Free Daughter of the Wolf by Victoria Whitworth Page B

head, and she set her hands to the wooden top-plates of the leather bags that were the life and breath of the forge.
    â€˜Apron.’
    She glared at him. ‘It’s too hot.’
    â€˜I don’t care.’ And when she didn’t move, he said, ‘ Sparks . Your mam will have plenty to say to me if I send you home with cinder holes in your dress again.’ When she stuck her tongue out at him, he laughed.
    â€˜Let me take my dress off then.’
    â€˜No.’ Her father raised his hammer, only half-playful. ‘You’re plain enough as it is, I don’t want you scorched as well. Put that apron on.’
    â€˜You let Cudda work naked apart from the apron.’
    â€˜Cudda’s a lad.’ He raised the hammer again. ‘I’ll have no more of this, Wynn.’
    She snorted with frustration, but she knew when to stop testing her father’s patience and without further fight she unhooked the leather apron and pulled the strap over her head. Stiff, weighty enough to drag at the back of her neck, and it came down almost to her ankles.
    â€˜Good lass.’
    She looked up briefly and grinned. Despite the upright stones between her and the fire-pit the heat struck her face as a solid thing. Up, down, up, down, her whole body straining to find the right rhythm, and slowly the bags filled with air and the charcoal in the forge began to glow once more, red, then orange. Cuthred picked up his hammer and tongs, and thrust the bent and twisted sickle deep into the radiant heart.
    â€˜Hey!’
    The smith never looked up as his son came running in, but Wynn twisted round, somehow managing to keep the rhythm of the bellows steady.
    â€˜That’s my job! Get out of it, chicken-bones!’
    Her brother was breathing hard, his fair skin flushed and damp, tunic filthy, bare legs spattered with mud. But he showed no sign of remorse for his lateness. Gripping the tongs carefully, Cuthred moved the bar over to the squared stone that served as his smaller anvil, squatted and began to beat with swift, measured strokes.
    Cudda said no more. Both he and Wynn knew that to interrupt at this point was to bring down their father’s wrath. As the fiery curve of metal began to dim, slowly regaining its true shape under the steady, clanging blows, their eyes met.
    â€˜Where have you been?’ Her mouth shaped the words but made no sound. She frowned as she took in the dark spatter on the skirt of his tunic, and this time she did speak aloud. ‘Is that blood ?’
    Cudda grimaced. He was about to say something, but glanced swiftly at their father and put his finger to his lips. The hot metal hissed as Cuthred thrust the sickle into the bucket of water that stood by the forge, and a sudden gust of steam billowed sideways through the smithy.
    His children knew to wait until Cuthred had added the finished sickle to the pile. ‘Right, lad. Take over at the bellows.’ He reached over to grab another damaged blade, then paused, weighing it in his hands. ‘You’ve been with Athulf again.’ His voice admitted no doubt.
    â€˜And if I have?’ Cudda’s voice had a higher pitch than usual, and Wynn gave him another sideways look.
    â€˜I’ve told you before. Your place is here.’
    â€˜He told me to come—’
    â€˜Athulf’s not your master!’
    Cudda stared at his father. ‘Athulf will be master here one day. He wants me as one of his men.’
    Wynn held her breath, hoping for trouble. There had been a lot of this lately.
    But, ‘Athulf, master?’ Cuthred turned and spat into the fire. ‘You’re dreaming. Stupid boy. Get to work.’
    After a long moment, Cudda tugged his tunic off over his head and held out a hand for the apron. Wynn folded her arms across her chest. ‘I was here first. I was helping—’
    â€˜Give.’
    â€˜Come on, Wynn,’ Cuthred said. ‘Don’t you start making trouble.