CHAPTER TEN #6
‘So many! They are drawn by the blood of the boar.’ As she spoke a wolf broke cover, running towards them before turning at the last moment.
It was not an attack but a feint, meant to draw them out, for a wolf pack kills its prey one at a time.
‘Stand your ground!’ she shouted. ‘Do not leave the group!’ All obeyed her.
All save the most loyal and most brave, for with a single great bound, Taran set off after the wolf.
‘Taran, no!’ she cried, but he would not be stopped.
With her protector drawn away, a second wolf made its charge, running directly for the boy standing nearest the boar.
It was Glyn, the smallest of them all, standing guard over his precious kill.
He braced himself with his spear pointed out, the tip of it still coated in the blood of the fallen animal.
He knew better than to turn and run and let out his loudest battle cry.
Even so, the wolf leapt at him. Rufus roared at it and threw his axe but his aim was off.
Tudor ran towards the boy as the wolf jumped past the spear, teeth bared.
Glyn fell backwards, the weapon knocked from his hands, his arm thrown up in a futile attempt to protect himself.
As all those close to him raced to the boy’s aid, the second wolf made its move.
Rhiannon sensed rather than heard it running.
In one swift, seamless movement, without so much as seeing her target, she swung around, her bow loaded, string pulled, and loosed the arrow.
The wolf was in mid leap, so that the arrow found its throat before it fell on top of her.
She felt the force of its charge and the weight of its body as it connected with her, sending her crashing backwards onto the frozen ground, knocking the wind from her as it fell dead, its hot blood covering her, its teeth, bared in a dying snarl flashing past her face as they collapsed together.
From where she lay she could see that Glyn’s arm had been bitten.
Rufus held the boy safe while Tudor had run at the wolf, slicing at it with his sword.
He had not succeeded in cutting it, but his attack had been sufficient to frighten it off.
As Rhiannon struggled to free herself Taran and the third wolf came tumbling through the clearing, a frenzied tangle of fur and teeth.
It was impossible to see which animal had the advantage.
‘Taran!’ she shouted. ‘Tudor, help him…’
But no one dared throw a knife or lunge at the wolf for fear of hitting the hound.
They could do nothing. She heard her beloved dog yelp and knew he had been injured.
If he was weakened by a lucky bite the wolf could finish him in moments.
She kicked and fought to get out from the gory corpse of the wolf, her frustration and desperation mounting.
As she struggled she became aware of a force building up inside of herself.
She thought of how she had been able to pull down the mist to evade the king’s soldiers.
She knew she had to do something, and this was not the time for thoughtful incantations or focussed spell casting.
But what could she do? Even as she staggered to her knees, free at last, she was uncertain of how she could save Taran.
The wolf had turned him over and now had his jaws only a hand’s breadth above the hound’s throat.
She saw Tudor take out his knife and draw back his arm to throw it.
Her heart skipped a beat for fear of where it would find its mark, but she herself was too indecisive, too inexperienced, too slow to act.
The knife cut through the air and then cut through the wolf’s flesh.
It let out a pitiful scream, falling to the ground, struggling to right itself for a brief moment before lying silent and still.
Taran clambered to his feet and ran to Rhiannon.
She threw her arms around his neck and let him help her to get up.
‘There, boy. You did well, and you are safe now. There,’ she murmured, closing her eyes as she hugged him. She hurried over to Glyn who was white with shock but devoid of tears. The bite was deep but was not bleeding dangerously.
‘You are the bravest of boys,’ she told him.
Dafydd shook his head. ‘Do not call him boy,’ he said. ‘He has this day become a man.’
‘Indeed he has,’ Tudor agreed, tearing a strip from his own shirt for Rhiannon to use as a bandage.
‘We must get you home and let Mamgi see to your arm. Do not be afraid.’
‘I am not,’ he said, though his lip quivered as he spoke. His eyes widened. ‘Will Mamgi have something for the wolf’s poison?’ he asked, for everyone knew the bite of a wolf carried death not only in the tear of its teeth.
