The Harrowing

by James Aitcheson

  I could have given up in the same way. I could have lain there and waited for the night to come, for hunger and cold and sorrow to sap what was left of my strength. For death to take me. But that would have been the coward’s way. And so I wandered. I had no home to go back to, and so I walked from place to place, sleeping in ditches and in hedges, just like before, only this time I did so alone. At first I tried to make snares to catch small animals to eat, but I didn’t really know what I was doing and so turned to stealing what I needed from the villages I came to. A chicken here, some cheese or ale there, a winter blanket or two to keep myself warm at night. Stealing, because I was too ashamed to beg.

  Whenever I spied any Frenchmen travelling on the road, alone or in small groups that I thought I could overcome, which wasn’t often, I’d lie in wait to surprise them and then slaughter them. Whether they were warriors or not, it didn’t matter. I killed them anyway, and after I killed them I’d take their provisions, and whatever else they had that was useful. A whetstone, a cloak. Shoes to replace mine, which had worn through. Arrows, a pack, a tent, a new horse: all these things I took. I would smash in their faces with my axe and slice open their bellies so that their guts spilled out, and I would leave them in the middle of the path where they would be easily seen, so that they might serve as a warning.

  I didn’t enjoy doing it, but it was justice.

  It was from one of the Normans, a young man, a messenger on his way to Lundene, that I heard about the army that the king was gathering to lay waste the north. It was from him that I learned about the rumours of the rebels coming together at Hagustaldesham. As soon as I heard this I knew that was where I needed to be. I thanked him for his help and then buried my blade in his neck. After taking his precious parchments and tossing them to the winds, I left his body to the carrion birds.

  And set out on the road north.

  *

  ‘And that was that.’ He sits hunched over like a man twice his age, his voice small and weak. The tears, which were streaming down his face not long ago, have ceased. ‘A few days afterwards, I happened to find you. The rest you know.’

  Tova feels numb. All she can think about is that girl, that poor girl.

  ‘It wasn’t your fault,’ Merewyn says, resting a hand on his arm. ‘None of it was.’

  ‘Yes, it was. If we hadn’t got it into our heads to carry out that foolish plan, they’d all be alive now. And if I hadn’t opened my mouth, if I hadn’t told the girls who we were and what we intended, Eawen would never have come to us that night. She wouldn’t have become involved. She needn’t have died.’

  ‘You didn’t know,’ Guthred says. ‘How could you have done?’

  ‘She was just a child,’ Tova thinks, and is surprised to find herself murmuring the thought out loud.

  Beorn nods. ‘No older than you, certainly. But she had been consorting with us. That was enough to seal her fate.’

  Merewyn asks, ‘What about her sister?’

  ‘Ymme? Probably they killed her too, when they returned to the manor later that morning.’

  ‘Killed her as well?’ Tova doesn’t believe it, or maybe she just doesn’t want to believe it, which she realises is a different thing.

  ‘Why, though?’ the priest asks. ‘If she gave her sister up to them. If she was the one who betrayed you.’

  ‘I can’t say for sure that’s what happened, because I don’t know. But it wouldn’t surprise me. Obviously she didn’t know quite as much as Eawen. She knew we were there, though, hiding on Malger’s lands, and she knew what we’d come to do. She’d deliberately hidden that knowledge from them. She’d pledged us her silence. Once they found that out—’

  ‘She might yet live,’ Guthred says.

  ‘In the days afterwards I heard many stories from Stedehamm. How many were true and how many were exaggerated, I don’t know. But they were all bad. Men killed in reprisal, their daughters and wives given to Malger’s guests for their pleasure when they arrived for the Christmas feast. We brought that upon those folk. We did that.’

  ‘You can’t blame yourself for the crimes of others,’ says Merewyn.

  Beorn doesn’t seem to be listening. ‘She didn’t even know what she was doing. She didn’t know any better. She trusted us, and we took advantage of her trust. Of her innocence. They didn’t betray us. We betrayed them.’

  Tova’s beginning to understand, or thinks she is, anyway. ‘Is that why you saved us? Because of them?’

  ‘I’d been riding north for I don’t know how long. Five days, maybe six, maybe longer. All I know is that it was slow going. I travelled by night and hid during the day so that I could rest, except when I knew the Normans were near, in which case I kept moving. I had a reason to live again, you see. Then late one afternoon I caught sight of the two of you riding down from the high moors, and I wondered what you were doing all by yourselves, and so I watched you, to see where you were heading. I didn’t show myself because I didn’t want you to be afraid, and because I remembered what happened the last time I’d tried to do a good thing. When I heard those Normans coming, I hid and hoped you’d do the same. As soon as they found you, though, I knew I had to do something.’

  He looks straight at Tova. ‘I heard Eawen’s voice calling to me, and I knew I couldn’t let the same thing happen again. I couldn’t.’

  She doesn’t know what to think. On the one hand she knows she should be grateful, and she is, because he risked his life to save theirs. But on the other she resents the idea that the only reason they’re here now is because others before them had died. Because he needed a way to assuage his wounded soul.

