The Mad Wolf's Daughter Read online

  Kathy Dawson Books

  Penguin Young Readers Group

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street

  New York, NY 10014

  Copyright © 2018 by Diane Magras

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Magras, Diane, author.

  Title: The Mad Wolf’s daughter / Diane Magras.

  Description: New York, NY : Kathy Dawson Books, [2018] | Summary: “In 1210 Scotland, when invading knights capture twelve-year-old Drest’s father, the Mad Wolf of the North, and her beloved brothers who make up his fearsome war-band, she sets off to rescue them from the castle prison, taking along a wounded knight as her captive to trade for her family’s freedom”—Provided by publisher.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2017040115| ISBN 9780735229266 (hardback) | ISBN 9780735229273 (ebook)

  Subjects: | CYAC: Adventure and adventures—Fiction. | Heroes—Fiction. | War—Fiction. | Knights and knighthood—Fiction. | Middle Ages—Fiction. | Family life—Scotland—Fiction. | Scotland—History—1057-1603—Fiction. | BISAC: JUVENILE FICTION / Action & Adventure / General. | JUVENILE FICTION / Family / Siblings. | JUVENILE FICTION / Historical / Medieval.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.1.M34 Mad 2018 | DDC [Fic]—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017040115

  Map art by Sophie E. Tallis

  Jacket art © 2018 by Antonio Caparo

  Jacket design by Maggie Edkins

  Version_2

  To Benjamin and Michael and in memory of Patricia Harrison

  CONTENTS

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT

  DEDICATION

  MAP

  EPIGRAPH

  the first day

  1: THE SHAPE IN THE WATER

  2: INVADERS

  3: GRIMBOL’S ORDER

  4: EMERICK

  5: THE TALISMAN

  6: THE WATER RAT

  7: WORDS WITH THE ENEMY

  8: THE BANDIT

  the second day

  9: THE TRADE

  10: THE FIGURE IN THE FIELD

  11: VILLAGE BOYS

  12: THE LAD OF PHEARSHAM RIDGE

  13: THE HEALER

  the third day

  14: THE FATE OF THE LADY CELESTRIA

  15: SOGGYWEALD

  16: MEREWEN

  17: THE WITCH’S SON

  18: THE STORY OF THE MAD WOLF

  19: THE STAG

  the fourth day

  20: THE DEAD

  21: BIRRENSGATE

  22: THE PAST

  the fifth day

  23: LAUNCEFORD

  24: THE STOCKS

  25: JUPP’S REVENGE

  26: ESCAPE

  27: THE WITCH’S GIFT

  the sixth day

  28: THE CROSSROADS

  29: FAINTREE CASTLE

  30: THE PRISON

  31: VENGEANCE

  32: LORD FAINTREE

  33: THE LEGEND BEGINS

  34: THE MAD WOLF’S WORLD

  35: RETURN TO PHEARSHAM RIDGE

  36: SANCTUARY

  CODE OF THE MAD WOLF’S WAR-BAND

  GLOSSARY

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  To the Mad Wolf’s lair the brave knights crept,

  their hearts in their throats, their swords in their hands;

  with a smile on his lips, the Mad Wolf slept,

  the Wolf and his sons, the whole band,

  aye, the Wolf and his sons, the whole band.

  ’Twas a battle at which no flags would flap,

  though swords would flash and men would fall, the Wolf would roar and his sons would snap.

  Be wary as the beasts-in-the-flesh loom tall,

  but be wary of the youngest most of all.

  —Anonymous, AD 1210, Faintree Castle

  the first day

  1

  THE SHAPE IN THE WATER

  The fog drew back upon the dark sea and revealed a gleaming point like a ship’s bow, which seemed to nod at the girl brooding by the glowing bonfire.

  “What’s that?” Drest leaned forward, her hand on her dagger.

  Her elbow dug into the shoulder of her brother Gobin, who lay with his arm slung over the fringe of his coal-black hair.

  “Gobin?” She poked him. “Are you awake?”

  “Nay.”

  “There’s something in the sea.”

  “I’m not awake, lass.”

  “It’s something wooden on the waves just past the dragons’ teeth.”

  His eyes flicked open, then closed. “Drest, dear, it’s a dream. Lie back. If you want to stay out here with us, you need to sleep.”

  Drest crept around the fire to Nutkin, Gobin’s twin, who lay in almost the same position, except it was his hand, not arm, that held back his black hair.

  “I’m not awake, either,” Nutkin said, a smile tweaking his lips.

  “We come home from war and you’re jumping at every sound,” muttered Uwen, her youngest brother. “Go to sleep, you crab-headed squid gut, or I’ll make you sleep in the cave with the snails.”

  Drest crawled back to the water’s edge. The sea was quiet. The night mist had swept in again. She listened, unmoving, the wind’s fingers riffling her short and uneven brown hair.

  Grimbol, her father, had always said that no boat or ship could reach their tight, protected cove, that the dragons’ teeth—the stones scattered over the harbor—were hungry for wood and men. And no man or devil would dare draw near the headland while her brothers and father were home.

