We’d never been friends, I said. He was wrong. Maybe something was broken inside that head of his, I suggested. Maybe all those years of being trampled underfoot by his own kin, then cast out to fend for himself, had caused him to remember things differently to how they really had been.
To speak like that while he had a knife to my face was foolish beyond imagination, I know, but until the moment when he silenced me I thought that I might as well keep going.
I said, ‘You always thought you were so clever. Then, as now. But you weren’t clever at all. You remember, don’t you, that day when they sent you away from the school, back to your father?’
He said that of course he did, that it had destroyed his life, and that things had never been the same since then.
‘It was me. Your friend, Guthred. I was the one who drew those pictures on the church tower, who put the chalk in your chest so that they would find it. I did it. Me.’
He stared at me, wide-eyed. The knife point trembled.
‘What’s going on?’ came a tired voice from out of the darkness. Gytha’s voice. She stood and started towards us. ‘Wulfnoth?’
He gave a quick glance behind him, and I saw my chance. I ducked low and barrelled shoulder first into his chest. I wasn’t as strong as he was, not by a long way, but with his injured foot it didn’t take much to send him sprawling.
I heard him fall and shout out, but I didn’t stop to look behind me. The treasure still in hand, I made for the door, threw it open and ran outside. Whitefoot was with the rest of the horses in a larger barn across the yard. I didn’t have time to saddle him; I just heaved myself up on to his back and started riding. As I galloped away, I heard Gytha and Cuffa shouting as they emerged from the hall, and I think Halfdan was with them too. As soon as they saw me they ran in my direction, but I was already gone, tearing down the track, disappearing into the night.
If they followed me, I never knew of it. I didn’t see them or hear them, but I didn’t stop until I was sure I’d left them long behind me.
And that’s how it happened.
And now you know.
*
After the last couple of nights Tova hoped sleep would come easily. It must be hours since the priest finished his tale; the others are all soundly slumbering but still she can’t settle. She lies under her blankets, eyes tight shut, but it’s no use. All that talk of sin and repentance, she can’t shake it from her head.
Will God forgive her for the things she has done in her life? Will he forgive Merewyn for hers?
And what if Guthred is right? What if everything that’s happening is God’s punishment for the evils of this land and its people? If that’s his will, what’s the point in trying to flee? How long will it be before fate catches up with them?
Her mind is too filled with thoughts. She needs to clear it if she’s to get any rest tonight. Often when she found it hard to sleep in those months after her mother died, Gunnhild would take her out to show her the stars and point out to her the different patterns that they made – of beasts and heroes from long ago that she’d only heard of in songs – and she would tell Tova stories about each of them, some that she’d learned herself as a child and others that she made up especially that night.
That’s what she needs, she decides. She shrugs off the blankets and rises, bracing herself for the cold. Then, taking care to tread lightly so as not to wake the others, she makes for the door, opens it and steps out.
She’s not alone. Guthred sits in front of the fire, or what’s left of it, blowing gently on the ashes in an effort to coax some life back into them. The last person she wanted to talk to. She wants comfort, not to be swallowed up in his self-pity.
He looks up as she approaches, the soft glow of the low flames lighting up one side of his face while making a shadow of the other.
‘You couldn’t sleep either, I suppose,’ he says and attempts a smile, but it’s a sad smile.
‘I didn’t realise anyone else was still awake.’
‘Come, child.’ He places his hand on the ground next to him. ‘I’d appreciate the company.’
She hesitates, but she doesn’t want to offend him and so she sits, though keeping her distance. She knows in her heart that Merewyn was speaking good sense when she said earlier they all have to trust one another, but she isn’t sure that she can. Not yet.
He pokes at the ashes with a piece of twig, then tosses it on top of the pile and watches closely, eyes glazed, as it catches fire. It’s not conversation that he’s after. Maybe, like her, he just doesn’t want to feel alone.