  And wounded it is. His scars run deeper than the skin. His world is gone. What dreams he had are all but shattered; his hopes stamped out.

  The desire to keep fighting is the only thing still keeping him going. It’s all he has left. Without it he is nothing.

  *

  The hearth fire has died. The hall grows cooler as the shadows deepen. Guthred is snoring. Merewyn is also asleep, close beside her. Tova is on the verge of sleep herself when she hears Beorn and Oslac murmuring to one another. She lies as still as she can, her eyes open. She can’t see them, but they’re near.

  ‘Let me understand this,’ the poet says. ‘The only reason you have it in your mind to go to Hagustaldesham is because of a rumour you heard.’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘So you don’t really know that’s where the rebels are gathering, if they’re gathering at all.’

  ‘I heard it from one of the king’s men, and he must have heard it from somewhere. From their scouts and their spies, probably.’

  ‘How can you be sure he was telling the truth?’

  Beorn says, ‘I had my foot on his chest, my axe in one hand and my knife in the other. He knew if he didn’t speak I was going to kill him.’

  ‘You were going to kill him anyway. He could have told you anything and it wouldn’t have made the slightest difference.’

  ‘I saw the fear in his eyes. He wasn’t lying. I’d have known if he was. Believe me, I can always tell.’

  ‘The rebellion is finished. The war is lost.’

  ‘Not yet,’ says Beorn. ‘Not yet.’

  Fifth Day

  Tova wakes in the early light with a dull ache at the front of her head. Cold air upon her face, swirling, teasing, tearing her from her dreams, bringing her back to the world. To the hall and the damp rushes and the smell of mouse droppings. To the sound of rain pattering upon the ground outside.

  She rolls over, blinking to try to clear the bleariness from her eyes, wondering what woke her and why it’s so cold.

  The doors are open. Not by much, but enough to let in the grey morning. In the dip at the threshold a muddy puddle has formed that glitters as ripples race across it.

  They closed the doors last night to keep the heat in, and barred
them from the inside so that the wind, which was getting up at the time, wouldn’t blow them open. Still befuddled by sleep, Tova thinks for a moment that’s what must have happened, somehow. But then she notices the bar resting up against the wall.

  She gets to her feet and looks around. Merewyn is still sleeping and so are Beorn and Guthred. But where Oslac was lying, on the bench by the wall, he is no longer. His blankets are gone, his pack too.

  She hurries to the door, stopping only to put her hood up before she steps outside. The yard outside the hall has turned overnight into one great lake. She picks her way around it as she searches in all directions.

  Of course he could be long gone. If he left in the middle of the night chances are he’s already many miles away.

  She looks back the way they came, towards the woods, then the other way, down to the burn and the mill below, but she can’t see anything. A few sheep grazing that must have been left behind. A deer down by the water’s edge. She glances towards the west and the tiny timber church where Guthred went to pray last night before they all settled to eat and warm themselves by the hearth, then eastwards, along the track that runs between the hedges, that leads past the well and the cattle byre.

  And she sees him. Or a figure that could be him. She thinks about shouting but reckons he’s too far away to hear. What’s he doing?

  She runs after him, as fast as she can manage down the muddy track. The rain is hard, almost like hail; it stings her face and her hands. The cold air pains her throat and her lungs.

  ‘Oslac,’ she calls when she is nearer. ‘Oslac!’

  He too has his hood up against the rain, but he must be able to hear her, surely.

  She carries on after him, calling his name again. Does he quicken his pace? She isn’t sure.

  She’s almost reached him when at last he does turn. His eyes have a dark, sunken look, as though he hasn’t slept.

  ‘Why are you following me?’ he asks angrily.

  ‘Why am I . . . ?’ she says, taken aback. ‘What about you? Where are you going?’

  ‘I’m leaving.’

  ‘Leaving?’

  ‘I can’t do it any longer. I don’t trust him. I never have, from the moment we met. After what he’s told us, I trust him even less.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Who do you think?’

  ‘Beorn?’

  ‘He’s hiding things from us still, I know it.’

  ‘So you’re running away?’

  ‘As should you, if you have any sense. I can’t follow him blindly to my death. I won’t. Because that’s what’s going to happen if we let him lead us to Hagustaldesham. This war that he believes he’s still waging, it’s nothing more than an empty dream. It’s a lie. The rebels are destroyed. They were destroyed long ago. England is lost. You only have to look around you to see. Look at this empty land. There’s no sense fighting any more. The time for that has passed. It’s over. The Normans have won.’

  ‘What are you going to do, then?’

  ‘Survive,’ he says. ‘That’s all any of us can do now. Survive, however we can. And I know I stand a better chance of doing that if I go my own way. I’ve always travelled alone before now; I’ll do it again.’

  ‘What about the rest of us?’

  ‘You have to make your own choice. I can’t do that for you. But if you’re sensible, you’ll take my advice. Do what I’m doing. Run. You and your lady, and the priest as well. All of you. Get as far from him as you can, as soon as you can. He’s dangerous. His wits have gone. He doesn’t know what he’s doing any more. He only knows one thing, and that’s how to fight.’