  Yet something was there.

  Drest left the circle by the fire where her family slept and scrambled up the boulders behind the camp. She climbed over the crumbling stones, dead tree roots, and clumps of gorse, past the crag that looked over the spot of rocky beach where her brothers kept their boats, then higher, until she came to a point where the sea opened up before the headland. Above her rose the path to the cliffs. Behind her lay the caves where her family kept their supplies and slept when it rained. Over the water, the ash-gray fog stretched like smoke. Drest closed her eyes and listened.

  Waves, sloshing.

  The wind, gently breathing.

  Her father and brothers, snoring from below.

  A creak.

  Not just a creak, but a scrape as well, the rasp of wood on stone in the cove just past the dragons’ teeth. She knew that sound: a boat. And it was landing.

  Drest flew down the uneven cliff side, blind in the darkness but knowing her way. She pounded back into the camp toward the glow of the bonfire, and dropped to her knees beside her eldest brother.

  “Wulfric, there’s a boat in the water!”

  Wulfric opened his eyes a crack. “What are you saying, lass?”

  “A boat. Like one of yours! Lads, get up!”

  Heads rose around her. Her father turned over with a growl.

  “Our poor wee Drest’s had a nightmare,” murmured Thorkill, fingering the stone pendant he wore below his curly
ginger beard. “Was it Gobin’s battle story that kept you awake, lass?”

  “Nay, it’s not that! I heard a boat.” Drest stood, wincing at her brothers’ shaking heads. “Lads, I saw it!”

  “Keep your grub-spotted nightmares to yourself,” Uwen mumbled from beside the fire.

  Her brothers settled down again, grunting and grumbling, until she was standing alone.

  “Why won’t you listen? Do I ever tell stories? Lads, there’s a boat out there.”

  No one spoke.

  Drest opened her mouth, but before she could say anything more, the camp was bright with flames.

  2

  INVADERS

  They rushed from the shadows, men with massive swords and gleaming shields, their bucket-shaped helms hiding their faces.

  Drest’s brothers always slept beside their weapons, and were up and armed in seconds, but the invaders had gained an advantage. Nutkin ducked behind the fire and slid to avoid a blade. Wulfric fought from his knees and battered away the enemy who had fallen upon him. Shields crashed together. Swords shrieked against chain mail.

  In the middle of it stood Drest, far from her practice sword on the other side of the fire.

  A knight dropped his sword and slumped against her. Drest scrambled out from under him, and slammed into another knight’s shield, emblazoned with a tree, just like Wulfric’s battered one. Drest ducked, twisted, and crawled away. On the loose rocks by the path, she panted. She had never seen a battle, and the sight of it squeezed like an iron band around her chest.

  An unfamiliar grasp clamped onto her shoulder.

  Drest gave a cry and tried to plunge back into the fight, but an arm gleaming with chain mail grabbed her around the waist and dragged her away, up the path. She lashed out, kicking nothing but rocks and air.

  Her captor stumbled. Drest clawed at the stones, then at the hilt of a sword someone had dropped. Her fingers closed on the grip and she swung the blade back. A heavy note rang low and muted against the mail on the man’s legs.

  “So even a wee wolf like you has teeth.” The knight swung down his shield, knocking Drest’s sword from her hand.

  She kicked, a hopeless gesture. Yet not futile: Her long legs tangled with the invader’s, tripping him—and then she was rolling on the ground.

  A different arm—just flesh this time—hooked around her ribs and hoisted her up. Drest struggled, but her new captor held her tightly and sprang over the stones, higher and higher, on a path that only her family would have known.

  “Get out of here, Drest.” Her father’s grizzled face looked down into hers. “Make yourself scarce. Don’t come out unless I call or until the headland’s deserted. Understand? No fighting.”

  “But Da, what about Uwen?” Her voice came out cowering. Drest cleared her throat. “I’m his battle-mate, am I not? How will he fight without me at his back?”

  “I don’t want you down there.” Grimbol’s powerful hand cradled his daughter’s chin. “In a fight like this, your battle-mate is the man next to you. And I must be the man next to any of my lads who needs my help. Hide yourself, Drest. Do as I say. You’re part of the war-band now and that’s my order.”

  An enemy’s sword rose behind him. Grimbol ducked and kicked, sending the knight crashing down the path, then plunged after him, back to the fight.

  Holding in a sob, Drest scurried up the uneven cliff side, her father’s frantic order forcing her on.

  She reached a spot where the sea opened up beyond the cliffs, and stopped. Terror spread over her shoulders like a new skin.

  She belonged with Uwen. They weren’t ready to fight together, had not perfected Gobin and Nutkin’s speed and precision or Wulfric and Thorkill’s brute force, but they had achieved a point of trust where they could shuttle courage back and forth. That was the first and most important part of being a true battle-mate, her father always said. It was also the first rule of her father’s code of life and war.

  Yet Drest could not move, not for the world.

