Night of the Wolf (13 page)

“Yi, yi, yi, yi, yi, yeee!” This last as the horse left the road and vanished into the scrubby forest bordering the river.

Maeniel stood quietly as both hoofbeats and Decius’ cries died away. He examined the alternatives and decided there was little he could do in good conscience except take hold of the mule’s lead rope, follow Decius, and hope for the best.

The trace was overgrown. Weeds, furze, and thistles filled the deeply rutted track. Maeniel got the impression that the road had once been heavily traveled. Now, for some inexplicable reason, it had been abandoned.

The hooves of Decius’ galloping horse had torn raw, brown wounds in the grassy, weed-grown surface. Overhead, tree branches almost blotted out the sky. The knotted trace twisted and turned, drawing Maeniel deeper and deeper into the forest.

He looked up and noted that the sky was growing darker. The storms at the heights were extending their reach down into the valleys.

The road grew worse. Here a large rock blocked the way. There a cluster of thick-trunked oaks sheltering a dark pool caused a detour. Beyond the oaks, a lightning-blasted fallen beech completely blocked his path.

The mule snorted and backed, trying to plant his feet and refuse further progress. Maeniel wouldn’t allow this. He dropped the lead rope and, taking the mule by its bridle, forced him past the shattered branches of the fallen tree. His own horse followed him in a docile way, as if used to the mad caprices of his human master.

He found Decius on the other side of the tree, lying sprawled on his back under a low branch. He was unconscious, a livid purple bruise across his forehead. Five yards farther down the road, his horse stood grazing on the scrubby growth.

Maeniel knelt next to Decius. Yes, the man was breathing, but deeply unconscious. What now?

The sky was very dark.

If he turned wolf, he could be gone. Leave this fool here. Powerful as they were in a group, individually humans were weak. Left at the mercy of the oncoming storm, Decius would probably die.

But Maeniel was warm and sympathetic by nature. Many wolves in the pack, seeing the penalties and problems of leadership, ignored their opportunities to take command. Only those like him willingly accepted its burdens.

He sighed and lifted Decius in his arms. As he did, he saw a small snowflake land on his wrist. To his surprise, the horses and the mule followed him, trusting in human protection.

More snowflakes swirled through the air as the wind rose. It swept some of the scrub trees near the road aside, and beyond Maeniel saw open fields, arousing his hopes that human dwellings might be ahead. He could leave Decius there to be cared for while he pressed on. But when he passed the last bend, he realized the road led only to a burned-out villa.

It wasn’t nearly as elaborate as the one in his valley, just a large house surrounded by a scattering of outbuildings, protected by a palisade fence.

The house was a pile of blackened rubble. The other outbuildings were visible only as charred timbers nearly lost in the long grass. Only one structure of any size still stood. The raiders had set it on fire when they left, but only one side had been consumed. The roof had collapsed, turning it into a lean-to. That might shelter the injured Decius and the livestock against the winter night. The wolf had no survival problems. He was armed with all the necessities of life. Once they were safely inside, he need only leave, turn skin, and abandon them.

Maeniel shivered. He was barefoot and the wind cut through the thin linen tunic, freezing his skin. The snowflakes were falling more and more thickly.

He hurried on. The half-collapsed building had once been a stable. The stalls were gone, but there was a manger against one wall and a thick coating of straw covered the stone floor. He laid Decius in the straw and unsaddled the two horses and the mule.

Decius was breathing, but showed no sign of regaining consciousness. So Maeniel pillowed his head on one of the saddles and covered him with a blanket he found in the pack. In the fields, patchy stands of wheat had resown themselves. It took only a few minutes to harvest enough to give the stock a good meal. Then he lit a fire. No problem about fuel; deadfalls lay among the trees, and fallen timbers from the house and shed were scattered among the ruins. The only problem was keeping the rising flames from setting fire to the sloping roof.

Now he was at a loss. The horses and mule munched; Decius slumbered. As Maeniel peered through the broken wattle and daub wall of the shed, he shivered. The snow was falling fast now, blurring the outlines of forest and weed-grown fields in the dying light. Wind gusts tossed the trees, taking down the last sere leaves and spreading frost across the branches of evergreens, sealing their dense green.

Far away, a wolf howled, another answered, then a third added a comment. A whole chorus replied. Maeniel chuckled. Apparently the weather was even worse among the high mountains and some of the passes were already choked with snow. He’d crossed just in time.

