Towards the barn, where stands a figure. A shadow among shadows. He tosses his bow aside; in his hand instead is an axe.
The first of the Normans hurls himself at the newcomer. The axe blade whirls, gleaming silver in the moon’s light. It crashes into the foreigner’s mailed stomach, sending him sprawling, and the stranger is spinning away, ducking beneath a sword swing as he heaves his axe around, into the shin of the next man.
A crack. The blade sinks through flesh into bone. The Norman gives an unholy scream as he falls.
‘Run!’ the stranger barks. With the barn to his rear, he sets himself to face those who are left. Dark hair trails over shoulders as broad as an ox’s. He wears no byrnie, no helmet. ‘Run!’
It takes Tova a moment to understand what he’s saying: first that he’s speaking English, and then that he means herself and Merewyn.
Rising, she extends an arm to help her lady up. Merewyn clasps it and is halfway to her feet before she falls back down again, crying out. She must have injured herself when she fell. Once more Tova tries, this time with both hands. She’s strong for her size, or so she has often been told, but it’s a struggle all the same. She grits her teeth as she places one arm under Merewyn’s shoulder.
A ring of steel. A roar of anger. A howl of pain.
Tova glances up as the stranger’s blade strikes a Norman’s cheek, slitting his face open from ear to chin. Blood and teeth fly; he goes down heavily, limply, like a sack of grain, and the stranger is twisting away, teeth bared, roaring as he does so.
Two still standing.
Two, when moments ago there were five.
One is bent over, clutching at his stomach with his shield hand. He staggers forward, but he is slow, unsteady on his feet. The stranger is on him before he can raise his shield or get out of the way. He buries his axe in his foe’s neck. The Norman falls and doesn’t get up. The stranger snatches up his shield from where it lies.
Leaving just one.
‘Behind you!’ Tova screams. The giant is coming at him again, sword in hand.
She doesn’t know if the stranger hears her, or if he has already sensed the danger. He turns just in time to meet the giant’s sword strike upon his shield, and another and another and another still. Scraps of hide flail loose from the wood as the stranger is forced back under the hail of blows towards the barn.
One pace. Two, three, four. Nearly stumbling. He’s struggling. Tiring. And if he falls then the giant will come after them next.
She has to do something. That’s the only thought going through her mind as she glances about for the corpse of the bearded man, the one who was arrow-shot.
There, close by the well.
Ignoring Merewyn’s shouts, she runs towards the body. His sword arm is outstretched, his weapon still in hand. Clumsily, trying not to retch, she prises his limp, still-warm fingers away from the hilt and snatches it up. It’s lighter than she’s expecting, but even so she needs both hands to lift it.
The Norman hasn’t yet noticed what she’s doing, but the stranger has.
‘No,’ he yells above the crash of steel. ‘While you can, run!’
He can’t hold out for ever, she sees. His shield droops, exposing his face. Into that opening the giant lunges. The stranger ducks again, and the blade misses by a hair’s breadth. But the Norman hasn’t finished yet. He throws himself at the stranger, hammering upon his shield, hacking splinters from the boards.
And Tova sees that the stranger won’t last much longer. One leg slips out from beneath him as his foot loses purchase on the mud. He falls to one knee—
‘No!’ Tova cries out.
Reason gives way to instinct. Before she knows it she’s rushing forward, wielding the sword in both hands, breathing hard, feet pounding the dirt, her eyes stinging and blurred with the sweat running into them. Summoning all her strength, she raises the blade as high as she can, fixing her gaze on the giant’s mailed back, picturing in her mind how she’ll bring it crashing down, and again and again, until he lies prone and she can ram the steel through his mail and his flesh, through his ribs and into his heart—
He hears her coming; his head whips round. Her heart all but stops as he starts to turn. It’s too late to change her mind. She heaves the blade, screaming without words.
