The Harrowing

by James Aitcheson

  She rises to her knees and flings her fists at the snow again and again, but it doesn’t give her the satisfaction she hoped for. It isn’t dense and packed hard, but fine and powdery. She wills it to fight back, to resist her, but it refuses. She hits it again, and keeps on hitting it, screaming and yelling as she does so, letting out all the anger that has been building for days and weeks and months. At the Normans. At the world. At life. At God.

  When she’s finished she lies there, on her back, staring up at the grey sky, breathless and empty and strangely calm. The wind whips about her and the cloud swirls and scurries overhead.

  She could stay here for ever. Just lie here until it’s all over. That would be the easiest thing. She wouldn’t even have to try.

  No.

  Slowly she picks herself up, drags herself to her feet. Fire shoots up her ankle as she places her weight on it. She must have twisted it. But nothing is broken, nothing is cut. She tries to brush off the worst of the snow, not out of any pretence at maintaining her dignity but because she doesn’t want it to melt and make her clothes wet. It comes away in clumps, although some refuses to be dislodged. Even when she shakes her skirt and her sleeves to loosen it, it clings stubbornly to her like a thousand tiny burrs.

  She has to be more careful. The last thing she needs is to break her wrist or her ankle. If she does, that really would be the end for her, and for her lady as well.

  She finishes dusting herself off and she turns—

  And sees them.

  Horsemen.

  Three of them. No, four. Up there, on the hilltop to the east, strung out along the ridge. A quarter of a mile away? Less than that? When almost every direction looks the same, it’s hard to be sure. She shields her eyes against the sun struggling through the clouds and against the snow glare.

  Beorn? Is it him?

  She can hardly believe it. Her heart is pounding almost out of her chest with excitement and relief. But they aren’t coming this way. Instead they’re riding along the crest, heading southwards. Have they even spotted her?

  She waves her arms and is about to call out to catch their attention when she sees their spear points, their helmets, their shield bosses gleaming coldly under the leaden skies. The words stop in her throat just as she opens her mouth.

  Fighting men. Mounted men. A war band. A raiding party.

  No, it can’t be. Is it?

  She hears the voice inside telling her to flee. Back to the church, it says. Back to Merewyn. Now. If it’s the enemy and they see her . . .

  But her feet won’t move. The cold has found its way into her bones, sunk deep into her flesh, and her limbs have seized up. She knew it had to happen eventually. For day after day she has pushed on through wind and rain and hail and snow, over field and fell, across moor and dale. Ever since leaving Heldeby they’ve been living in fear as they try to evade one danger or another, and she can’t do it any more.

  The men are riding on. They haven’t seen her. She can only make out two of them now; the others have already disappeared over the rise.

  And then she thinks, what if they aren’t Normans? What if this is their one chance to be rescued, and she’s letting it slip through her fingers? But how can she know? She can’t. Not unless they come closer. But they aren’t coming closer. They’re getting further away.

  She has to decide, one way or another. She has to decide quickly. To call out or to stay quiet and let them go? Will they even hear her from so far away, or will the wind take her words and scatter them? If she waits any longer, it’ll be too late. The riders will have gone. Their chance will be gone.

  Only one of the horsemen is still visible. The straggler. A shadow against the skyline.

  Whatever she does, she must do it without regret, without fear. Whatever happens, she tells herself, it’s fate. And suddenly she is no longer afraid. The wind is behind her. She fills her lungs with the chill, sharp air.

  ‘Hey!’ she yells, cutting the stillness. ‘Hey!’

  For a moment, nothing. And then the straggler stops. At the very crest of the hill he stops and he turns.

  She yells again, waves both her hands.

  Shortly he’s joined by the other three riders. For the longest time they stay very still, watching her. What are they doing? Are they talking to one another? What are they saying?

  She squints against the brightness as one of them produces what looks like a ram’s horn. He puts it to his mouth, and a call blares out across the still land: once, twice, three times. Three long blasts. A signal? Does that mean there are more of them?

  Oh God, she thinks. What have I done?

  If she wanted to, if only her feet would move, she could still flee. She could make for the woods, where they’d never find her. But that would mean leaving Merewyn.

  The horsemen start down the slope towards her. All four of them, kicking up thick swirls of snow dust that the wind takes and scatters. Their spear points shining coldly in the light.

