Aeva The Wild Page 2

  “Æva.”

  She stirred, as if awakening from a deep sleep and he smiled at her poor pretence.

  “Æva, wake.”

  This time she opened her eyes and stared up at him. He avoided looking at her, lest he be haunted by ghosts of old again. Instead he addressed the pathetic carcase that had driven her into their camp.

  “You may take what is left of the food. We are leaving.”

  He stood, impatient to be off, to escape this girl who reminded him of things long forgotten. Idin and Ælric rose too; they looked dismayed at the loss of their breakfast, but they had the good sense not to argue.

  Wulfram turned and scanned the landscape, which was slowly revealing itself in the muted light of dawn. They had camped in the middle of a wide valley. A river ran through the heart of it, and its sustenance had encouraged small copses of trees and patches of shrubbery to grow. Although boggy, the soil was good, ideal for farming. Eyes raking the ground, Wulfram saw the tell-tale signs of ploughing and planting in recent years. Not now, though; this was an empty scene. The farmers had taken their livestock and all they held dear and moved closer to the towns for protection.

  The hills that surrounded the valley were purple through the early morning haze of sunshine. Wulfram studied them carefully; they were his compass.

  His bearings sure, he hoisted up his satchel, slid his sword – his prize possession – into his leather belt, and picked up his spear. Without another glance at the girl he turned and began to march, the footsteps of his men close behind him.

  Æva watched the men turn from her with a confusing mixture of emotions: relief that they had no plans to harm her, and fervent gratitude for the gift of food. But there was also alarm, and despair. She had been travelling alone for weeks; feeding on scraps, hiding in shadows and stealing to stay alive. Last night, when she had come across the men, drawn in by the light of the fire, she knew she was on her last legs. Without help, she would not survive much longer.

  “Wait!” she called.

  The men did not break stride but continued to march away from her.

  “Please, wait,” she repeated, leaving the precious meal and running across the uneven ground towards them. They must have heard her approach, but the men didn’t stop. Fear and desperation made her bold. She reached out and grasped the wrist of Wulfram. Though he could easily have shaken her off, he stopped and faced her. The other two simply watched him. Yes, he was the leader.

  Now as Wulfram glared at her, his dark eyes boring into hers, her courage faltered a little.

  “Let me come with you,” she beseeched.

  He shook his head, his expression fierce, before all of the words had left her mouth. Æva’s forehead crumpled, crestfallen, but she tried once more.

  “Please, I need your help. It is not safe here.”

  She hoped her plea might rouse his sense of chivalry, but again he shook his head.

  “We have sheltered you all we can. You cannot come with us. I will say no more.”

  Æva stared into his eyes, searching for a glint of compassion or kindness, any sign that he might change his mind. Wulfram glared back at her, his strong jaw, dappled with several days’ growth, clenched, and his eyes resolute. A wall, resilient and impenetrable.

  She dropped her eyes, beaten, and missed the pity that softened his when she released him from her gaze. Before she could look back up, he had turned from her. She glanced at the other two, Idin and the copper haired man, but they avoided her stare, following Wulfram without a word. Æva watched them leave, her eyes burning and her throat tightening.

  As the sun finally rose fully, peaking over the foothills of the Cheviots and saturating the valley with vibrant colour, the men broke into a trot. The light picked out the razor-sharp iron blades of their spears, glinting menacingly. She could just make out the ruby red of rust, like blood. A warning to those who would challenge them. She shivered in both fear and awe. At this new pace they would soon be out of sight, disappearing into the shadow of the hills. Æva deliberated, chewing her lip nervously. She should return to the food they had left her, eat as much as possible and save the rest from scavengers who, like her, had to fight to survive in this barren land. Since the farmers had left the wolves, too, were struggling.

  But Æva couldn’t tear her eyes away from the backs of the men. They moved fluidly, almost graceful despite the muscle of their frames. The leather sandals that covered their feet made their steps soundless, their footsteps light. Taking a last fleeting glance at her abandoned meal, and ignoring the gnawing rumble already beginning to burn in her stomach, she took a deep breath and started forward. At first, she walked hesitantly, clumsily, but then her resolve strengthened and she moved with more determination. Her mouth set in a thin line, her eyes focused, she jogged after them.