A few wolves who lived along the river had been in the chorus answering the mountain pack. They were hunted by humans more frequently than the others among the peaks. They were wary—something about the humans on the other side of the river.

But wolf speech is laconic and Maeniel couldn’t gather much more than that from their songs. That and they would not hunt tonight while the storm was at its height, but wait till dawn. Some animals were certain to be trapped by the snow. Pickings would probably be good.

He eased back to the fire. The lean-to was comfortable now. The north wind battered the sloping end of the roof. Ice and snow collected on the walls, sealing in the warmth. The thick layer of straw insulated the ground.

Maeniel had no need to search Decius’ pack. His nose located flour, salt, sausage, and oil. He’d learned quite a few things from Imona, so it wasn’t long before an oily flatbread puffed on a smooth rock in the fire. Maeniel made a meal of the sausage, hard cheese, and bread.

Imona! He stood and pulled off the tunic and sword. An instant later, he was wolf and he vanished into the snowy darkness.

VII

Imona! Her days passed. Sometimes they surprised her with their passing, seeming to flow quickly from dawn to dusk while she was lost in her memories of the past.

Other days stumbled along on leaden feet. Her mind drifted from grief to grief, each sorrow bringing with it floods of scalding tears that did nothing to relieve her pain, but only left her with reddened eyes and headaches.

Women came, servants usually directed by a well-dressed lady who would never, by any means, meet Imona’s eyes. They prepared food, changed her bedding, and even sometimes bathed her when despair overcame her willingness to care for herself. But none ever tried to communicate with her.

Our memories of happiness don’t comfort us when the great darkness yawns, waiting for our souls.

There were things Imona simply refused to remember: her parents, for instance, and her childhood on the Breton coast. But she would allow herself to remember the sea. Emerald water, thundering and raging at the rocks, crashing its way into white foam.

Or the way the light changes at daybreak over the water, a splendid rainbow of subtle beauty making no sunrise or sunset quite like another.

Sometimes she could sit, close her eyes, and smell the salt air. She even fancied she could hear the cry of the wheeling gulls or taste the moisture of the pale fog drifting in from the ocean, stilling all activity along the coast, wrapping the whole world in its somehow sacred silence.

She didn’t care to think of her husband, especially of the first few years of her marriage when they had been happy and she’d borne him two children, before he’d gone, at her family’s behest, to fight the Romans. She didn’t care to think of it because her mind would twist and turn, trying to find ways she could have foreseen his fate and prevented the mutilation that so devastated his body and soul—so emptied him of hope that he committed the act that brought ruin to them all.

When she thought of him, those were the worst days and the ones when she refused to eat or bathe, covered her head with her mantle, and wept without ceasing for him, for herself, for poor, half-mad Kat, her dull-witted but kind Des, and even the old woman. Except for Kat, they were dead in the ashes of what had once been their home.

But some days she could purge guilt and regret from her mind. On those days she would think of the mountains and how she’d first seen them.

As the daughter of a noble house, she’d been sent to her new husband in a skin-covered cart drawn by four white oxen. They were intended to be sacrificed at the wedding ceremony to content the gods of her husband’s household and to feed the guests.

At first, traveling in the cart had been an adventure. Besides, the journey was broken often as they stopped to be feasted at the homes of her father’s liege men. But after they left familiar territory, the cart became something of a prison. She lived there, eating and sleeping among her maids, only allowed out briefly at dusk, under heavy guard, to relieve herself and possibly, if they were near a lake or stream, bathe. When she complained, the older women who accompanied her shushed her and told her to be patient.

So on the morning when she heard a stir and increased talk among the men-at-arms near the wagon, she’d boldly crawled past the sleeping women, pushed aside the leather flap, and plunked herself down beside the driver. She looked up, gasped, and heard the gray-bearded man chuckle.

“It’s a sight to behold! The mountains!” he said. “They seem to hold up the very sky.”

And so they did. It was not long after sunrise. The snow-clad peaks were washed in golden light. The long, sinuous spines of the slopes were still wrapped in blue shadow. A wave of green softened the high meadows and mist flowed down between the snow-capped giants like rivers of cloud.

“Am I going there?” she asked.

The driver nodded.

“Then I will love it. I know I will.”

