The Wolf of Allendale Page 4

  A second later the melody was lost as the first sheep passed. They thundered down the well-trodden track and past the Fist. They knew exactly where they were going.

  They seemed keener than ever today, Bert thought uneasily. Were they also aware of the danger lurking in the hills? He would graze them closer to home, he decided. The weather would turn soon, anyway.

  He walked alongside the stragglers and scanned over them for any signs of injury or ill health. He could see nothing amiss. The very last, with Thomas and Shep close at her heels, was slightly lame, but that was no reason for concern.

  Thomas hopped from side to side as they walked back together. His eyes were shining and he wiped a trickle of sweat from his forehead. Bert remembered the feeling of exhilaration after racing through the fells.

  Within ten minutes they had the sheep penned up in the fold. The sheep grazing on the other side were alert to the newcomers’ arrival, ears pricked and noses raised to scent the air. Both shepherds laughed when a ewe’s head and shoulders appeared above the wall, as she jumped up to inspect the new arrivals.

  “Is that Molly?”

  “Aye, it is!”

  Bert was proud Thomas had managed to recognize her. His bellwether’s left ear was crooked, and there was a patch of white on the side of her face, which made her easily recognizable.

  She chortled and he scratched behind her ears. Thomas went to do the same but she jumped down.

  “She doesn’t like me!”

  “She’s just not used to you. She’ll soon get to know you.”

  Bert climbed over the gate into the fold and Thomas hopped over after him, looking around with the practiced air of a seasoned shepherd. That was the only thing he’d managed to perfect so far.

  “We’ll sort out those that are good to breed next year. The last of this year’s lambs will go to Hexham. Their pastures by the river are ideal for fattening them, far better than up here. And the old ewes that can’t breed again, the butcher in town will buy.”

  Thomas hung on every word. “How do you get them to Hexham?”

  “We walk.”

  Ten miles each way, it was an easy day’s work.

  “Maybe they could go on the train? That would be much easier.” Thomas pursed his lips. “How fast does a train go? We could be there in about half an hour!” He broke into a smile. “Maybe when I learn to drive one, I’ll take them up for you.”

  “Look, lad, we walk them. We’ve always done that.” Hadn’t the boy forgotten these ridiculous fancies by now?

  “But the train would be much quicker, much easier, what’s wrong with it?”

  To his dismay, Bert could think of no answer.

  9

  “Why not this ewe?”

  “She’s getting old. You can feel her backbone, see?”

  Thomas obliged and nodded as he felt the sharp knobs of the spine.

  “She’s not done well this summer, and won’t manage to rear lambs again. And I bet I know why.” Bert caught hold of the ewe’s head and pulled her lips back. “See, she’s lost her teeth.”

  Thomas bent down to inspect the bare gums.

  “She’ll find it almost impossible to graze now, that’s why she’s thin. She’ll most likely not survive when the snows come down. It’s no life for them up here when they’re old and weak, she needs to go to the butcher now.”

  He scratched the ewe’s head, who was looking up at him trustingly. He could see from Thomas’s face what he was thinking.

  “But . . .”

  “The most important thing, lad, is to keep your sheep well and happy. It’s easy to want to keep them on, especially when they’re your friends, but then they just suffer a lingering, unhappy death. You’ve failed in your responsibility then. She’s done well, but her time has come.”

  Thomas’s eyes raked over the old and thin ewe. He nodded and rubbed behind her ears. “I understand.”

  “Her grandam won me the champion prize at Allendale Show one year. And that little ewe with the broken horn’s her daughter. There’s three more of hers somewhere.”

  “That’s nice. It means there’s still something left of them when they go, doesn’t it?”

  Bert looked at the boy with pride as he leaned on his crook, easing the weight off his stiff leg. He’d hoped he’d understand that. He’d placed a lot of hopes on his only grandson’s shoulders. He was a sharp boy, intelligent, despite all the nonsense about train driving. He was going to do well on the fells, and so he should. The shepherd’s instinct was generations bred into him. Once he settled into his life, he wouldn’t look back. Bert was confident of that.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” Thomas paused as he dragged the hurdles around.

