text: Aedwen tried not to breathe. She strained to hear any sign that the men had returned. But the wood was silent now. Gone was the terrible screaming. Before the inhuman shrieking that had come later, she had been able to recognise the sound of her father's voice. He had spoken in that infuriatingly calm manner of his; the tone that mother had said drove her mad.
  
  Walking back from the stream, Aedwen had paused for a moment when she'd heard him speaking, wondering whether he was calling something to her. But then she had heard the other voices, hard and jagged, as different from father's tone as a flint is to silk. Absently wondering who the voices belonged to, she had started up the trail again. The bucket she carried was full and heavy, and she had wanted to relinquish its weight.
  
  That was when the shouting had started. It had quickly been followed by screaming. For a moment she had stood there on the path, the forest still cold and gloomy in the dawn. The chill water from the bucket sloshed her hand, starting her into motion. She heard several coarse voices, and laughter.
  
  And her father had let out a piteous wailing cry. Tears flooded down her cheeks at the sound, but she knew what he would have wanted her to do. They had talked about what to do if they were ever attacked by brigands on the road.
  
  "If you can get away, you run, girl," he had said to her, as he had stirred the pot of stew over the smoking fire. That was on the first day after they had left the home she had known all her life. When this was still an adventure.
  
  Father had often berated Aedwen for not obeying him, but that morning she did as she had been told. She spun on her heel and sprinted away. She had run without thought for her destination or direction. Branches whipped at her face, snagging her dress. Brambles scratched at her skin. All the while, father's screams echoed around the wood. His dying cries followed her until she was panting and breathless, sweat plastering her hair to her scalp.
  
  At last, his screams ceased. Aedwen flung herself down in the lee of a broad-trunked old tree. She lay there, chest heaving and her face awash with great sheets of tears. She wondered whether she had merely run far enough not to hear him any longer, but deep down she knew the reason for his silence.
  
  She tried to remember that first night when father had told her to run in the event of an attack. What had he said she should do after that? She could not recall any more of the conversation. The memory of his smile was clear though, his teeth shining in the firelight. Like all of his plans and schemes, there had been no thought to what happened next. By the Blessed Virgin, how she wished they had never embarked on this foolish escapade. But father had seemed so sure of himself. Wasn't he always?
  
  If only she could have talked him out of it. But he was so assured, so convincing. Mother would have put a stop to his madness. She always did.
  
  Aedwen sniffed and her tears fell as great sobs shook her body. How she missed her. And now she would miss him too.
  
  Aedwen allowed herself to weep for a while, before wiping her nose and face on her sleeve. She was alone now. She needed to think. Holding the face of her mother in her mind's eye, she took stock. All she had with her were her clothes, the eating knife that hung from her belt, and the bucket that she yet gripped tightly. Most of the water had spilt from it as she had sprinted through the forest, but there were a couple of mouthfuls yet swilling at the bottom. She upended the pail and drank.
  
  She had no idea who the men were who had attacked father, but everyone knew the forests were filled with those cast out from the law: wolf-heads. Men and women who had fled justice and could never return to their homes. They had no qualms in slaying innocent travellers. Their lives were already forfeit, and they could be killed like animals. And so they became as animals, savaging those who passed through their wooded home, eking out a living from robbery and murder.
  
  If such men had killed her father, they might already be coming for her. She forced herself to breathe shallowly, listening intently for any sound of pursuit. But the forest was silent and calm once more. A bird cooed somewhere in the depth of the forest. The sound startled her.
  
  It's just a bird, she told herself.
  
  Think!
  
  Could her father yet live? She scarcely believed that it could be so. Surely those screams were those of a dying man. And yet she could not flee, leaving him to God knew what fate. Perhaps even now, the outlaws had stolen the goods from their cart and had abandoned her father, allowing him to bleed to death, slowly succumbing to his wounds. The thought filled her with horror. Could he truly be lying in the clearing in need of her help?
  
  She would have to find out. And if she found him alive, how could she help him? She was no healer. Perhaps with the help of the cart she could get him back to Briuuetone, the last village they had passed through. If she could find the clearing where they had camped, she thought she would be able to trace their steps back from there to the road and the village.
  
  But what if the men were still there? She shuddered. Aedwen was no fool. She knew what would befall her at the hands of such brigands. Once more she listened. The sun had risen higher into the sky and spears of light stabbed through the leaf canopy. A wind whispered through the trees, sighing and making the branches shiver. The green-tinged light danced and dappled the earth around her. Far away the bird called again. But there was no sound of pursuit. No yelling and snapping of twigs and rustle of undergrowth. She let out her breath and drew in a great lungful of air. The woodland was redolent of growth, verdant and vigorous. Summer had brought bountiful life to the land. And yet, she feared that in a small glade surrounded by pale-leafed trees her only kin lay dead.
  
  She had to know for sure.
  
  She would creep back towards the glade where she had left her father. If she suspected the men who had attacked him were approaching, she would hide and slip away. She was fleet of foot and fast. She trembled, the light from the sun offered little warmth down here under the trees. And the ground was yet cold and wet from the rain that had fallen these last weeks. They had slept without a fire last night, cold and shivering, huddled together for warmth, as the woods creaked and murmured about them. She pulled her thin cloak about her shoulders. The wool was old and fraying and the garment offered little protection. Whether her father lived or not, she would need to find shelter before nightfall.
  
  Much of the morning had already passed and the sun would soon be at its zenith. There was no time to waste. She would be cautious, but she must move.
  
