From above, a chorus of jeers. She looks up, sees perhaps a dozen crows, flapping excitedly as they peer down at her from their perches along the gnarled, twisted limbs of a broad-bellied oak. She makes the sign of the cross to ward off the evil they carry. Are they the same birds as those corpse eaters they saw earlier? Are they following them, waiting, waiting, waiting for one of them to drop? Hoping for fresh meat to claw and rend and tear to shreds and gorge themselves upon? As if they hadn’t already had their fill.
She glares at them as she passes beneath. They settle back down, hunched within their feathers, and watch back with cold, jet-glistening eyes. The Devil’s messengers, her mother used to tell her when she was younger. She remembers how she was scolded when once she brought home a chick that had fallen from its nest, so small that its feathers were still downy, not yet black but charcoal-grey. Creatures of evil, her mother said. She’d made Tova, who was no more than seven years old at the time, hold it underwater in the rain barrel behind the kitchen until it stopped moving, all the while standing over her, watching to make sure it was done.
Tova shudders, and not because of the cold. How long is it since last she thought about her mother? How many years now since she died? Five? Six? She doesn’t remember any more.
Two broad-bellied oaks stand like sentinels on either side of the path, their stout limbs outstretched, branching into fingers that reach out to form an arch. She doesn’t have to look too hard at the knots and cankers to make out noses, eyes, ears.
Behind her, another rustle, another crack. She spins, searching in the direction of the sound.
Nothing.
She stares back up the path, past the twisted trunks and the fallen boughs, past the holly and the brambles, into the shadows. Breathing as shallowly as she can, she listens.
Nothing.
Show yourself, she thinks. If you’re there, show yourself.
But of course no one does. It’s her imagination again. Her lady is calling, telling her to hurry up, and she turns and follows.
*
Almost dark. Another day gone. Another day survived.
The woods are behind them, the moors even further. These gently sloping plains could belong to another kingdom entirely; they’re nothing like the high, craggy hills that Tova has grown up beneath. She has never felt so far from home in all her life.
Beorn says that, come the morning, they’ll need to start looking for the Tees river. There’s a place called Griseby, which is the lowest fording point and ought to be no more than a few hours’ ride from here. If they’re lucky they’ll be able to reach it before the Normans do, although the foreigners are fast riders, some of them almost born in the saddle.
‘And if we don’t?’ asks Merewyn.
‘Then we’ll have to follow the river upstream until we find a ford.’
‘And if they’re all guarded? What’s your plan then?’
‘Then I don’t know. We’ll find some other way, I suppose, even if it means . . .’
He trails off as he stops in his tracks, a frown on his face.
‘What is it?’ Tova asks. Earlier, she barely had the strength to keep going, but now that it’s nearly night-time and the rain is returning, she doesn’t want to stop. Not until they’ve found shelter. If they keep still for too long then she thinks she’ll freeze stiff, and not be able to move again.
But then she follows Beorn’s gaze towards a half-collapsed barn at the bottom of a hollow some way off the track ahead. And she sees what he sees.
An orange glimmer, so tiny as to be barely visible. A lantern? A campfire?
It might be a hundred paces away, or more like half a mile; in the gloom it’s hard to tell. A shadow moves briefly in front of the light. There’s someone there.
‘Is it them, do you think?’ she says, keeping her voice low.
His hand reaches to the loop in his belt from which his axe hangs. ‘Unlikely. The fire looks too small for it to be one of their raiding bands.’
It’s quiet. The rain is fine, more like a mist, and it makes not a sound as it falls. She remembers the laughter, the singing, the raised voices of the Normans last night. She doesn’t hear any of that. Maybe they’re just too far away.
He says, ‘I’m going to get closer. Stay here.’
He starts to move, but Merewyn grabs at his arm. ‘You’re not leaving us on our own. Not if the enemy are nearby. We’re coming with you.’
‘All right. But stay close to me, and don’t do anything unless I tell you to.’
