Today we know many families who have problems with dysfunction, it is easy to think that this is a modern phenomenon. But look back through history and we find many such families: The Godwinsons, the Plantagenets, the Tudors, are just three I am sure, of many historical families who were plagued with problems within their clans. So it was no issue to write about the difficulties of a historical fictional family, whose difficulties functioning as a well balanced family would not be unfamiliar in a modern soap opera.
This scene comes to you care of The Wolf Banner, second in the Sons of the Wolf Saga. I hope you find this enjoyable.
She was gone. A cold wind blew, and in the darkened ether, clouds of frost emanated from his breath. As he stood watching her go until she disappeared into the winter mist, it seemed to him that God had reached down and touched his heart with ice. Wulfhere struggled down off the rampart, legs carrying him as though made of lead.
Wulfric was waiting for him, blocking the way. The skin on his face was so white with cold it blanched even the freckles on his face, contrasting starkly against the red of his hair. “Why did you let her go?” he demanded as Wulfhere stood before him.
“Leave it, Son. I do not wish to quarrel with you… not now.”
“The hell I will leave it!”
Wulfric mirrored him as he tried to move out of his way. “Come on, Father. Tell me. Why did you let him win?”
Wulfhere tried to skirt him. Wulfric pushed him and he staggered slightly. “Don’t.” He knew he sounded pathetic.
“What’s wrong with you? Are you turning coward? There was a time when you would have torn Helghi limb from limb rather than let him win this thing.”
“I do not have to justify myself to you,” Wulfhere said, with more conviction. “Fully grown men do not always think of consequences when they do violence. A sixteen-year-old thinks even less of them.” He moved to pass him, but again Wulfric refused to let him.
“I say you have lost your nerve.” Wulfric spat. Wulfhere made no move to retaliate and frustrated, Wulfric pushed him again. “You are a coward. What kind of a man allows his daughter to be carried off by the murderer of his son?”
Wulfhere’s blood rose, though he quelled the desire to do damage to his son. He knew what it was he saw in the boy’s eyes because he felt it himself. Loathing, and hunger for vengeance.
“Don’t you think I want the same as you? It is revenge I want. I want to see Helghi flailing on the end of a rope! I want to see his eyes bulge, soiling his breeches, crying for mercy!”
“Spare me the sermon, Father, I’ve heard it before, remember? In Kings Holme.”
It was Wulfric who turned to walk away this time. Wulfhere caught his arm. “It will come, Wulfric, I swear it.”
“When?”
“That, I cannot say. But trust me, it will.”
Wulfric sneered cynically. “When Wulfwin and I were bearns, he would comfort me when I feared the dark. He was never afraid of anything, because of you. He used to say to me, ‘Do not be scared, brother, Father will never let anything happen to us.” His voice cracked. It was as if a sob had caught in his throat. “I wonder what he thinks of you now, to see the weakling you have become. He asks me every night, Father, ‘Where is my vengeance, Wulfric?’ And every night I must tell him, I do not know.”
Wulfric’s words ripped through him. Roused beyond boiling point, he threw his son to the ground and crouched over him, holding him down by his throat.
“Do you think it was easy to let her go? To him, knowing he killed my son. Knowing that because of him my brother died – that Esegar died – and there is nothing I can do about it? Do you think it has not torn my heart out? You know nothing of what I have just been through in my head. Fighting is easy! I could swat a man like a fly, could crush the life out of you, but–” He felt his hands tighten around Wulfric’s neck, the boy’s eyes watering, as he tried to extricate himself from the chokehold. “Coward, am I? It takes more courage to walk away than to fight. Aye, it takes more courage than you will ever know, to see your beloved daughter stolen from you, and not be able to do anything about it.”
Wulfric’s face had reddened. Wulfhere let him go, and rising to his feet, stepped over him, and strode, his damaged leg dragging, back toward the hall.
“Father!” Wulfric caught up with him. “You have fought many battles. You fought and won the cheampa. Men sang your praises in the warrior hall…”
Wulfhere halted, turned and closed in on him, head to head. They locked horns. He, the old stag, felt the heat of the younger stag’s anger, trying to overthrow him. “Do not even think to talk to me of the things you know nothing of.” Wulfhere pulled away. “You will regret your words one day – by God, you will! Aye, you will learn in the fullness of time… if you get there.”
“You have lost your mind. We are warriors! Wulfsuna! – a bloodline that stretches back through our family since the first sons of the wolfcame to this land.”
“Aye, we are warriors. But there are many kinds of battles to fight other than the ones you fight in the field. As you go through life, you will find out what they are! Now, get out of my way, lyttel mana!” He had said the last as an insult, then instantly regretted it, but kept walking.
Wulfhere returned to the warmth of the hall. Wulfric slumped in after him, head bowed. He went to his mother who was sobbing in Sigfrith’s arms, and said a farewell, kissing her cheek.
“Where do you go, my son?” she asked him as he collected his things. “Am I to lose all my children?”
“I go to Leofnoth. I’d rather eat pig shite for the rest of my life than stay here,” Wulfric said, venomously.
“What about me?” Cynethryth hurried to his side.
“You may come, if you wish,” Wulfric said, joylessly. He went through the doors, carrying his shield strapped over his shoulder and his spear in his right hand. Cynethryth grabbed her cloak and hood and ran after him.
“Don’t let him go, Wulfhere!” Ealdgytha urged him.
“He will come back in his own time.”
“Just as Winflæd will come back, I suppose,” Ealdgytha retorted.
Her words stabbed his heart.
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