I sat by the window of my small room, looking out over the yard, the busy stables to the right, and Northgyth and Hildfrith speaking by the door. I waved to them through the opening. They waved back. Hildfrith and her daughter had not long arrived, and it was very good to see them again. I watched as the tall, fair Ailred led their horses away to be cared for. Everyone here knew how to care for horses. Everyone here was from the Mark.
Northgyth, garbed in an oft used grey and silver robe, led the two travel worn women in through the main door. I moved away from the ledge. The walls of the house were thick and strong, but I did not want to inadvertently overhear anything. Hildfrith and Bronaa would speak to me in time, if they wished. They would be shown rooms, made as comfortable as possible, appointed, though not ordered to do tasks. I suspected Northgyth would be asked to take over cooking from Ailred. Although the latter tried, she had little finesse. Her overly large hands had trouble with a ‘pinch’ of anything. Large portions, largely tasteless, was her style. Good at preparing sustaining trail food, she was not a trained cook.
Oh, I had helped several times since my arrival. I was better than Ailred, but Northgyth had said, and I agreed, I was to concentrate on healing, on growing healing herbs, preparing tinctures, making best quality bandages. They were all things I could give my heart to. With my aged father installed in one or the four rooms in the barn, made over to a warm and restful ‘home’ for any men, I was free again to follow…..to follow my calling?
It had been a strange day though. I felt different in a manner I had not for some time. Not concerned or weary in any way. The white wolf had been lying snoring at the door to the room. She would not be calm had there been any threat or danger. But there had been a name spoken that brought back memories to both she and I.
“Wolfhere,” the name called out to a man in the Market place just after first light. I had turned instinctively, without thought, without acknowledging he was long dead. But it wasn’t him, not my Wolfhere, not Isa’s.
My Wolfhere had died a boy- man of sixteen winters. He had been one at home in the wilds, but certainly not full grown. Brown of hair, and amber-brown of eye, neither handsome nor unhandsome, he had just been different. It was the wolf of course, though when we first met neither of us had realised it. He had been my first love, until we ran away to be together, and he was slain by an orc and a warg while trying to defend me. Isa had slain them in turn.
But no, the man called upon was obviously one from the wilds from his garb and appearance, but that was as far as any similarity went. He was tall and ginger of hair, with a pale freckled face, blue eyes and very thin, drawn lips. I had nodded to him in passing as I was about to purchase eggs (Until we had our own chickens settled) He nodded politely back, but had no interest in conversatiion. He wanted meat jerky and a new water skin. Then he would be gone.
And I walked back to the house, eggs in basket, and Isa rubbing against my legs.
“I know,” she said. “But a name is not a man. Nor will this one ever be the one we lost.”
I knew he was dead. Many years past. I knew there would be no return, and had tried to move on with what I thought was to be my life. But there were moments, rare and unasked for, when I thought I could hear the real Wolfhere again. And alone, in my room or in the wilds, I would shed a tear or two.