Leaving the horses and their packs, they descend the track towards the source of the light, speaking not a word, moving slowly so as to make as little noise as possible, with Beorn leading the way.
The barn stands by a beck, under some alders, with the fire in front of it. Of whoever started it, there’s no sign.
‘Where did they go?’ Merewyn asks as they duck behind a bramble hedge.
Beorn glares at her, puts a finger to his lips and signals for them to keep low to the ground. They’re close now, so close that the slightest sound might give them away.
A man emerges from the barn. He stands between the fire and them, so Tova can’t easily make out his features, but he moves stiffly, with a slight limp and a weary look about him. Wispy hair straggles past his shoulders. To her eyes he seems old, although that doesn’t mean much. He must be about the same age as Skalpi, she thinks. Not for the first time, she wishes he were there with them. He would keep them safe. He would know what to do.
This man isn’t Skalpi. He’s not exactly fat but he’s wide around the middle, with a rounded face and pudgy-looking fingers. He’s no warrior. He lacks the stature: the broad shoulders, the sturdy arms. Neither, though, does he have the look of someone who has spent his years labouring in the fields and toiling at the plough.
‘He doesn’t look like one of them,’ she whispers. She means the Normans, of course.
Beorn nods but doesn’t say anything. His gaze is fixed upon the man. They’ve gone the whole day without seeing another soul, and now here at last, maybe, is someone like them. The flame she holds inside her warms, just a little. They aren’t the only ones, after all.
He carries a scrap of timber, which he tosses on to the flames, throwing up a cloud of sparks. He stands by the fire, staring at it, hardly moving, his arms folded tight against his chest. His lips are moving; he seems to be muttering something. To himself, though. There doesn’t seem to be anyone else about. Not that she can see, anyway.
Without warning he falls to his knees. His hands clasped tight, he bends forward, his chin pressed against his chest.
‘Forgive me, Lord,’ he cries into the night, loud enough that even from fifty paces away they can hear him, and he’s sobbing. ‘Forgive me, I beg you!’
Tova looks at her lady, and then they both look at Beorn.
‘What now?’ Merewyn asks.
But he has already made up his mind. Hefting his axe, he rises and, as silent as the night itself, darts out from their hiding place, towards the barn and the campfire and the kneeling, whimpering figure.
‘Beorn,’ Merewyn says. Too late: he’s already beyond earshot. Then, because she’s too scared to look for herself, she asks Tova, ‘What’s he doing?’
The fire is between Beorn and the other man as, keeping low to the ground, he approaches. Only when he’s less than twenty paces away does he slow. The man is still lost in prayer and hasn’t noticed him yet. No one else rushes out from the barn to challenge Beorn. Whoever this person is, he’s travelling alone.
Beorn’s waving to them, signalling something. He’s beckoning them over.
‘It’s safe,’ Tova says as she takes hold of Merewyn’s hand and helps her up. ‘Come on.’
They hurry after Beorn, stumbling across the ridges and furrows, Tova’s feet sinking into the soft earth. He’s nearly at the fire alre
ady. His axe remains in his hand. Just in case, she supposes. Still the older man’s head is bowed. He’s muttering to himself.
Beorn stops. He clears his throat.
The man breaks from his prayers and looks up. He sees Beorn, standing in front of him. His eyes widen in panic and his mouth opens, but no words come out. He tries to rise, but his feet find no purchase on the damp grass and he scrabbles on all fours as he backs towards the barn, trying to get away.
Beorn slides his axe back into his belt loop as he steps around the fire. ‘It’s all right,’ he says. ‘We’re English. We’re running from the Normans, just like you.’
The man is on his feet now, fumbling at his side for his knife. Gripping it in both hands, he holds it out in front of him warningly. His face is lit and Tova can see the wildness in his eyes.
‘No,’ he says, backing away. ‘You’re not taking it. I won’t let you. I won’t. I haven’t come this far to give it up just like that.’
‘We don’t want anything from you,’ Beorn says. ‘I told you, we’re English. We’re not the enemy.’