And so she had. The brief, but beautiful summers—long, lazy days tending flocks of cattle and sheep in pastures beyond the tree line. The incredible autumns when fruit of all kinds seemed to vie for the attentions of humans. Peaches, plums, and cherries weighed down the orchards in the high valleys. Apples—green, red, blush, and even white—created such an abundance it could hardly be believed. Hedgerows were dark with raspberries, blackberries, and rose hips. Venison, elk, ibex, and chamois wandered in the high forests. When the snow flew, everyone hunted boar in the thick coverts.

They led the life of heroes: hunting, fighting, playing chess, entertaining visitors with song and story until, at last, full fed with beef, venison, ham, cheeses white and yellow, breads leavened and unleavened, all washed down by Italian wine, honey mead, and barley beer, she rested her head on her husband’s shoulder, and her eyelids began to close before the guests were gone, or the last torches flickered out.

Sometimes she would wake and he would lead her to their chamber. At others, he would pick her up and carry her like a child. A world of delight surrounded her before . . . before the Romans came.

Her mind turned from the suffering that followed. Why torment herself? It simply didn’t matter now.

Her only other visitor was the ruler of these people. Chieftain, magistrate, call it what you would, he came, accompanied by his warriors, as if a company of armed men could stave off the grim darkness that surrounded her and hovered over her days and nights.

She had been at the hearth in the back corner of the room. As the end of the year drew near and the harvest was hurried into the barns, the nights were becoming colder and colder. She had been building up the fire, trying to drive off the chill in her body.

He knocked.

She called, “Come in,” and heard the key turn in the lock.

He stepped in, his men behind and flanking him. A blast of cold air followed them.

Imona stood up. Even though she was clad in a heavy linen dress and a stout woolen mantle, she shivered in the draft

“Shut the damn door,” the chieftain roared. “Where were you bastards reared, in a stable? It’s freezing out there.”

The door slammed loudly.

“Damn it! I didn’t ask you to deafen me, just close that dishonorably born door!”

“The wind—” someone started to explain.

“Oh, shut up! Just shut up! Don’t interrupt me again!”

Complete silence fell.

Imona wiped her hands. She had been mixing flour and flat beer to make her morning meal. To her, the flour was deeply suspect. It was filled with bran, and she often detected acorn and cattail root starch in the mix.

The chieftain harrumphed and cleared his throat, then harrumphed again. “I am Cynewolf, leader of the people here. I came to ask how you are, my lady, and if you need anything.” He had begun strongly, but ended his little speech rather lamely.

Imona was darkly amused. She took no pity on him. “When I was a farm wife living in the mountains, no one remembered that I was the daughter of a king. Now, here, with my fate upon me, I am recognized and honored for my family’s rank. Thank you, Lord Cynewolf, for your compliments and respect. They are one with the cold wind blowing through the door. The wind has more kindness in it. Go away, my lord. Leave me alone.”

Cynewolf looked uncomfortable.
His discomfort does him credit,
Imona thought. It demonstrated that he didn’t want to do what he was going to do in a few days, but she suspected his discomfiture would not stop him. No, not for one moment.

The expression on his face was bleak and sad. But, as is proper for a leader, it was filled with resolution. He half turned to the men around him, and said, “Go. Go away. Leave us.”

They fled, clawing at each other, treading on one another’s feet in their haste to escape.

The chieftain strode across the room and stood next to Imona. He knelt on one knee beside her feet and peered narrowly at the flames. The flour for Imona’s breakfast was mounded in an open bowl on the hearth.

Cynewolf lifted a handful, then tossed it into the flames. A searing smell of burning filled the room.

“The flour tells the tale!” His voice was harsh with anger and desperation. “Our good farms across the river are gone. He burned them out years ago . . . when I wouldn’t send riders for him to lead against my kin in Gaul. In the end, he got his cavalry. But we have never been able to return. The Roman garrisons drive us back. This year the women gathered cattails and acorns by the bushel. Last winter we stripped the bark from trees, but even so, many died. I lost my eldest son last year, my youngest daughter the year before.”

The chieftain brushed his hand across his eyes as if to banish an evil vision, then rose to his feet and stared down at Imona. “I would be merciful, if I could, but I can’t. I dare not. He, the haggard, sunken-cheeked Roman, has been a calamity to your people.”

“They are all gone,” Imona said softly.

“Yes, but mine still survive. This Roman must not cross the Rhine. Must not!”