  “Just thinking how nice it is that you’re here. Forgive an old man his rest.” He winked and Thomas grinned back as he tied the gate.

  The rest were ready to turn out, and Bert ran an approving eye over them. They’d done well over the summer and would produce a good crop of lambs next year.

  “The rams are in the lower paddock. We’ll drive them up now and they can all go together. We’ll have the ewes lambing in five months’ time, in midspring. Hopefully after the snows have melted.”

  Thomas gave a halfhearted laugh and kicked at a stone. His earlier cheerfulness had evaporated.

  Bert knew why. The boy was frightened of the rams. A ram had been responsible for his father’s accident.

  As he walked down the hill he thought back to that day, the day when the centuries-long chain of Allenston shepherds had nearly been broken. He’d been moving the rams up that day too. Guy, not much younger than Thomas is now, had been waiting in the fold when one charged him, crushing him into the wall. His leg was badly broken and had never mended properly. A battering ram hadn’t been named as such for nothing. Guy had been forced to forgo the shepherd’s life to drive a carrier’s cart to and from Hexham.

  Bert looked over his shoulder. Thomas was still by the fold, pretending he hadn’t noticed him leave. It was only natural that he was frightened, but he was nearly a man now. Accidents happened; that was the way of life.

  “Look sharp, lad,” he shouted. “I want them in today!”

  Thomas shuffled down toward him, studiously studying a flurry of pipits as they tumbled through the air. The rams were already waiting at the paddock gate. There came a deep, throaty chortle and then a harsh thwack as one gave the gate an experimental push. Thomas knelt and untied then carefully retied one boot, then the other one.

  “Fetch them out, lad.”

  Bert leaned on his crook. Thomas looked up pleadingly, and he met his gaze impassively.

  “Can I take Shep?’”

  Bert hesitated, then nodded.

  Thomas carefully and slowly unfastened the gate. The four rams headed to the other side of the paddock where they watched boy and dog warily.

  Thomas walked toward them, taking care to keep Shep between himself and the rams. The dog seemed to sense his fear and kept close by him.

  A second later the rams ran through the gate and up the track. They knew exactly where they were going. Thomas looked utterly relieved. Bert nodded and they followed the rams up.

  There was a few seconds’ standoff before Molly pushed through the throng to rub noses with one of the newcomers. Then they all spread out toward the hillside, eagerly cropping the coarse grass as they headed toward the drove lane. It was always like they hadn’t grazed all day.

  “Look! Molly’s through the gate first! Shouldn’t the rams be leading the way?”

  They watched as she trotted through the gate, heading toward the open fell. The rest of the flock bunched to follow.

  “That’s the inviolable rule of pecking order, lad. As you’ll come to learn, women will always fuss over trivial things like that. Old Billy doesn’t care if he’s first or last through the gate, but with the ewes there’s hell to pay for jumping the line. We men, you see, have more important matters to think about.” They shared a superior gri
n.

  One sheep, an old and wily ewe that Bert had debated over whether to keep, paused under an ash sapling with a few leaves still hanging onto the lower branches.

  Thomas saw her eyeing up the leaves, which were just out of reach. “Stand on your hind legs, then you’ll reach them!”

  His amusement turned to amazement as the ewe proceeded to do exactly that. She hooked a front leg over a thin branch and her bodyweight pulled it down, pinning it to the ground as she stripped off the leaves.

  She was a resourceful old girl, Bert knew. That was why he’d kept her on. He guffawed at the look on Thomas’s face.

  “You can call her Jack-in-the-Box. You’ve still a lot to learn about sheep, lad.”

  10

  “The invaders,” Bran stated. “We’d thought they’d be content with the lush fat lands of the south?”

  “It seems not.” Don smiled shortly. “Their masculine pride in the fight. It now appears they want everything. They’re pushing farther and farther this way. Every hill and dale in the land will be under their thrall before they’re finished.”