  Wulfram ran his men all day. As the sun rose to its highest point and sent out weak tendrils of autumn heat, it was pleasant jogging across the flat ground. The grass was dew soaked and springy beneath their feet, a light breeze drying the sweat that beaded on their brows. The miles passed quickly, their breathing even despite the wicked pace. At midday they stopped briefly by a stream to drink and dribble cooling water across their skin, but they had no time to rest or to hunt for food. With the winter drawing closer, the light dimmed earlier. Their hours of travel were limited; they had to move fast.

  To Idin and Ælric it seemed that they had barely stopped before Wulfram again stood, restless, impatient to be off. The afternoon was much less enjoyable. Ugly black clouds bruised the horizon, engulfing the sky until it lay like a leaden lid above the earth. Without the sun, the breeze lost its lightness, doubling in strength and attacking them with a biting chill. Rain fell in sporadic torrents, drenching their clothes and blinding them. Still Wulfram drove them forward, his expression fixed. He knew that the blanketed heavens would herald the night more swiftly. They were fighting an impossible battle against the oncoming dark; the only solution was to move faster.

  When at last they stumbled to a halt, the daylight had almost entirely disappeared. Eyeing the bulging sky with unease, Wulfram led them to the shelter of a large oak tree whose branches spread outwards, still littered with dense foliage. The ground here was fairly dry and sandy, grass struggling to thrive in the constant shadow. A short distance away, the river that they had spent the day following snaked slowly past.

  “Ælric,” Wulfram addressed the copper haired man, who was bent over with exhaustion, clutching his knees. At the sound of his name he looked up, ever ready. “See what you can get from the river.”

  Ælric grinned at the challenge and used his spear to hoist his tired frame upright. He swaggered confidently to the river’s edge and returned just ten minutes later with a large catch.

  “Trout,” he announced proudly, laying the fish beside the fledgling fire that Wulfram and Idin had conjured.

  “You are a marvel,” Idin chuckled, his eyes gleaming with the prospect of a good meal. “Tonight, as with last night, we are lucky.”

  “Luck,” Ælric scoffed. “I am the master!”

  “Well,” interjected Wulfram, “You can be the master of the spears, then. They are rusting.”

  He lifted his spear and tossed it towards Ælric. An amused grin on his face, Idin added his own to the pile. For a moment, Ælric’s expression was thunderous. His mouth opened to argue, but then he thought better of it and pulled a small flat stone from his bag, a wry smile on his face. He poured on a little oil, then reached for the nearest spear. While they waited for the fire to grow enough to cook the meal, the air was punctuated by the rasping sound of metal on stone as Ælric stripped the iron spears of rust and sharpened their deadly edges.

  Wulfram crafted a crude spit from branches of the great oak, then settled down to wait for the fish to char.

  “Come out,” he said, his voice quiet, even.

  Ælric and Idin looked at him curiously. He continued to stare into the flames; his body sprawled in a relaxed sitting pos
ition on the ground.

  “Come out,” he repeated in the same expressionless tone.

  The two men stared at him, and then looked up in surprise as a small figure crept out of the darkness towards them. It was the girl from yesterday, Æva, standing hesitantly, like a frightened colt, just outside the light of the fire.

  They stared at Æva, and she gazed back, her heart thudding wildly in her chest. She had followed them all day, matching their pace stride for stride. Without shoes, her feet had been sliced and cracked by the hard, unforgiving ground, and were painful and bleeding. Still she had run on. Terrified of being caught, panicked at the thought of losing sight of them, she had spent an anxious day tailing the men, checking for any change in their pace or stance which would suggest they were aware of her.

  She’d planned to hide in the darkness tonight, trying her luck at fishing in the river and bathing her sore feet. She had not intended to reveal herself, only hoped to stay close enough to feel safe.