The point tears through his sleeve below the mail, biting into flesh. A glancing blow. He howls and staggers back. Tova yelps as the weight of the weapon pulls her through the stroke, off balance. She staggers sideways, almost tripping over her own feet, somehow manages to stay upright. The giant turns to face her again, and she sees the promise of death in his eyes.
This is it, she thinks. Her feet have taken root. The sword lies heavy in her hands. She knows that she has to lift it, has to try somehow to defend herself, but she can’t.
Unable to fight and unable to run.
He steps towards her, raising his sword for the blow that she knows will pierce her neck or crack her skull, slice her open or run her through—
And he stops.
His mouth hangs open as if in surprise. Wide eyes gaze without seeing. His lips tremble but make no sound. Then his sword falls from his grasp; his legs give way, and he sinks first to his knees before finally crashing to the mud.
Tova backs away slowly. At any moment she expects him to rise. But he doesn’t. A broad gash decorates his neck. Blood trickles down his back, pooling on the ground, where it mixes with the dirt and the water.
Dead.
And not just him. All five of them. Every single one, in little longer than it would have taken Father Thorvald to intone the Paternoster.
The stranger stands, his fingers still curled around his axe’s handle. Even in the darkness she can see the blood spattered across his tunic and his face.
Five men dead by his hand, and not a scratch upon him. Five knights of Normandy. Warriors whose skill at arms she has heard so many tales about.
His brow gleams with sweat. Beneath it, his eyes are hollow pits. Like a wolf’s, Tova thinks, and she knows because she happened to see one prowling in the dusk not that long ago, a week before Christmas. Except that these eyes are less friendly. Her mother often used to tell her that you could glimpse a person’s soul by meeting their gaze, but if that’s true then it seems to her that his has already fled.
Tangled hair hangs in lank strands, clinging to his forehead and to his cheeks. His clothes are threadbare, torn in places and frayed at the hems. On his arms, countless scratches and grazes, as if he has been dragged through a briar patch.
A wild man, she thinks. One of those outlaws who are said to dwell in the marshes and the hills and the woods, who prey upon travellers, who waylay messengers, purse bearers and reeves. She has heard the rumours.
‘Put it down, girl,’ he says. ‘You don’t want to fight me.’
At first she doesn’t know what he means. She stares back at him, too frightened to do anything else. There’s a scar on his lip that she guesses he has carried for some time. Another beneath his right eye that looks more recent. Crooked nose. Gaunt face.
That’s when she realises she’s still clasping the sword. The cord of the grip digs into her grazed palms, and her arms are tiring under its weight.
‘I’m not going to hurt you,’ he says as he lets his axe fall to the ground. He raises his hands, his palms facing outwards.
Slowly she lowers the blade, then drops it. Her heart is still pounding; she can barely feel her feet.
Then suddenly Merewyn is at her side, throwing her arms around her, asking if she’s hurt, if she’s all right. Tova nods and tries to speak but she can’t find the words. She’s shaking, and doesn’t know how to stop.
But for this stranger she’d be dead. That Norman would have run her through, cut her apart. How close she came, she realises suddenly.
She glances at the still bodies of the enemy
, then swallows to moisten her throat.
She can hardly believe she’s still alive. ‘You killed them.’
‘I didn’t have any choice,’ he says. ‘They’d have killed you otherwise.’
‘Who are you?’ Merewyn asks, her voice trembling.
He keeps his distance, like he’s afraid of something. Like he’s wary of getting too close.
‘No one,’ he says. ‘Just someone trying to survive.’
‘Do you have a name?’
‘Beorn.’
‘Just Beorn?’
Not Beorn of someplace, Tova thinks. Or Beorn somebodysson.
‘As I said,’ he answers. ‘What about you? What do I call you?’
‘Tova,’ says Tova.
He nods appreciatively. ‘A good name. My mother’s sister’s name.’
She catches her lady glaring at her, and at first she doesn’t know why, but then she remembers. They were supposed to be keeping their names secret.