  Does he think she doesn’t know that? She was there. She saw. She knows what he can do far better than Oslac does.

  ‘As long as you stay with him, you aren’t safe,’ the poet continues. ‘He’s a broken man.’

  ‘He’s all we’ve got. He’s all that stands between us and those who would kill us if they had the chance.’

  ‘I’m not going to stand here arguing with you. I have to go. Call me a coward, if you like. Call me anything you want. I don’t care. I’m not asking any of you to come with me. Tell the others I’m sorry. But think about what I’ve said. For your own sakes. Before it’s too late. Will you do that?’

  She doesn’t answer. She can’t believe he would abandon them.

  ‘Forgive me,’ he says.

  He turns. She watches him go. He must see how selfish he’s being. Any moment now he’ll realise what he’s doing and change his mind.

  But he doesn’t. Not so much as a glance over his shoulder as, his pack slung over his shoulder, he trudges down the slope, through the rain, which is growing heavier, until the path turns and he disappears behind the hedge and she can no longer see him.

  *

  ‘Did he say where he was going?’ Beorn asks.

  ‘No. He didn’t tell me anything.’

  ‘He was going east?’

  She nods.

  ‘Back towards the old road,’ he mutters. ‘He should have gone west instead, made for the high hills. The Normans will find him. He’ll get himself killed.’

  ‘There’s no chance, I suppose, of catching up with him?’ Guthred asks.

  ‘If he has almost an hour’s start on us, he could be anywhere by now,’ Merewyn points out.

  Beorn says, ‘You should have woken us straight away, girl. You should have woken me.’

  ‘So that you could have done what?’ she asks. ‘Dragged him back here? His mind was made up.’

  ‘Did he even say why?’ the priest asks her.

  She shakes her head. She can’t bring herself to repeat what Oslac said, certainly not in front of Beorn.

  The warrior says, ‘We’re better off without him. I never trusted him anyway.’

  *

  And so they are four.

  They saddle up and ride on, through the mist that hangs in the dales and the cloud that clings to the hilltops. Somewhere far off a cow lows forlornly. Flocks of sheep are untended in their garths. A shepherd’s hut but no shepherd. The ash in his fireplace is as cold as the earth; he must have left some time ago. They take what they can, which isn’t much: a small bundle of kindling and three loaves, each the size of Tova’s fist and rock-hard. Going mouldy, but they can cut those parts off. The rest they leave: the tally stick, the whittling blade, the necklace of jet beads, the water pail standing outside the door.

  They travel cautiously. Beorn no longer rides on ahead to scout out the way. Instead he stays close, and Tova is glad that he does. Up here on the hills, under the wide, white sky, Tova feels more exposed than ever. She can see for miles whichever way she turns, which means that they too can be seen by anyone with keen enough eyes who cares to look.

  More than once that afternoon they spy horsemen in the distance, or think they do; in the darkling day the slightest flicker of movement or glint of light could be a person or people. Maybe they’re friendly, but they have no way of knowing and Tova would rather not wait to find out. They seek cover in woods and in ditches by the roadside, leading their horses quickly into the trees where they won’t be seen, before crouching low amid the thorn bushes. There they wait, watching, hardly daring even to breathe, until they can be sure that whoever it is has moved on, before finally they emerge with twigs in their hair, with scratches on their faces and their hands, with holes in their sleeves where the brambles have taken hold.

  *

  More hoofprints, these ones not so recent. The edges are blurred, washed away by the rain. Half a mile further on, the remains of a campfire, set a short way back from the path. Wooden plates and cups. A knife. Half-eaten bread amid the leaves. Blankets soaked by the rain strewn on the ground. A carved wooden horse – a child’s toy, perhaps – lying forlornly on the ground.

  And that’s not all. Hardly fifty paces beyond that, at a
fork in the path, four figures strung up from the thick branches of an oak, hanging by their necks. Ashen-faced. Stiff. Eyes closed, mouths open: even in death they still gasp for air. Barefooted, their shoes missing. A woman, two girls and a man. A whole family, Tova thinks. The girls even younger than her. Their clothes are rough, travelling garb, frayed at the hems.

  ‘They must have been important,’ Merewyn says.

  Guthred asks, ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘They could have just killed them; instead they chose to make an example of them.’

  ‘Why would they do that? Who’s going to see them?’

  ‘Well, we did.’

  ‘But how many others are going to be travelling this way?’

  ‘They didn’t kill them as a warning,’ Beorn says as he examines the bodies. ‘They killed them one by one. Hanged the first to put fear into the others’ hearts. Then the second, then the third. Him last of all.’

  ‘How do you know?’ Tova asks.

  ‘I’ve seen it done before.’

  He doesn’t look at her as he speaks. She would ask when and where, and what does he mean when he says he’s seen it before, but she isn’t sure she wants to know the answers.

  ‘Maybe they knew something,’ he goes on. ‘Or the Normans thought they did, and wanted to get it out of them.’

  Guthred makes the sign of the cross. ‘I think we should go.’

  *

  ‘Are you sure this is the way?’ Tova asks when Beorn leads them down a trail so brant and rough that she thinks it must have been trodden by goats, not people.