  The news confirmed Bran’s fears. Both his meditations and his reasoning had told him the Pridani would not escape their attentions. Coll’s face twisted in anger and he bunched his fists.

  “Let’s face it, we’ve had several moons’ warning, which was more than the Iceni had. And we are prepared, however we decide to proceed.” Bran directed these last words at Coll.

  “They’re making those new outposts to the north into permanent camps, although with only a few warriors. Is that right?” he asked Don.

  The messenger nodded. “Just enough to make sure we remember they’re there. The one at Coria especially—they can control the ford over the Tyne that way.”

  “And that infernal road as well!” Bran couldn’t help but grimace. He and some other Druids had journeyed eastward to inspect the invaders’ new construction, and he’d understood the horrific principle at once. Just as the arteries of a man carry both blood and poison deep into the body, so this thing, gleaming like a venomous snake in the distance, was intended to do the same.

  They’d watched a small party of metal-clad warriors hastening north, the unnatural, synchronized movement of the group obvious even over the distance. None of them had believed there could be anything like these people. Not on Earth, nor in Annwfn.

  What had the Fomorii’s first impression of the Pridani been?

  The fire began to hiss, resonating like the approach of a thousand beating wings. His raven’s feathers seemed to flicker like they were coming alive. For a second he thought he could see glowing black eyes in the shadows.

  “The invaders are stretched very thin.” Don broke in on his thoughts. “They have taken possession of Catraeth, but as you know, the Brigantes don’t take kindly to being told what to do.”

  He laughed humorlessly and Fearn and Beth nodded seriously. Coll wiped a smear of grease from his chin. He seemed intent on devouring the entire joint of meat.

  “They must watch their backs at every step. Their water is poisoned, their huts burned, wagons stolen, horses loosed. They will soon wish they’d stayed in the south.”

  “Would that they had, too,” Beth murmured, cradling her belly with a faraway look in her eyes. Coll moved behind her to rub her shoulders and she leaned back against his solid thighs.

  “So we have our plan,” Coll stated. “We must attack their new outposts. Now. While they’re still weak. Raze them to the ground. If they think the Brigantes are bad . . .” He squeezed Beth’s shoulder and she flinched.

  Bran shook his head. “They will simply retaliate. We need to find a better way.”

  “You mean hide behind our new walls and ditches, cowering like beaten dogs, waiting for the nasty people to go away?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You’re a coward, Bran. You always were. We need a Pennaeth with strength, who can drive the enemy from our land. We’ll all be dead before you do anything.” Coll stepped forward, his hands on his hips emphasizing his iron-hard bulk.

  The fire crackled and spat in the pronounced silence. Bran looked coolly at the man’s face.

  Fearn spoke first. “Bran’s right. We all know what’s said about these invaders. We need a clear strategy, else we’ll be picked off and crushed like fleas in a fur.”

  Don nodded. “The more desperate they get, the more brutal. We’ve heard they took a dozen people from Catraeth in revenge for an attack. They were nailed to trees and left to die.”

  An audible gasp. Beth reached up and grasped Coll’s hand. Bran went cold. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind he heard the crows flapping. The room grew darker.

  Don dropped his empty cup onto the table and the spell was broken.

  “But if we can’t attack them, what can we do?”

  “The snows are late this year. That’s been to their advantage, as well as ours.” Don refilled his cup and turned to face them. “But within the next few days, the weather will turn.”

  Bran nodded. He’d thought as much himself. “What will happen then?”

  “They will remain within their forts and their huts. They will concentrate on staying warm and well fed until the spring comes and they can renew their war.”

  “Then we must attack at once. Drive them out. We can’t have them remaining among us like a nest of lice! We are just sitting around doing nothing. Nothing!”

  Coll’s fist punctuated every word. And people wondered why he’d not been cloaked.

  Beth levered herself up and laid a soothing hand on Coll’s arm. “I don’t want any more death. I’m sick of death.”