  She sheds her gloves, curls her numb fingers around the hilt of her knife. Not the one Beorn gave her. Her own. The one she brought with her all the way from home. The one she practised with, which he showed her how to use. Smaller, more easily concealed. She pulls it from its sheath and draws it inside her sleeve, where they won’t see it. Not, she hopes, until it’s too late. If she is to die, then she might as well try to kill one or more of them first.

  Stay strong, she tells herself.

  She fixes her gaze upon the horsemen. Tries to, anyway. Everything is blurred. White stars creeping in at the corners of her sight. She blinks to try to get rid of them, but they won’t go away.

  Closer the riders come, and closer still. Her lungs are burning. Her cheeks are burning.

  Attack, don’t defend, she remembers. Be quick. Strike first. Kill quickly.

  She grips the knife hilt as tightly as she can as they loom larger. It won’t be long now.

  She can hear them shouting, but not what they’re saying. Are they calling to each other or to her?

  She will not falter. She will not cry. She won’t go to her fate timidly, but proudly. Like Guthred, throwing himself into the fray. Like Beorn, knowing what he had to do, venturing out alone into the cold. Even Oslac, when he realised there was no escape, faced his death with his head held high.

  Like her forefathers, whom she has heard so many stories about. The heathens, when they came to these shores from across the sea. No better death than in battle against one’s enemies. Wasn’t that what they believed?

  And so must she.

  The world is swaying, spinning. The white stars are gone, replaced by dark blotches that open up like great holes in the sky, growing larger and larger. She hears a rushing, like floodwaters tumbling over a weir. All around her.

  Breathe.

  And again.

  And again.

  The dark spots recede. The world stops spinning around her. And there they are. Four of them. Riding through the snow towards her with their spears in hand. Round shields slung across their backs. Scabbards at their sides. Clad in boar skins and wolf pelts, and in trews bound tightly with bands. Just like the men at home wear when they go out to work in the fields.

  Not Normans, then. Englishmen.

  But warriors all the same. Two younger and two older. One freckled, the rest fair. One missing a hand, another an ear. One with a stove-in nose. And yet despite that somehow they all look alike. Gaunt, grim faces. Sunken eyes. Beards left to grow far too long. Hair that hasn’t seen a comb in weeks, or shears in much, much longer. Bruised cheeks. Scarred lips.

  They look just like Beorn, she thinks.

  Survivors from the battle at Hagustaldesham? Or reavers like the ones the priest fell in with? Just because they’re English, that doesn’t mean they’re friendly.

  The cord wrapped around the knife hilt digs into her fingers an
d into her raw palm.

  When they’re about a dozen paces away they stop, dismount. One of the younger men approaches. The freckled one. Is he their leader?

  She doesn’t move. Inside her cloak and her dress her whole body is shaking. She can’t bear it. Waiting, not knowing. She knows that she mustn’t let it show. She has to stand her ground. She can’t let them know she’s afraid.

  But she is.

  I can’t do it, she thinks. I’m not Beorn. I’m not Guthred or Oslac. I’m not brave like them. I don’t want to die.

  The freckled one approaches slowly, trudging knee-deep, heavy-footed, through the snow.

  She tenses, watching his hand closely in case it goes to the hilt of his weapon. Instead both hands are away from his body, palms facing outward. The look on his face is one of concern.

  He says uncertainly, ‘Tova?’

  The breath catches in her chest. She stares at him, open-mouthed. She’s dreaming. She must be. Surely he didn’t just say what she thought he did? It’s not possible.

  She swallows. ‘H-how . . .’ Her tongue is frozen and she can’t seem to get it around the words. She tries again. ‘How do you know my name?’ Her voice sounds somehow distant. As if it belongs to somebody else.

  The freckled one glances behind him at the rest of his band. His expression is anxious. But she’s the one at their mercy, not the other way round. What does he have to be anxious about?

  He says, ‘A friend of yours told us. You don’t know how glad we are to see you.’

  A friend. That can only be—

  ‘Beorn,’ she whispers.

  He did it. He made it through the snowstorm. He reached the rebel camp. He got help just like he said he would. Like he promised. She should never have doubted him. If he were here right now, she could throw her arms around him. She could kiss him.

  ‘He told us you were out here,’ the man goes on. ‘He gave us directions as best he could, told us what landmarks to look out for. We brought clothes and blankets. Firewood too. Food. As much as we could gather. Everything he said you’d need. Look.’

  He gestures to his companions with their horses. For the first time she notices the packs strapped to the saddles.

  ‘We didn’t know whether we’d be the first to find you, or whether the others would reach you first.’

  ‘Others?’