  She bowed her head. Uwen had to be safe. Their brothers were with him. The war-band had always returned after battles, sometimes wounded but never gravely so. They would win this attack. They always won.

  They had to.

  * * *

  • • •

  Drest climbed higher, wind gusts whipping at her tunic, until she reached the path to the sea cliffs, the highest point of the headland. On one side, the ravine and its forest loomed, a wall of darkness; on the other crashed the sea. Drest walked along the sea edge, careful to keep far from the ravine. Four years ago, Uwen had fallen there, and crashed to the bottom. It had been a game of chase and they’d been alone, with the war-band away at battle. It had taken a wee Drest hours to drag her brother up through the spindly trees and loose soil.

  At the cluster of rocks that looked like a crouching knight when the sun was low, she curled up, as if she were small again and playing a hiding game with Uwen.

  As still as stone, Drest listened for the sound of her father’s voice. All she could hear from that height was the slosh of the sea.

  A whole night seemed to pass as Drest waited, and still her father did not call. She was shifting her position, wondering what she would do if he never called, when another sound came: footsteps against the loose rocks close by.

  She almost stood, but stopped herself in time.

  A tongue of torchlight had appeared on the path.

  Drest ducked. None of her family would carry a torch. She slid down until she found a crack in the stones, and set her eye to it.

  Like phantoms from a nightmare, two men in chain mail and white surcoats with a blue tree in the center stepped out of the night fog, their swords glittering in their hands. One was thinner, smaller, and clearly younger, but both reeked of power.

  They advanced toward the clump of rocks as if they knew where she was hiding. At the dip in the path where Uwen had tripped, the smaller knight walked on, but the larger one, who carried the torch, stepped in it and stopped.

  “This is where you must stay.” The larger knight pivoted his back to the cavernous ravine and held his torch to illuminate the cliff before the sea. His face seemed flushed within his chain mail hood. “The ship will wait there.”

  “I was so close to their camp,” the younger knight insisted. He was slender, as wiry as Gobin, with a piece of fair hair sticking out from his chain mail hood. “Why did you keep me from it? Why bring me up here?”

  “Because you are young and untested. Sir Oswyn said—”

  “But I wish to see the battle!”

  “And have the Wolf come down on you with all his might?”

  “Do you think I can’t defend myself?” The young knight raised his sword and shield. “Will it make you feel better if I brandish these?”

  “You’ll trip over the rocks more likely,” muttered the red-faced knight. “Let me scout. I’ll be back faster than you’ll know.”

  Grumbling, the young knight set the tip of his long shield against the stone and leaned upon it. Soon the torchlight disappeared as the red-faced knight strode down the path.

  The young man sighed and shrugged. All at once, his shield slipped. With a clatter and scrape, he caught his balance.

  “God’s bones,” he swore softly.

  He could have been Gobin playing a joke, pretending to be clumsy. Or maybe he was clumsy, as Uwen could be in their practice battles.

  Or he was frightened, just as Drest was as she crouched behind the stones.

  She knew what would happen next. The red-faced knight would return and tell the young knight that the path was safe. They would approach the camp. They would step into someone’s sword—Wulfric’s or Thorkill’s, or even her father’s. The red-faced knight might run, but this one, this clumsy, frightened knight, would join the other knights who lay upon the ground.

  And bec
ause he made her think of Gobin, Drest sighed.

  The young knight flinched. “Who’s there?”

  Drest froze. He had heard her.

  “Who’s there, I said.”

  But he wasn’t speaking to Drest.

  In a blur, a dark figure sprang toward him from the path, sword aloft in his hand. The young knight raised his shield. But the dark figure’s shield struck it hard, and then his sword swung around and landed a solid blow upon the smaller man’s chest.

  It was as if Uwen were battling Wulfric. And there was no room behind the smaller man to retreat, not on the edge of the ravine.

  The dark figure’s sword struck again. The young knight escaped the full force of the blow to his shoulder, ducking and pivoting, but his heel landed in the dip in the path.

  His attacker seemed to know that. He threw his shield against his opponent’s. The young knight dropped his sword. His hand flew to his belt, as if for a dagger.

  But he had lost his balance and his attacker had already pulled back.

  The young knight disappeared into the ravine in a sliding, scraping, crumbling rush of stone. Tree branches snapped, and leaves rattled. Then all was silent.

  The attacker rocked back on his heels and waited. He cleared his throat.

  “Are you there?” he called.

  The voice stopped Drest cold.

  It was the red-faced knight.

  3

  GRIMBOL’S ORDER

  The red-faced knight picked up the young knight’s sword and, with a grunt, threw it toward the sea. There was a clatter, then a muted splash. The knight nodded and descended the path toward the camp.

  Trembling, Drest rose. The fight she had witnessed made no sense. In her father’s stories about the knights he had known, they had never battled among themselves.

  Drest slipped out from her hiding place and crouched on her hands and knees, leaning into the ravine to listen.

  Nothing.

  He was just a lad. He’d been scared in the dark, then attacked by one of his war-band. Now he lay dead at the bottom of the ravine.