  Coll looked ashamed. He placed a sinewy, scarred arm around her thin shoulders.

  Don smiled, his eyes hard. “Death breeds life. Life for us, and for our children. What happens when dogs are kept chained inside? They grow fat and lazy. Their teeth go blunt.”

  He took a hunk of bread and ripped a mouthful away. “They have never known winters like we have,” he continued, his words muffled. “They have no idea of the might of the Cailleach. With her winds and snows and ice, she will drive them back. Drive them longingly to the warmth of their hearths.” He swallowed and his voice rang clear as ice. “And when they at last emerge . . .” He squeezed the bread in his fist. Crumbs fell to the floor.

  A log collapsed in the hearth, sending out sparks that rained down like drops of blood. Bran shuddered. None of the Pridani would pay heed to the idea that they may not defeat the invaders. There would be a few moons to reach a consensus, peaceable or otherwise, but—the King Stag came into his mind again—could it be their time which was at an end?

  “We will need a stock of good weapons, then.” Coll was looking thoughtful. “What weapons do they have?”

  “Swords. Like ours, but smaller. They won’t face a warrior in fair combat; they form ranks and lines that are unbreakable. It seems they have no champions or honor system at all. I’ve never had the fortune of observing them in battle, but from what I’ve heard, they are unnatural. Like they’re not even human. Their priests, their battle magic, must be vastly superior to ours.” Don glanced at Bran apologetically. “They show no fear of the war harps or the spells of the Druids. We can attack their camps with enough success, but in open battle we always lose.”

  Bran felt a throbbing pulse in his neck. “We must avoid battle, then. We must find a way to accept them and live together peacefully.”

  Beth looked at him with sudden hope. Fearn was thoughtful. But the expressions on the other men’s faces told him what a difficult task that would be.

  11

  Bert narrowed his eyes and studied as much of the coarse, short-cropped grass as he could make out. Then he looked farther across to the higher ground. The Fist was still indistinct in the deep blue predawn light. The clouds were just beginning to emerge into visibility, sailing across the distant sky. He could see nothing amiss.

  But they could.

  He was so familiar with his
sheep’s routine that any slight change was like the alarm call of a blackbird. They should be stretching at the first hint of morning, bracing themselves to shake the night’s frost from their fleeces, blarting to each other as they fanned out to seek the first bite of grass. Just as sheep had done since the dawn of time. Molly would then lead them across the burn and past the Fist, to the south-facing slope where the grass was best this time of year.

  But today they were just standing in a silent huddle. Something had frightened them.

  He walked to the edge of the group, his boots crunching on the frosty grass. Shep prowled along at his side, his ears pricked. He could sense it, too. Whatever it was.

  “What’s the matter, girls?” His voice rang loud in the silence.

  A few looked back at him and stamped their feet. He walked farther. The world was now rapidly emerging from its nighttime shroud, but still he couldn’t see any sign of a problem.

  Shep was staring at the clump of rowans down in the valley. Bert followed his gaze and shivered.

  Was it in there? Watching him?

  He imagined he saw a flicker of movement in the undergrowth, but the light was still too indistinct to know for sure.

  He gripped his crook harder and glanced back toward his bothy, estimating the distance and the number of seconds it would take.

  But he couldn’t do that. He couldn’t leave his sheep.

  He looked again at the rowans, searching for any more movement. Shep still hadn’t moved. A single quiet blart came from somewhere behind him.

  A blackbird began to sing somewhere among the trees. It was a familiar and intensely welcome sound, which at once dispelled the nightmare. The fells returned to how they should be. Familiar, safe, unthreatening. Home.

  The sky was now the color of summer scabious, then an orange sheen overlaid the blue. As the cold yellow orb rose above the horizon, the spell was broken.

  Molly was the first to walk slightly apart from the huddle, drop her head, and snatch a mouthful of grass. She checked to both sides as she began to chew. Gradually the others began to do the same.