Beorn turns to Merewyn. ‘And you?’
She’s still moving gingerly, Tova sees. She must have hurt her ankle when she fell.
‘Merewyn,’ she replies reluctantly.
‘You shouldn’t be out wandering these hills on your own. There are enemy raiding parties everywhere, swarming these hills, hunting for folk like you. You need to find somewhere to hide, and quickly, until they’ve gone back south.’
‘Raiding parties?’ Tova asks, feeling a chill run through her body. ‘There are others out there? More Normans?’
‘You mean you haven’t heard?’
She exchanges a glance with Merewyn. What is he talking about? ‘Heard what?’
‘Listen, girl. I don’t know where the two of you have come from, or where you’ve been these past few days, but it’s not safe for you here.’
‘The Normans are coming?’ Merewyn asks. ‘You know this for sure?’
‘I know,’ he insists. ‘Not just a few of them, either. Hundreds. Thousands, even. King Wilelm is on the march, and his entire host with him. The biggest army ever seen north of the Humbre, the likes of which you’ve never even imagined. They’re laying waste everything they can find, slaughtering every living thing: every man, woman, child or beast whose path crosses theirs. No one is safe. If you had any sense you’d already be long gone. I thought everyone had already fled. Haven’t you seen the fires? The hall burnings?’
Tova stares at him. Hall burnings? King Wilelm marching?
‘I don’t understand,’ she says.
‘Because they’re the enemy,’ Beorn replies. ‘Because that’s what they do. I’ve seen it happening with my own eyes, so believe me when I tell you.’
‘Oh God,’ Merewyn says in a small voice. She raises a hand to her mouth. ‘The smoke. It was them. The Normans. It was their doing. It must have been.’
‘Smoke?’ Tova asks, frowning. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Yesterday. Ælfric saw it yesterday evening, just before dark. When he came back, he told us. He spotted it while he was out riding the manor bounds. To the south, some miles away, he said. Thick black smoke, like a whole village had gone up in flames. He came back as soon as he saw.’
‘You never said anything.’
‘Because we didn’t know what it meant. We didn’t want to make people afraid for no reason, so we agreed to keep it to ourselves. Ælfric, Orm, Ketil, Thorvald and I. We were the only ones who knew. Oh God. We shouldn’t have waited. We should have warned everyone straight away. We should have started making ready to leave, just like Thorvald said. And now what if it’s too late? Tova, what if the Normans have been? We need to go back. We have to.’
Tova clasps Merewyn’s trembling hand in her own. ‘We can’t. You know we can’t.’
Her eyes are wide. ‘Do you think they got away? What if they didn’t?’
‘They will have. They must have. I’m sure of it.’
‘How can you be sure?’
Desperately Tova glances around, but Beorn has gone. He’s walking away, down the track.
‘Beorn, wait!’
On hearing his name he stops and turns.
Tova runs after him. ‘Where are you going?’
‘To find their horses and search their packs. To see if they have anything I might use. Then I’m heading north.’
Tova’s heart sinks. ‘You’re leaving us?’
‘You don’t want to come with me. Believe me, you don’t.’
‘Where are you headed?’
‘A place called Hagustaldesham, near the old wall, the one built by the Romans that runs from sea to sea. A long way from here, in St Cuthbert’s land.’
She’s never heard of it. ‘Why? What’s there?’
‘It’s where all those who still oppose King Wilelm are making their stand. He didn’t crush the rebellion, only scattered it. Some have given up the fight; others have submitted to him, but not all. Those who are left, who still believe we have a chance of defeating the foreigners, they’re gathering there. Our last stronghold.’
The rebellion. She hasn’t heard anyone speak of it in months. Not since their menfolk came back in the weeks between harvest and Christmas. The great rising, led by the ætheling Eadgar, which was supposed to drive the invaders from the kingdom and back across the Narrow Sea. The war that promised victory and ended in ruin.