A golden cross studded with precious stones the colour of blood hangs from a chain around the man’s neck. It looks heavy. Maybe that’s why he walks with that stoop.
He looks askance at Beorn. ‘Who’s “we”? How many of you are there?’
Beorn glances over his shoulder, sees Tova and Merewyn, and beckons them out from the shadows. Nervously Tova steps forward, staying close to her lady. The heat of the fire is overpowering after the seeping cold of the fog and the wind and the rain.
The old man stares at them for a long time, and then slowly he lowers the knife, although he doesn’t put it away. He looks anxious and yet at the same time relieved.
‘Just the three of you?’
‘That’s right,’ Beorn replies and gives him their names. ‘What do we call you?’
‘Guthred.’
‘Are you alone, Guthred?’
‘Yes, I’m alone. I’m sorry. I don’t normally pull knives on folk. I thought you— You surprised me, that’s all. You’re the first souls I’ve seen in three whole days. Apart from the Normans, I mean. Every time I look over my shoulder, I expect to see my death coming. So far God has chosen to take pity on me, though he alone knows why.’
‘Would you mind if we shared your fire?’ Merewyn asks. ‘We’ve been travelling all day. We’re hungry and we’re cold.’
‘The fire you’re welcome to. I’m afraid I don’t have any food to offer, though. I haven’t eaten since, well, not since I fled.’
‘We can help, can’t we?’ Tova says brightly, turning to the others. ‘We have food. Not much, but some. Enough, anyway. We could trade.’
‘No,’ the warrior says and turns to Guthred. ‘We can’t spend the night here. It’s too exposed. We saw your fire from half a mile off, which means that others will too.’
Guthred shakes his head as he slides his blade back into its sheath. ‘The Normans have already been this way; they won’t be returning. I’ve seen them with my own eyes. A whole army. A thousand men, maybe, riding under a lion banner. I caught one glimpse of them riding along the valley bottom, and I turned tail, riding as hard as I knew how, knowing that if I didn’t and they were to spot me . . . Well, anyway, I got away, as you can see. Only a few hours after that I happened across the trail they’d left behind them. Nothing but ashes. I’ve seen some terrible things in my time, but never anything like this.’
‘The lion banner,’ Beorn mutters.
‘That’s King Wilelm’s emblem, isn’t it?’ Tova asks, and he nods. She has never seen it herself; she only knows because she has heard others mention it in their stories. It was the banner he fought under when he slew his rival Harold, the true king, at Hæstinges.
Beorn asks Guthred, ‘Where did they go?’
‘North, I think. Following the course of the old Roman road. I don’t know any more than that. When I saw them they were riding hard. They seemed in a hurry, and I didn’t stay to watch what they were doing. Please, if you do have any food that you can spare—’
‘How long ago was this?’
‘Yesterday. Truly, if I knew anything more, then I’d tell you. I can only say what I’ve seen.’
‘It’s nearly dark, Beorn,’ Merewyn points out. ‘We’re going to need to find shelter somewhere soon anyway. This is as good a place as any we’re going to come across.’
Tova folds her arms tight across her chest. Now that they’ve stopped moving, she’s beginning to feel the cold again. Like Merewyn, she doesn’t want to carry on riding through the drizzle for another hour or more.
‘There’s space enough for all of you,’ Guthred says, gesturing towards the barn. ‘It doesn’t look like much, I know. It’s the best I could find. At the moment it’s just me and Whitefoot.’
Tova asks, ‘Whitefoot?’
‘My horse. My one true friend in all the world. The only one I have left, anyway. But enough of my woes. You don’t need to hear about that. Please, come. You must be freezing.’
‘Our packs,’ Merewyn says suddenly. ‘We left them with the horses.’
‘I’ll go,’ Tova offers. She doesn’t feel so nervous now.
*
The animals haven’t wandered far; in fact they’re more or less exactly where they left them, chewing contentedly on what meagre grass there is beside the track.
‘Just a little further now,’ she says to them as she rubs Winter’s flank. ‘Then we can rest.’