‘She will. And when you have a warm place to rest and a belly full of roast pork you will be right as rain with a story to tell your friends over and over on the long winter nights. Come now, Rufus will carry you.’ When he started to protest she silenced him with a smile.
‘Man or not, you are in my charge, and I say you will be carried. Besides, if you are weak when you arrive home I will have a furious Mamgi to answer to, and you know,’ she gave a little laugh, ‘I would rather face another wolf!’
The wolves were gutted and strapped to poles.
Some had protested only the pelts were worth having, so they should skin them to save carrying the carcasses home.
Rhiannon had pointed out that the wolf meat could be kept in the snowy ground and would feed Taran and the other dogs for some time to come.
The men agreed to this, as she knew they would.
The unspoken thought they all shared was that if times became hard enough, that meat could feed the villagers too.
Nobody would have chosen to dine on wolf ordinarily, but these were not ordinary times.
Rhiannon’s task was to sustain the community through the long dark months at the bottom of the year.
If their fortunes improved, they might one day be able to come out of hiding, and even return to their homes.
She could not control the tides of affairs of men of power.
She could ensure her people did not starve.
Rufus hitched Glyn up onto his back. The others took a pole end each to transport their kills. Taran was wounded, but not badly, and was able to lope alongside his mistress. Rhiannon would walk ahead, with Tudor at the rear of the party, all alert for signs of the other wolf returning.
By the time they left the woodland they had lost the last of the daylight.
Rhiannon was glad of the stars and a bright moon.
She knew the paths well, as did her friends, but there were rocks and rabbit holes to catch a person out, snatching at a tired foot, ready to twist an ankle or send the weary and unwary tumbling.
Their progress was slow but steady and at last they came in sight of the encampment.
She paused, waving the men on ahead with their heavy burdens. She waited for Tudor.
‘You want the boy to have his moment of glory?’ he smiled, nodding at the small throng of villagers carrying torches who were rushing out to greet the returning hunters.
‘He has earned it. As have the others.’ As she watched the reunion she became aware that Tudor’s gaze had shifted to her. She glanced down at her clothes and saw the moonlight glistening on the wolf’s gore that covered her. Her hood down, she put a hand up to her hair. It too was thick with blood.
As if reading her mind, Tudor reached out and took her hand. When he spoke his voice was gentle.
‘Some maids seek to enhance their beauty with sweet flower oils and jewels.’ He turned her hand over, exposing the dried blood to the pellucid moonbeams.
‘What little imagination they possess,’ Rhiannon said as calmly as her racing heart would allow. She wondered if he could feel the blood quickening within her as he ran his fingers across her palm.
Wordlessly, he lifted her hand to his lips and bestowed upon it the lightest, the most restrained of kisses.
Rhiannon stood still, wondering if she should snatch her hand away, but wanting desperately for him to continue kissing her.
He looked into her eyes then, questioning, wanting to understand her response.
Tentatively, she stepped forward, moving closer so that there was no longer any space between them.
Tudor let go her hand and slipped his arms around her waist, pulling her gently to him.
The sensation of his strong body against hers, even through her grimy clothes, even through his winter layers, set her flesh singing, and when he leaned forwards and placed his lips upon hers her soul sang too.
‘Rhiannon! Rhiannon!’ Little Bronwen may have been small, but her voice was strong enough to reach them as she came running across the frozen ground.
Tudor quickly stepped away. ‘Oh, Rhiannon,’ the child was breathless with excitement, ‘Glyn was so brave, and he said the wolves were mad with rage, and the pig…! The pig is so enormous, and I am so hungry!’ The girl did not cease her chattering even as Rhiannon laughed and scooped her up in her arms, swinging her around.
‘And we shall feast,’ she told the girl, sitting her on her hip, glancing back at Tudor with a smile before striding towards the happy villagers.