‘Do you really believe what you said earlier?’ she asks. ‘About this being God’s vengeance upon us?’
‘Yes, I do. That and more.’
‘More?’
‘The signs are clear enough. To me they are, anyway, if to no one else.’
‘What signs?’
He clears his throat. ‘“And I looked, and there before me was a white horse. And its rider held a bow, and a crown was given to him. And he rode out as a conqueror, bent on annihilation.”’
Tova shakes her head. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘It’s coming to pass, child, just as it has been written. The world is hastening towards its end, and very soon it may be no more. I fear that we’re living through the last days.’
She feels the hairs on her arms stand on end as a chill creeps across her skin. ‘The end of the world?’
She almost can’t get the words out. This is exactly why she didn’t want to speak to him. He is too full of woe, of darkness and gloom. He is supposed to be a beacon of light, a bearer of good tidings, telling of God’s grace and promising a better life to come. Instead he is everything but.
‘I remember one of the texts we had to learn as students,’ he says. ‘It was a sermon Bishop Leofgar had heard preached by his superior, the archbishop of Eoferwic, some time around the year I was born, I think, when this land was being overrun by the heathens. He had a copy of the sermon sent to him. We were made to recite it from memory. Even now I can recall it word for word; that’s how deeply it’s etched in my mind. The archbishop wrote of the failings of the English people; he castigated them for the many injustices that prevailed across the kingdom, for allowing laws to be flouted without regard and evils to go unpunished, for the bad faith that existed between kinsmen, for the feuding and betrayals, for the kinslaying and breaking of oaths, for the ill treatment of the Church and of God’s servants. He warned that things would only worsen in time, and that it wouldn’t be long before the coming of the Antichrist.’
‘But the world didn’t end,’ Tova says irritably. She shouldn’t need to point that out to him.
‘No,’ Guthred admits. ‘No, it didn’t. We were spared. But now I see those same things happening again, and I fear that everything the archbishop foresaw all those years ago may finally be happening. I didn’t say it earlier, because your friend Beorn was mocking me, but that’s the other reason I feel I must make the pilgrimage to Lindisfarena as soon as I can, because there may never be another chance. Each day that passes is bringing us closer to the end. Each day that passes may be the last.’
Tova stares at him. ‘You don’t really believe that, do you?’
He nods sadly. ‘I do, child. Believe one who has lived long enough to see all the cruelties this world can bring to bear. I’ve seen drought and hunger, floods and sickness: so much misery, and every year it only grows worse. Everything is falling into ruin. It has been so for a long time, though we’ve become blind to it. Everything that we see happening around us now, this is the last chapter. Soon the book will close and we must prepare our souls for when it does.’
The book, Tova thinks. That’s it. She’s been desperate to find a different subject; she can’t take all this doomsaying. If she doesn’t divert him from this path, he will start talking about seas boiling and skies burning
, and she isn’t sure she’ll be able to remain patient with him if he does.
She asks, ‘Does Wulfnoth know how much the book is worth?’
‘Wulfnoth?’ he echoes, sounding confused. She’s caught him off guard, broken his line of thought at last. ‘I should think he does. He must have some idea. Maybe only in the sense of gold and precious stones and how much he might sell it for. To him, that’s all it would mean. But he would know, yes. And there’s the rest of the loot too, of course.’
‘He won’t try to come after it, will he?’
Guthred wrings his hands. ‘I don’t know. But it’s been five days already. I’d have thought if he was coming for it, he’d have caught up with me by now.’
She supposes it depends just how desperate he is. What if he feels he has nothing more to lose?
Third Day
Hard, icy, sharp. It strikes her cheek. And again. And again.
Drowsily, Tova opens her eyes to unfamiliar walls. A place she doesn’t recognise. A bed not her own.
Where is she?
It comes back to her, of course, just as it did the day before. But she hates that helpless, panicked feeling. If every morning were to be like this from now on, she’d never want to sleep for fear of waking.
