tie a rope, anyway?'

‘Round its flukes.' Elfrun waded up to them, gasping with the effort. ‘Here.' She thrust the heavy coils into Athulf's arms and pulled one end free. ‘Get this done. I want to get out of the water.'

‘Elfrun, this is my whale.' She had her back to him, already turning for the shore. ‘This is my one, isn't it? I saw them first.'

She stopped, shivering in the thigh-deep sea. ‘I think so.'

‘Our boats were out before yours.' Thancrad's voice was mild.

‘I saw them first,' Athulf repeated.

‘No, I think we did.'

‘And anyway they came to our shore, not yours.' Athulf squared his shoulders and clenched his fists. He could feel the wind drying the blood stiff and clotted on his face. The air above them was noisy with wheeling crows and the great black-backed gulls, waiting their moment to descend and feast.

The two young men stared at each other, eyes narrow in bloodstained masks. Elfrun looked from one to the other, her sudden nervousness written on her face. Behind his steady gaze, Athulf was totting up men and calculating support, and he was pretty sure Thancrad would be doing the same.

And perhaps they came to the same conclusion, because in the end Thancrad just shrugged and offered Athulf the knife, hilt first. ‘I expect you're right. It was your kill, certainly.' He glanced sideways at Elfrun, with a little smile. ‘Does he always get his own way?'

‘Don't worry. We'll see you get your share,' she said. Her skin was blotchy with a chill that Athulf had stopped feeling.

Thancrad's smile deepened and warmed, the skin tautening over his cheekbones. ‘I'm sure you will, lady.' But she didn't smile back.

On the strand, the messy business of gutting and flensing had begun. Sharp knives were slicing great square flaps of skin, easy as opening up trapdoors, and the glistening grey ropes of intestines were spilling out. The children were shoving each other, balancing on slippery carcasses, fending off carrion birds with sticks and stones, pestering adults for strips of the pinkish, nut-sweet blubber. Athulf's mouth was watering.

He and Thancrad bent their shoulders to the rope. The air was thick with the hot, heavy smell of blood and guts. They swung the great beast round while the water was still deep enough to help them, and then began the arduous task of hauling it in. Eager hands came to add their strength, and to slap him and Thancrad on the shoulder; their startling white teeth grinning in gory faces, his friends and kinsmen indistinguishable from the men from the Illingham shore.

‘This is my whale,' Athulf said. He glanced at his new comrade. Thancrad raised his eyebrows. Thancrad was bigger. Older. His father was a king's thane. Hiding his rapid calculations behind an exultant grin, Athulf grabbed Thancrad's hand and held it up. ‘We killed it.'

‘Your father wants you.'

‘What for?' Athulf was grooming Storm with a hard-twisted hank of straw. Ingeld had let her have a good muddy roll when he had got back, and her white coat was spattered, legs black with dirt up to the hock. The lad was the far side of her, rubbing firmly at her flank with circular movements, and Fredegar couldn't see his face.

The priest could imagine it though, the little scowl, the lower lip jutting, the defensive hunch of the shoulders. He sighed. ‘That is not an appropriate answer. When someone to whom you owe respect summons you, you come, without question.' This boy had not been beaten nearly enough.

‘I'm filthy.' Athulf's tone was hopeful.

‘So wash your hands.'

Athulf stood up straight and came out from behind his father's mare. ‘I stink. My tunic's stained. She's been rolling in her own sharn.'

And even in this light Fredegar could see that the tunic was also still tainted with blood and filth from the whale-drive several days earlier. He sighed. ‘Surely you have more than one tunic? Your father's son?'

Athulf nodded reluctantly.

‘Then get cleaned up. He said he'd be waiting with your grandmother.' The priest turned on his heel.

Athulf wiped his hands front and back on his tunic before pulling it over his head and changing it for the slightly fresher one that hung on a nail. His grandmother's women did his washing, but he never noticed when things were dirty or remembered to take them a bundle. Giving Storm a last affectionate pat he made his way out of the stable and round the common hall to his grandmother's well-built lean-to annexe, the new oak and reed-thatch still pale-gold, head down against the driving wind and rain.