She asks, ‘You fought in the rebellion?’
‘Girl, I don’t have time to stand here all night talking.’
‘You can’t just abandon us,’ she protests. ‘Not if there are more of them out there.’
‘Hagustaldesham is where I need to be.’
‘Then take us with you.’
‘No,’ Merewyn says hurriedly as she joins them, limping on her injured ankle. ‘We just have to get to Eadmer’s manor. He’ll know what to do. We’ll be safe there. My brother,’ she adds for Beorn’s benefit.
‘And where does your brother live?’ he asks her.
‘Not far from Catrice. An hour’s ride upstream from where the old road crosses the River Swalwe.’
He shakes his head. ‘You’ll want to stay away from the old road. The Normans will be watching it. They’re heading north as well. Unless your brother has a small army guarding his gates, chances are that by the time you get there they’ll already have taken his hall, burned it to the ground. You won’t find safety there, I promise you.’
Merewyn stares at him with wide eyes. ‘What are you saying?’
‘I’m saying that, if he has any sense, he’ll have left as soon as he heard the news.’
‘Then where are we supposed to go?’
‘Up into the high hills, or deep into the woods where the enemy won’t be able to come at you.’
‘In the middle of winter? What are we to do about food or shelter?’
‘Then go back to wherever’s home for you and hope that the Normans haven’t been there already. Hope that they don’t come, and if they do, hide.’
Tova blurts, ‘We can’t go back home.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because . . .’
She stops herself before she can go on, glancing at her lady, who has turned pale. What can she say? If he were to learn the reason they’re out here on their own, he’s hardly likely to help them.
But Beorn has found something more deserving of his attention. He crouches down beside the corpse of the bearded Norman, removes his helmet, turns it over in his hands as he inspects it, then tries it on his own head before casting it aside.
‘Look,’ he says as he stands. ‘It’s a long way to Hagustaldesham. A long, long way. I go much faster on my own.’
‘How far?’ Tova asks.
‘A hundred miles, maybe more. A week’s travel at your pace, probably.’
A hundred miles? She can’t even imagine how far that is. Las
t spring, when the roads were still safe to travel, she went with Merewyn to the market by the sea at Skardaborg, which was two days’ ride. In all her life she’s never been further from home than that. Hagustaldesham, by comparison, seems a world away.
She asks, ‘Is it safe there?’
‘No safer than anywhere else. But there are warriors gathering there. All that’s left of the ætheling’s army.’
‘So let us come with you,’ she says.
‘It’s dangerous. The Normans are scouring this land, razing and killing as they go. They’re everywhere. If they catch up with us, I can’t promise that I’ll be able to protect you again.’
‘We understand. Don’t we?’
She turns to Merewyn, who looks unsure. She’s thinking about Eadmer, Tova guesses. She has never met her lady’s brother, but she knows that they’re close; they were always writing letters to one another. Until the war came, and the letters stopped.
‘You don’t want to come with me,’ Beorn says. ‘You really don’t.’
Tova says, ‘So you’re going to leave us to our fates, then.’
He glares at her, but there’s a troubled look in his wolf eyes.
‘We’re not afraid,’ she says. ‘And we won’t slow you down, either.’
The truth is that she is afraid. But she’s not about to let him see that.
‘All right,’ he says after a while. ‘Wait here. I’ll go and fetch your horses. If you want to make yourselves useful, you can gather up my arrows. Those that aren’t broken, anyway. Good ones are hard to find.’
He sets off again down the track. Tova watches him go. She still can’t quite believe that what he says is true. That the Normans are coming. Here, to Northumbria. For so long there were rumours, but no one believed that it would ever happen.
And now it has.
Merewyn clutches at her sleeve. ‘Now. This is our chance. Come on.’
‘What?’ Tova asks. ‘Run?’
Her lady is still hobbling, Tova notices. How far, and how fast, does she expect she can go on that ankle?
The Harrowing Page 3