Another drop hits her face and rolls down the side of her nose. She wipes it away and, blinking, turns over to find herself staring at a circle of grey-white sky through a hole in the thatch.
Already it’s light. Time to be on their way.
*
They roll up their blankets and gather their things, then cover the ashes of the campfire with leaves and clumps of sodden turf, and lastly bury the horse dung using a rusted spade that Guthred found propped up against the back wall.
They have only four horses between the five of them, it turns out; Oslac came on foot. She has noticed how he keeps a watchful distance between himself and the animals. How he made sure to sleep at the other end of the barn from them too.
‘What happened to yours?’ Beorn asks him as they’re saddling up. ‘Did someone steal it?’
‘Nothing happened to it. I can’t ride. I don’t know how.’
‘You can’t ride?’ Tova asks, surprised, although perhaps she shouldn’t be. Most ordinary folk can’t. She couldn’t either, until Merewyn taught her, and only then because she wanted some female companionship when she went out riding.
‘I’m afraid of them,’ he says.
After a moment Merewyn laughs. It’s been a long time since Tova heard that sound. ‘You’re scared of horses?’
‘It probably sounds foolish to you—’
‘Are you telling us that you walk everywhere you go?’ Guthred asks. ‘You traipse from hall to hall on foot? Even in winter?’
‘Is it so difficult to believe?’ Oslac asks, red-faced.
‘I find it strange, that’s all.’
‘Well, that’s how it is. So don’t expect me to help feed them or brush them down or anything like that.’
Tova rubs Winter’s flank. ‘How can you be scared of such lovely creatures? What’s there to be frightened of?’
‘Everything. They’re too big. Too strong. I don’t like their eyes. You know the way they look at you sometimes, with the whites showing? You can’t tell what they’re thinking. You don’t know what they’re about to do next. I don’t trust them. I never have.’
‘Why not?’
‘You want to know? My sister, Dunne, she was killed when she was only nine winters old. I saw it happen; I was seven at the time. We were in the yard, brushing down the horses one evening after our father and his lord’s retainers had returned from town, when something spooked them, I don’t remember what. It all happened so quickly. They bolted; she was kicked in the head and fell under their hooves. She died at once. I didn’t even hear her scream. Afterwards, my mother refused to let me near them. Said they were dangerous, vicious creatures. She blamed my father for Dunne’s death, and forbade me from having anything to do with them. I suppose that, over time, hearing all those things and always being warned away from the stables, I grew frightened of them. You probably think I’m being foolish. I wouldn’t blame you if you did.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Merewyn says after a moment. ‘I didn’t mean—’
‘It’s all right. You didn’t know.’
‘If you want,’ Tova says, ‘I’ll ride with Merewyn and you can have Winter. She won’t harm you, I promise. She’s as docile a creature as any I’ve ever known.’
‘Thank you, but no. I know you mean well, but you won’t ever see me riding one of those things, no matter how peaceable it might be, or how friendly towards strangers you tell me it is.’
‘In that case you’d better keep up,’ Beorn says. ‘Because we won’t be waiting for you if you fall behind. Do you hear me?’
He doesn’t even wait for Oslac’s answer. Instead, as if to make his point, he turns and at once rides off.
‘Don’t worry about me,’ the poet mutters under his breath, so quietly that Tova’s sure he didn’t mean anyone else to hear.
*
All morning the rain continues to fall. Hard then soft then hard again, it drives at Tova’s side.
The going is slow, and not because of Oslac. Most of the droveways are in poor repair, and the rain has turned the tracks into muddy streams that hurry down the slopes, pooling in every dip and every hollow to form lakes that they have to work their way around. Some of the tracks are too overgrown even for Beorn and his axe, and they have to turn back and find another way. Every time they halt even for a moment, he glances about, his hand reaching up towards his bow, as if expecting the enemy to be lurking. But they’ve seen no other living person since they set out this morning. They spy sheep roaming on the hill pastures, but no one herding them; houses still standing, but no hearth smoke. Tova wonders why the Normans didn’t burn these villages like they did the ones they saw yesterday, why they didn’t slaughter the livestock.