  It seemed she had not fooled them. The leader, at least, had known she was there. He’d not tried to chase her away, though; she tried to take comfort from that. Join them, though? She wasn’t certain she had the courage for that. She hovered, uncertain, just outside the pool of light from the fire.

  Eventually Wulfram tired of waiting and turned to face her.

  “We will not hurt you. It’s cold, and you must be tired. Come,” he gestured towards the fire with his arm, “Sit.”

  Æva shuffled with tentative steps towards the men, her feet moving of their own accord. In a gesture of submission, she dipped her head, looking up at them from under long lashes. Wulfram’s face was deep in shadow, his back to the flame. The other two looked merely curious, their expressions open. She was still aware of the massive bulk of their arms, though, and the copper haired one held a gleaming spear in his hand capable of slicing through her flesh like it was butter.

  Step by step she inched closer. Unconsciously, she gave Wulfram a wide berth. He terrified her, and the back of her head still throbbed where he had thrown her against the rock the night before. When she reached the fire, she chose a space beside the copper-haired man, who gave her a roguish wink as she sank to her knees.

  “I told you not to follow us.”

  The voice came from her left, the deep rumble of Wulfram. Though the words were not said with anger, she flinched as if they stung her.

  “I’m sorry,” she mumbled to the ground. “I was frightened on my own.”

  The words sounded husky through her choked throat. She tried to swallow, her mouth desiccated, then waited for him to speak again. The silence dragged on, seconds feeling like minutes. The tension sawed at her nerves, teeth clenching together until her jaw hurt.

  “Here.”

  She looked up, startled. Wulfram was holding the leather flagon out towards her. Her eyes flickered from the vessel to his face. His expression was calm. Not friendly, but there seemed no trace of violence or anger. Æva attempted to smile gratefully as her trembling fingers reached for it. She tried to control the shaking, but the closer her hand moved to his, the more pronounced it became. Her fingers fumbled round the neck and she almost dropped the flagon, which was much heavier than she’d anticipated. She managed to nestle it into her chest and then, eyes back to the ground, she took a nervous sip. The bitter taste of stale beer made her wrinkle her nose, but as the liquid flowed over her tongue, she found herself gulping another two mouthfuls. The pungent alcohol made her shudder. She thought she heard a low chuckle from across the fire as she wiped at her mouth, but she didn’t dare peek. Wulfram’s voice made her look up.

  “I am Wulfram,” he told her, confirming what she already knew. “This is Idin,” the younger man gave her a brief smile as she glanced at him, “and Ælric.” The copper-haired man, Ælric, gave her another mischievous grin and a wink, waving the hand which still clutched the wet stone. The gesture was both comical and terrifying, and she struggled to smile back.

  After the introductions, silence descended. The crackle of the flames and the rhythmic scraping of Ælric provided the only sound. Æva stared into the fire, too timid to look at any of the men. She sensed their eyes on her, though, and her skin prickled with goose bumps under their scrutiny.

  Finally, Idin reached forward and poked at the fish with his blade. Juices leeched out of the skin and dropped onto the fire, which hissed and spat. Satisfied, he pulled the fish from the flames and scraped off the skin with long, skilled movements. He handed chunks to Wulfram and Ælric, before turning to her.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked, holding out a large portion of flesh.

  She could smell the moist, fresh fragrance of the fish, watched hungrily as drops of juice dribbled between his fingers. She nodded and took it eagerly. Unable to hold back, Æva devoured it and then licked her fingers clean. The others took their time to eat, their eyes on her.

  Without the distraction of food, Æva felt awkward. She fiddled with the hem of her tunic, tracing the pattern of the wool with her fingers as the men slowly chewed their meal. When they finished, each drank once more from the flagon. Æva did not look up to see if it would be offered to her again. She sensed that the spotlight would focus on her as soon as they were done, and the fish she had just consumed sat in her stomach like lead.

  Sure enough, when Wulfram had taken a long drag from the flagon, he wiped his mouth and turned to her. She surveyed him out of the periphery of her vision.