Imona said. “Ask the Lady! I will abide by the answer.” She removed the golden torque from her neck and handed it to Cynewolf. “If ‘yes,’ return the torque. If not, I’ll go to the home of one of my daughters. I won’t be welcome, but I will go. I’m an expert cloth worker. I’ll find a niche somewhere.”

Cynewolf stood silent. He turned the torque in his hand.

“You are the daughter of a king. I owe you that. Yes,” he sighed. “I suppose I owe you that.” Then he turned and left.

The Romans. Cynewolf walked toward the river. The oppidum was mounded high. People were gathered, camped in large numbers on the slopes that led up to the chief’s hall and the workshops that clustered around the seat of power. He trudged down the muddy street between the tumbledown, burned-out dwellings wrecked by the Romans during their last incursion.

He paused and looked up. The sun was bright, but the wind was out of the north. The gusts that tore at his mantle and assaulted his ears had an icy bite. The sky was flocked by high, rippling clouds, in some places thin and hazy, letting the azure blue glow through, in others thick gray and striated like river ice.

Yes,
he thought,
the river.
He hurried on. There must have been a light freeze last night because every so often the mud crunched as the ice crystals shattered beneath his feet.

He could remember from his long-ago childhood, the settlement around him buzzing with happy bustle in springtime. Not one, but three blacksmiths worked there, making armor, swords, farm implements, and much else needed by the people. A goldsmith and his family labored, the most beautiful of his creations worn by the warriors and women of Cynewolf’s family—the ruling family.

Women, slave and free, clustered in the weaving sheds, creating magnificent fabrics. Some traded as far north as the legendary Pict land, lost in the hyperborean mists, and some so far south they warmed Romans against the damp misery of the Mediterranean winter. Ham, bacon, and sausage stuffed the smokehouses, darkening in the thick, cool clouds from banked fires, or salt cured in cellars, cold even in high summer.

Now, no more. Once, yes. Once I had sons and daughters, too. Once. The gods must be wood and stone. I had not thought it would hurt so much.

He’d reached the edge of the settlement and could look down the long sweep of green to the blue-gray shimmer given off by the smooth surface of water gliding between the banks.

There were a great many family groups clustered around tents and lean-tos made by draping awnings from the heavy wagons.

Yes, once these people had looked happy. They drove herds of horses, cattle, sheep, and goats. Their wagons were laden with cloth, beer, dried apples, pears, cherries, more hams, and cheeses from the mountains. At night, the fires leaped high as marriages were arranged, bargains concluded, and everyone caught up on the doings of everyone else. And the nights ended with feasts, storytelling, poetry, and song, all against a background of flame and so many flying embers that they rivaled the stars in the night sky.

Now the men he passed wouldn’t meet his eyes, and the women, seeing the gold torque in his hand, drew their children in toward their skirts, touched amulets at their throats, and tried to pretend he did not exist.

Even where the sun shone, they were gray-skinned, pinched-faced, and afraid. The carts, once overflowing with produce for sale or trade, stood empty.

He strode down the slope toward the trees at the riverbank. When he reached the water, he wrapped his mantle more tightly around himself. The wind blew briskly, making the air seem colder than one would expect so close to midday.

The sun’s glow came and went. Willows hung out over the stream, the long, trailing branches dropping blade-shaped, yellowish green leaves into an eddy pool at their base. When the wind stilled and the sun shone, the tan branches and yellow leaves found perfect reflection in the still water, as if the half-drowned willow was twinned by the strong, silent river.

Somewhere a child laughed.

The gods were wood and stone. They neither knew nor cared what more transient flesh and blood suffered. Throw the torque into the water. Let Imona go. Let her grow old as other women did, standing before the tall loom, weaving, throwing the shuttle back and forth in the shadowy light of a clay lamp. He could close his eyes and see her standing there, breasts sagging, hips thickening, hair streaked with gray, then silver, laboring until time dissolved her skin, then bones, and carried her away as the river did the willow’s golden leaves.

The child laughed again. Sunlight sparked on the torque and the eddy pool beneath the willow.

He saw the child who laughed reflected in the sunlit pool. What child? Then he chuckled as he realized the child was his. His youngest daughter. And then he remembered where his youngest daughter was.

When he came to his senses, he was kneeling halfway up the steep slope of the green mound, clutching the torque with both hands.

One of his wives stood before him. Alix, the eldest and first. Not the mother of his daughter. No! She was gone. She left not long after . . .