‘Maybe they were in a hurry,’ Guthred suggests. ‘Maybe they didn’t have time.’
‘Maybe,’ Beorn agrees.
All the same, they don’t venture too close. Beorn rides on ahead, scouting out the way, returning from time to time to tell them what he’s seen and in which direction he thinks they ought to go next. Each time he disappears, making for the next ridge or tump where he can get a better view of the valley ahead, Tova grows a little more anxious. It isn’t that she doesn’t feel safe with Oslac and Guthred, she tells herself, strangers though they are, or that she doesn’t trust them. It’s just that she trusts Beorn more.
She’s noticed how he’s always moving: how he never lets himself settle for long. He always needs to have some purpose, to feel useful. Trying to make up for lost time, perhaps. Or to stave off madness. If he didn’t need to sleep or eat, she feels sure he’d never stop.
‘Who is he?’ Oslac asks the next time Beorn’s out of earshot.
They’ve stopped by a stream while the warrior goes on ahead so that the horses have a chance to drink and graze, and so that they can wolf down some bread and hard cheese. They save the bacon for later; although Tova thinks she could manage an entire pig all by herself, she knows they have to make what they have last, especially now that there are five of them rather than three. Oslac has already shared out what he had, though it wasn’t much. A few handfuls of nuts. Some shrivelled pears.
‘What do you mean, who is he?’ asks Merewyn in between mouthfuls. ‘He’s Beorn.’
‘A friend of yours, is he?’
‘A friend? I don’t know. Can you call someone a friend who you only met two days ago?’
‘Oh,’ says Guthred, looking sheepish. ‘I assumed . . . I’m sorry.’
‘For what?’
‘Well, I assumed he’d come with you from wherever’s home for you. To tell the truth, I thought at first he was your husb
and.’
‘My husband?’
Oslac asks, ‘How did the two of you end up with him, then?’
‘He saved us from a Norman raiding party,’ Tova says. ‘There were five of them. He killed every single one.’
The poet looks askance at her, as if she might be joking but he isn’t sure. ‘Five men? By himself?’
There’s something about those eyes she doesn’t like, she decides. Those grey, changeable eyes. How they can darken like thunderclouds just like that: one moment patient, respectful, friendly; the next guarded and accusing.
She nods. ‘By himself.’
Oslac turns to Merewyn. ‘Is this true?’
So he won’t believe her, but he’ll believe Merewyn? She might be young but she’s not stupid. She knows what she saw. She was there, wasn’t she?
Merewyn says, ‘It’s true. All five of them. One after another. It all happened so quickly. There was no stopping him. There was just anger, raw hatred. It all came out, all at once, and at the end of it they were all dead. You wouldn’t believe it unless you saw it.’
That isn’t quite how Tova remembers it. She doesn’t recall hatred; what comes to mind is the calmness with which, one by one, he sent them to their deaths.
‘We were looking for somewhere to spend the night when they came upon us,’ Merewyn goes on. ‘That’s when he appeared. If he hadn’t— Well, I don’t want to even think about it.’
‘He appeared, just like that? Where did he come from?’
‘He hasn’t said. He’s hardly told us anything besides his name.’
‘Peace, Oslac,’ Guthred says. ‘Why all these questions? If you want to know, surely he’ll tell you himself. Ask him when he comes back, if it’s so important.’
He won’t, though, Tova thinks. That’s why he’s asking the two of them instead. He doesn’t want to talk to Beorn. He fears him.
Oslac promptly shuts up and they pass the rest of their meal in silence. He’s in a dark mood today, for no good reason that she can work out. Is he still angry after what Beorn said to him earlier?
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