grinned. 'Who's to know? A whisper planted in the right ear, and afore you count the claws on a cat the whole town is certain it's true though no man can remember who told him of it. It'll take them a while to untangle those whispers. Thing is, if this Raoul was one of Osborn's men, I reckon that means Osborn knows his runaway is in Norwich. He doesn't know where yet, else his man would not have been asking questions. But when Osborn returns and learns his man's been murdered, he's not going to take that kindly. And he won't be so easy to cod as those frog-wits the sheriff has working for him.'
Gytha was pulling her bucket up from the spring when she heard a furious grunting and crashing in the bushes behind her. She whirled round. A great boar was standing not a man's length in front of her, his flanks heaving as he panted for breath. The beast's red mouth hung open, and his long yellow tusks curled up over his cheeks, dagger-sharp. He lifted his hairy black head and snouted the air.
Gytha stayed quite still. She knew those tusks could rip the guts out from her belly in one swift jerk of his great head. They said that when it was hunted, a boar's tusks grew so hot they would burn the fur from a hound. She had a healthy respect for the beast, but she was not afraid. She lifted her hand slowly, palm open, reciting a charm under her breath calling on the ancient ones, on Freyr and Freyja, whose sacred boar with the golden glowing mane illuminated the darkest storm. The beast blinked his tiny red eyes.
'Whist now, whist,' Gytha said softly.
The boar turned a little and as he did, she saw the blood dripping from a gash on his hind leg on to the green blades of grass. Gytha had heard the distant calls of a hunting horn earlier that morning and the excited baying of the hounds. This beast had doubtless been their quarry. He had been wounded, probably by a spear. Gytha knew by now he would be tormented by thirst. That was all the poor creature wanted, water. He could smell it.
Moving as slowly as she could, she tipped her bucket, letting the water trickle out towards the boar. Most of the water soaked away before it could reach him, but it was enough to make him lower his massive head towards the muddy trickle. Gytha used that moment's distraction to edge away to the side of the spring, leaving a clear path for the boar. Pulled by his raging desire to drink, the beast lumbered forward, pushing his snout deep into the clear, cold pool.
A boar's eyesight is poor, but Gytha knew that he could sense any movement and if he did, he would charge. So she stood quite still, trusting that once he had sated his thirst he would move off.
Both woman and beast lifted their heads as one as they heard the sound of snapping twigs and blundering footsteps. Someone was crashing through the bushes towards them. The boar swung round with an agility that belied his great bulk and squared himself to the direction of the sound, snorting and lowering his head for the charge. Whoever was coming would have their legs ripped open by those tusks before they even realized what was thundering towards them.
As she bellowed a warning, Gytha snatched up a stone and flung it at the rocks behind the spring; it hit them with a resounding echo, then splashed into the water. The boar whipped round in the direction of the sound. Whoever was in the bushes had the sense to stand still. The boar charged towards the pool, then stopped, turning his head this way and that, snuffling the air.
Again, Gytha held up her hand and recited the charm. Then, in the distance, she heard the blast of the hunting horn and the far-off baying of the hounds. With a grunt, the boar turned, crashing off through the undergrowth away from the barking dogs. And Gytha finally let her hand drop.
The bushes parted and a man stepped out. Gytha could see at once this was no charcoal burner. His fine red leather gloves and boots were not fashioned by any cordwainer in these parts. Nor was he a man who needed to hunt to fill his family's hungry bellies, for the flash from the gold thread on the trim