  “Now,” he began, waiting for her to look up at him. With slow reluctance, she lifted her gaze. “Tell us, really, who you are.”

  ᚦ

  “My father was an important man. A wealthy man. My mother died giving birth to me. At the age of three he sent me to the nunnery at Colodesburg. I was a gift, a bribe really, to buy his grace with God,” Æva’s tone soured as she thought on the man who had given life to her, but nothing more.

  “I was to be educated, enlightened, kept chaste and out of the way, ready to be called upon as bride if there was someone he needed to make a deal with. Five years later, when he died, my eldest brother visited me once, then nothing.

  “But it wasn’t so bad. I was happy there. The Abbess Mavina cared for me well, almost like a mother. I was prepared to dedicate my life to the church; then everything changed.”

  Æva broke off, gazing into the fire, as memories replayed in her head. When she spoke again, her voice had a far-off, ethereal quality, almost ghostly in the hushed night; her face lit by the flickering flame.

  “Rumours reached us of Viking raids in our area. Terrible stories of savage men who burned, and raped, and pillaged. I remember being frightened, but I tried to stay calm. I often supervised the younger girls and they looked to me to set an example. If I had shown them that I was afraid, they would have been hysterical with terror. I asked the Abbess Mavina if we were safe, and she told me God would protect us. But I could see the truth in her eyes. She did not believe it. She was waiting for them.”

  They came. At night, in the dark. Her berth was in a dormitory with the younger girls. The Abbess entered as she slept, put her hand over her mouth so she would not cry out, and shook her gently. She held her finger to her lips and ushered Æva out of the room. She did not want to scare the other girls, not yet. Abbess Mavina took her to a window that gazed out across the fields towards the village just two miles away. It should have been total darkness; instead, the hillside was aflame. Æva remembered thinking, in her shock, that the flames looked like they were dancing. The wind, which always blew in off the coast, no matter the weather, pulled and twisted at the fire, contorting it into beautiful patterns.

  She was too far away to hear what was happening, but she knew. Hundreds of people, murdered. Though the Abbess had not let any of the younger girls meet with the people who passed through and brought the stories, they had all listened at windows, at keyholes. They knew the things the Vikings did. Tears pricked at Æva’s eyes as she mourned for the villagers. She had not understood what it mea
nt for those at the nunnery.

  When the rap came at the door, Æva had to throw her hand over her mouth to stop herself from shrieking. Heads were beginning to creep around doorways. Terrified nuns waited for the inevitable.

  The Abbess showed no sign of fear; she squared her shoulders and marched straight to the main door of the nunnery, and Æva followed quick on her heels. They had barely reached the massive wooden doors when the large iron ring was rapped again, urgently. The noise seemed to echo off the walls, reverberating in her ears.

  Abbess Mavina didn’t hesitate, she threw one of the doors open and a pitiful figure all but fell inside. It was a boy from the village, Nerian. Æva had seen him often at the market, his father was a blacksmith. Sometimes she took things to him to be mended. He was just fifteen, two years younger than she. Now he was an awful sight to behold. He had been mutilated: a large gash stretched across his face, one hand was missing; and there was blood everywhere, so much blood. In his hair, soaking through his clothes, pooling onto the stone floor.

  He must have run all the way from the village in that state. Æva still didn’t understand how he could. The Abbess called for water and clean linen, but it was clearly too late. He gasped, trying to speak. Æva leaned down to him and he grabbed her arm, pulling her nearer.

  “Run,” he hissed. “They are coming.”

  He lost his grip on her and fell back to the floor, where he lay, panting. Æva couldn’t stop staring at her arm, slick with his blood.

  “He is dead,” the Abbess murmured. Æva tore her gaze from her own flesh to look at the floor. The boy lay motionless, surrounded by his own blood; his chest still, his heart stopped.

  “What do we do?” she asked, and her voice did not sound like her own. It was hollow somehow. That frightened her.

  She stood and faced the Abbess, who looked into Æva’s eyes for what seemed a long time but must only have been a moment.