He had not seen his grandmother to speak to since Cudda's body had gone into the ground. Despite the cloud of anger and self-righteousness Athulf had wrapped around him he had been painfully aware of her simmering disapproval. But he had also noticed that those tight-lipped frowns were not directed at himself alone; and he had experienced a savage thrill of pleasure at her anger with her foreign priest. Athulf had had about enough of Fredegar pulling his shoulders back and pinching his nostrils as though he stank of something much worse than horse-sharn.

What gave that foreigner the right? He was no better than any of them. Worse. He had killed Cudda, in cold blood. Athulf had not seen his friend's body unshrouded, and his imagination glossed easily over the injuries. How bad could they have been? Elfrun had refused to tell him more than the bare minimum, but those burns would have healed, surely? What man was ever thought less of, just for a few scars?

Making his way across the yard, he scuffed his heels and glared indiscriminately at anyone who happened to be in his line of sight, but cheered a little when he saw Heahred ducking out of the church and nodding a greeting. Deacon though he was, he had always treated Athulf with friendly courtesy. And in marked contrast to Fredegar, Heahred was his father's man, blood, bone and marrow.

In the months since his father had come home for good Athulf had been learning that there were plenty of men who admired Ingeld: his horsemanship, his conviviality, his skill in the hunt. It meant something, at spring and harvest meeting, to be known as the son of the abbot of Donmouth.

Even if Ingeld seemed to forget, most of the time, that he existed.

Athulf choked back the bitter lump that threatened to rise in his throat. Why was he wanted, now? His desire for his father's approval was like a hot, painful wave washing through him.

He hesitated at his grandmother's door, unsure of his welcome despite the summons, but Abarhild's plump-faced servant beckoned him in impatiently. ‘You took your time.'

‘I had to clean myself up.'

The woman looked him up and down and scowled before stepping back. ‘You call that cleaned up?'

What business was it of hers?

And where was his father?

His grandmother was warmly wrapped in lambswool and close to the fire, her hands planted on her stick. For all her frailty she was sitting erect and her face was stern.

‘You are out of control,' she said.

Athulf felt the blood hot in his cheeks, but he hoped that his grandmother, with her rheumy eyes, would never notice in this dim, hearth-lit space. He stood up straighter. ‘I spotted the whales. I killed the bull whale.'

‘I am not talking about the whales. Raiding Illingham. You and the other little foxes, playing at being wolves.'

He winced at the contempt in her voice, and tried to counter it. ‘Well, what am I supposed to do?'

‘What you are told.' She gestured at her women. ‘Leave us be.'

Athulf waited until the door had closed behind them, then took an impetuous step closer to the fire. ‘Told, Grandmother? But I'm never told anything that matters. And I always do exactly what they tell me – I look after Storm, I—'

‘You're not a child any longer.' Abarhild beckoned him closer, and he squatted a few feet from her, pretending not to see her nose wrinkle as his clothes warmed and steamed in the heat from the little fire. She looked at him hard, and suddenly he was far from sure that anything about him would escape her disconcerting gaze. She went on staring, and he could feel her eyes dwelling on every aspect of his face, until his skin burned again and he looked away.

He heard her sigh. ‘So like your father.'

‘What's that supposed to mean?'

‘Don't be stupid,' she said irritably. ‘That can't be news to you. What's done is done.' She gestured him down, and he hunkered once again, but wary this time, balancing his weight on the balls of his feet, ready to pounce or flee. ‘The question now is what we do with you. Fredegar and I have been talking—'

‘That foreigner!'

Abarhild hissed with disapproval. ‘No more foreign than I am myself.'

‘It's not the same! What gives him the right—'

‘Oh, shut up, boy.' Abarhild batted his protest away as though it were some impertinent insect. ‘Fredegar thinks you are unsuited for the Church.'

Athulf stared.

But his grandmother ignored his startled look. ‘He is wrong, however. All you are is young. Ill disciplined and poorly educated, yes. But' – she paused and glared at him – ‘young. We can correct all that.'

Athulf just gaped at her, until she poked his foot with her stick. ‘Close your mouth, boy. You look like a fresh-landed sturgeon.'