Daughter of the Wolf Read Online Free Page B

her, made folk stare?
    So she concentrated on her clasped hands, the pale half-moons on her thumbnails, not speaking, hardly even breathing. Edmund grunted enquiringly, but she kept her lips tight-pressed, and at last to her infinite relief she felt the bench tip as he hauled himself to his feet. When she dared to look up again she saw that he had rejoined one of the little clusters that hovered at the far side of the king’s tent. Low muttering, sidelong glances – a few of them at her – emphatic gestures.
    But it wasn’t all about her. The Northumbrian riding-men and dish-thanes and hall-wards, with all their hangers-on, were clumping and forming larger groups. Tilmon’s men were pulling closer together in response.
    The boy with the bay mare had withdrawn himself a little, however, and was walking her up and down. Elfrun watched her neat lines, her forward-pricked ears and gleaming hooves, and the way the sunlight shone on her hide, so different from Mara and Apple. Her dainty head had something almost birdlike in its grace, as did her little pecking steps. That boy must spend hours clipping, and combing, and oiling. He turned his head and she looked away quickly in case he caught her staring yet again. It would be good to race that bay mare again, though Mara would never have a chance against her.
    Dear, shaggy Mara and Apple – and a pang of conscience struck her. Could Athulf be trusted to look after the ponies properly, with all the distractions and temptations offered by the meeting? She cast a calculating look at the curtain screening the entrance to the king’s tent. How much longer were they going to be? She could be quick: she could run.
    Just to see that Apple and Mara were all right.
    But what if they weren’t? What if Athulf had just left them loose in the field? Still tacked up, even? She would have to catch them.
    Elfrun half rose to her feet, then stopped, hovering somewhere short of standing.
    Her father might come out of the tent, and she not back. What if the king had asked for her? And what if she got muddy again? If he didn’t kill her, her grandmother most certainly would. So she slumped back on to the bench, still torn, trying to keep her face composed, her hands folded and her back straight. But the bench was hard, and getting harder all the time, her seat was aching, and her feet were cramped and hot and chafed, her heels blistering in the stiff leather shoes she almost never wore. She felt desperately self-conscious, sitting there alone, but it was still preferable to Edmund coming back. And all the while the sun was shining and every lark in Deira was pouring out its heart, singing its alleluias in the Easter sky, and from down towards the river Elfrun could hear splashing, and laughter. She had a suspicion she could hear Athulf’s shrieks among the others.
    Abarhild had been angry enough about her riding with the boys. What would she have said if she had caught Elfrun swimming?
    Now she could hear other raised voices, not so far away.
    Shouts, even. And coming from the king’s tent.
    Her hackles had risen without her realizing.
    And she was not alone. Everyone had frozen, hands already halfway to absent sword-pommels. The woman in the brown twill and the boy were standing close together. The boy was looking at the tent, but the woman was staring across the grass. Looking, Elfrun realized, at her . Perhaps she – Switha, that was the name – perhaps she too felt ill at ease in the midst of this throng of jumpy men.
    But after that one outburst the voices inside the tent had fallen quiet again, as though belatedly aware of all those avid ears outwith its painted and embroidered canvas walls. Try as she might, she could hear nothing more.
    Long, slow heartbeats, and the world began to breathe again.
    The space under the tasselled awning darkened. Her father came blundering out into the daylight. She thought at first he was just sun-blind, but