She notices that one of her saddlebags is hanging open at one end. She goes to tighten the strap, but that’s not the problem. It’s the buckle itself that’s bent. She curses but knows it’s her own fault. She shouldn’t have tried to cram so much into it this morning.
There’s nothing she can do about it now. She takes hold of the reins and turns—
And stops still. And screams.
A figure blocks her path, its features in darkness. A night-stalker, a shadow-wight. As tall as a man. Taller.
Tova backs away as quickly as she dares. She can’t feel her feet. She can’t breathe.
‘No, no, no, no,’ it says hurriedly as it follows her. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you. I thought you heard me.’
It speaks. Not a wight, then. A man.
‘Stay away from me,’ she says, for all the good it’ll do.
A weapon is what I need, she thinks. But he’s hardly five paces away. If she so much as reaches for her knife, he could be upon her in an eyeblink. And even if she had it in her hand now, what would she do with it?
‘I’m not going to hurt you, I swear.’
She keeps backing away but he keeps on coming at her. Where can she go? She could turn and run but he’ll surely be faster. The horses have run off down the track, startled by the noise.
Another time, in another place, it started just like this. Herself and him alone: she helpless, trapped, with nowhere to go . . .
‘It’s all right. I’m not what you think. I’m not one of them. My name is Oslac. I came across your horses and saw the fire. I saw you talking to the old man. I didn’t know that there were any other friendly folk left alive until I saw you all. I thought the Normans had done for everybody. Please, don’t be frightened. Don’t run away. I’m on your side, really I am.’
The words come tumbling out, like water from a burst weir. His voice is young, with a drawl that makes her think he isn’t from these parts. His features are in shadow so it’s hard to say what he looks like, but he doesn’t sound much older than her. Certainly he can’t be any older than Merewyn.
He’s no longer advancing. This is her chance, she knows, if she wants to take it.
But she doesn’t. He sounds earnest, and, in a way, as lost and as desperate and as afraid as she is.
Then she remembers. The sounds she heard, back in the woods.
> ‘You lie,’ she says.
‘What?’
Now that her heart’s no longer beating quite as fast, she sees him properly for the first time. He wears a cloth cap, cone-shaped with the point drooping forward. Flaps covering his ears. Tufts of curly hair springing out from underneath.
‘You were following us, weren’t you? It was you earlier, I know it was, so don’t try to pretend otherwise.’
‘So what if I was?’
‘Why?’ she asks. ‘Why were you following us?’
‘Tova!’
She turns. Merewyn is running towards her, limbs flailing. Behind her is the old man, Guthred. In front of them both, charging with his axe in his hand, is Beorn.
Oslac spreads his arms wide to show he means no harm, but Beorn doesn’t care. He seizes the newcomer by his collar, nearly lifting him off his feet as he forces him back against the nearest tree. Oslac yells a protest, but the warrior isn’t listening. He brings his knife up to the other man’s face, so that he can see just how wicked is its edge.
‘If I hear you’ve harmed her,’ he says, ‘your death will come so quickly you won’t even have time to scream. And don’t think I won’t do it. When you’ve killed as many men as I have, one more is nothing.’ He calls over his shoulder: ‘Are you all right?’
This last is directed at her, Tova guesses.
She swallows and says, ‘I’m all right.’
‘Who are you?’ Beorn growls at the younger man. ‘Speak!’
Wide-eyed, he opens his mouth but can’t seem to find the words. For all his height, he looks small beside Beorn.
‘His name is Oslac,’ Tova offers. ‘He’s been following us.’
‘He has a tongue of his own, so let him use it,’ Beorn says, and then to his captive, ‘Well? Is what she says true?’
Oslac’s mouth opens again and closes. And opens. And closes.
Beorn pulls harder on the younger man’s collar, shaking him so hard that his cap falls from his head. ‘Answer me!’
‘It’s true,’ he says quickly. ‘Yes, it’s true.’
‘You were following us? Why?’
‘Because I thought you might be friendly.’
The Harrowing Page 6