  Aedwen pushed herself to her feet, brushing ineffectually at the leaves and mud that clung to her dress. After a moment's hesitation she decided to carry the bucket. It could prove useful and she was not sure she would ever be able to find this spot in the forest again. Taking another deep breath of the heavy, rich air, she started north.
  
  Scarcely had she taken five paces, than a dog's piercing bark sliced through the sylvan stillness. Aedwen stifled a cry of fear, but was unable to prevent her feet from carrying her back at a run to the bole of the tree where she had been hidden until moments before. She pressed her back against the rough bark, her breath coming as ragged and fast as when she had first arrived here after running for a long while.
  
  Another bark. Was that a man's voice she heard too? She could not be certain. Sounds of passage through the brush grew louder.
  
  "Nal Wes ðu, Maria, mid gyfe gefylled, Drihten midðe. Ðu eart gebletsoð on wifum and gebletsod ðines innoðes wæstm, se Næland."
  
  She began to whisper the words of the prayer urgently. All her brave ideas of returning to help her father, or fleeing from any pursuit, had vanished like smoke on the wind. She could not move. Fresh tears brimmed in her eyes, then fell unnoticed down her already streaked cheeks.
  
  "Nalige Maria, Godes modor gebide for us synfullum, nu and on pære tide ures forðsiðes. Amen."
  
  The movements in the forest were growing louder. There was no more barking, but she was sure that at least one hound and several men were crashing through the ferns and brambles, unerringly closing in on her.
  
  What should she do? What could she do?
  
  Her mind raced, the words of the prayer blurring into nonsense as her fear engulfed her.
  
  She must move. Run or perhaps climb a tree. But she did nothing; paralysed by fear and the fresh memories of her father's echoing death-wails.
  
  A huge mottled hound rounded the trunk of a tree. It halted, straight-legged, tongue flopping and hackles raised. Its teeth were white and very large. The dog fixed her with a baleful stare and she noticed it only had one eye. Was this a strange creature of the forest? Some devil hound of the Wild Hunt perhaps? It looked more wolf than dog, and its size was terrifying. It looked at her for a moment, as if it was as surprised as she was, and then it let out a peal of barking howls.
  
  Someway off, Aedwen heard renewed sounds of people approaching. She could barely breathe now. The hound was still barking, but it had not attacked her yet. Her hand fell to the tiny eating knife at her belt. Perhaps, she would be able to halt the beast with the small blade. It only had one eye, so maybe she could blind it.
  
  She pulled the knife from its worn leather sheath. The blade was scarcely the length of her finger. Still, it would take an eye out, if she could find her mark. She readied herself for the animal to launch at her. Gripping the knife tightly, she pressed her back to the tree's bark and prepared for the attack.
  
  Before the beast could pounce, a man strode into sight. He was not tall, but he was broad of shoulder and there was a presence about him. He wore simple clothes of wool and leather. His hair was black streaked with silver like the wings of a jackdaw. His beard was a jutting white and black thatch. He looked ancient to her young eyes, much older than her father. But he was no wizened greybeard. No gum-sucking old man, who sat staring out to sea on long summer evenings. This man was powerful, the way a waterfall or the sea in a gale has power. The instant he entered the clearing, the dog fell silent.
  
  The man's cool gaze took in everything in an instant. He must have been running to keep up with the dog, but he appeared to be barely out of breath.
  
  "Well, girl," he said, his voice gruff and clipped, "who are you?"
  
  Aedwen could not speak. She opened and closed her mouth, but no sound came.
  
  "You'll not be needing that knife," the man said, indicating the blade in her trembling hand. "I think you would just anger him, if you prodded him with it anyway."
  
  Seeming to sense her distress, the massive dog, quiet now, edged forward. She let out a whimper of alarm.
  
  "Odin," snapped the man. "To me." His tone was commanding, but the dog ignored him and padded closer to Aedwen. She tried to push herself away from him, but the tree prevented her from moving further. She was crying uncontrollably now, tears flowing, mouth open and panting in terror.
  
  The man frowned.
  
  "Do not fear," he said. "Odin won't hurt you. Will you, boy?"
  
  As if in answer, the dog licked her hand. Looking down, she saw the knife still clutched there. The dog looked up at her with its one, deep brown eye. It nuzzled its snout into her, inviting her to stroke it perhaps. Shakily, she sheathed the knife and reached out to caress the soft fur of the dog's ears. Odin sat down contentedly and once again nudged her with his head, encouraging her to continue.
  
  Could the man be one of the heathen Norsemen to have named his dog thus? she wondered.
  
  "By Christ's bones," said the man. "Disobedient and soft."
  
  She noticed then that he had in his large hand a long seax. The blade of the knife glimmered dully as he moved. For an instant, her fear returned with a sudden icy chill. But as she watched, he slid the weapon into a scabbard that hung from his belt.
  
  "Now," the old man said, "who are you and what are you doing in my forest?"
  
  "I—" she stammered, her voice catching, "I am Aedwen, Lytelman's daughter."
  
  "And where were you headed?"
  
  "To find my father…" she swallowed, not wishing to put words to what had occurred. "He— He was attacked."
  
  The man ran a callused hand over his face and beard. His eyes glittered, chips of ice in the crags of his face. She wondered if he ever smiled. His was a hard face, unyielding and unsmiling, so unlike her father's. He always appeared content with his lot in life. She recalled his screams and shuddered.
  
  "You will come with me and Odin. My home is not far. We will rest there and then, tomorrow, we will go to Briuuetone."
  
  "No," she replied, "I must go to my father. He might need me."
  
  "He does not need you now, child," said the man, his voice as cold and hard as granite. "Your father is dead."