  ‘We’re not the only ones looking for you. There’s another search party in the next valley. We knew it wouldn’t be easy to find you in the snow, so we decided to split up to cover more ground. But your friend said there were two of you. Tova and Merewyn, he said. Where is she? Is she with you still?’

  Merewyn. Of course. Her lady is still waiting for her to come back. She glances back in the direction of the tiny church. From here it’s hard to spot, all but buried in the snow as it is.

  ‘This way,’ she says. ‘Hurry.’

  *

  It’s true what Oslac said about Hagustaldesham. About Gospatric and about the rebellion. All of it, every bit. The town is gone. The rebels, the few who are left, all either killed or forced to flee.

  It really is over.

  That’s what Lyfing, the one with the freckles, says. Despite being the youngest-looking of them, he seems to be in charge. They’ve managed to get the fire going again and they’ve wrapped Merewyn in dry clothes and thick cloaks while they heat beans and lentils and carrots and some kind of salted fish.

  ‘He didn’t come with you, then,’ Tova says, her voice small, as he sits down beside her. ‘To show you the way himself.’

  Lyfing hesitates. He won’t meet her eyes. But it’s all right. He doesn’t have to. She’s worked it out already.

  She knows.

  He would have said something by now otherwise. Why Beorn isn’t with them. Where he is. What’s happened to him. He’d have told her not to worry. That he’s well and waiting back wherever they’ve come from, and they’ll see him soon.

  ‘No,’ Lyfing says. ‘He didn’t.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘What do you want me to say?’

  ‘Just what happened. That’s all.’

  She’s had enough of people talking down to her, trying to keep her from the truth, shielding her from hurt as if she’s a child and they must take care of her. As if they think she won’t understand. As if she can’t take care of herself.

  ‘He stumbled into our camp late last night,’ Lyfing says. ‘Wet through. Shivering. Bleeding. Wounded badly. He could barely stand up. He was mumbling something; we could barely make out what at first, or get any sense out of him at all. He told us your names, what you looked like. Said we had to go out straight away to look for you. He was begging us. He said there was no time to lose. We did everything we could for him. It wasn’t enough.’

  This isn’t how things were meant to end. Not after everything. He was supposed to come back to help them find safety. The three of them, together. He promised. He gave her his oath.

  Why did she ever let him go out on his own, into the cold? She could see he was hurt, but still she let him do it. She should have known he wouldn’t make it. She should have insisted he stay with them.

  This isn’t how it was supposed to be. Not Beorn. Not like this.

  But it’s how it is.

  She closes her eyes, tries to swallow her sobs before they overcome her. There’ll be time enough for that later.

  She asks, ‘What about the Normans?’

  ‘Gone back south. We think, anyway. Now that there’s nothing left to burn or sack, they’ve got no reason to stay.’

  Merewyn sighs in her sleep. She was awake for a while earlier, when their rescuers arrived, but she could barely hold her head up long enough to take some food and drink some ale, let alone speak. At least now there is colour in her cheeks again, and her breathing is even.

  Tova strokes her on the arm and then clasps her hand, and is relieved to find her skin is no longer icy to the touch.

  ‘Will she be all right, do you think?’ she asks.

  Lyfing takes a long sigh and scratches at his eyebrow. ‘I can only say this: I’ve walked fields of battle after the fighting and seen men who were struck down, barely able to move, their limbs broken, left for hours in the cold and the wet to bleed and bleed until help came. They lived. So will she.’

  ‘Beorn didn’t, though.’

  ‘Beorn?’

  ‘Our friend.’

  ‘That was his name?’

  She nods.

  ‘He never told us,’ Lyfing says. ‘The strange thing is, I thought I recognised him. From before, you understand. While the war was still going on. I was sure he looked like someone I’d met. One of our best warriors. A man called Cynehelm. When I mentioned that name to him, though, he just stared blankly at me. Obviously I was mistaken. Memory can be a strange thing. It can play tricks on you.’

  Tova opens her mouth, then closes it again just as quickly. There’s no need, she thinks. It’s not important.

  ‘No,’ he goes on, ‘Beorn didn’t live. But I think maybe he realised his time was growing short. That’s the feeling I had, seeing him. That he’d given everything and there was nothing left. When he came in out of the snow, his skin so pale and with blood all over his face and his hands, he looked like death already. Your lady, though, I’d say she looks as though she still has something to live for. Sometimes that’s all it takes. The will to keep going. That’s why I think she’ll live. She has to. For Eadmer’s sake, as well as her own. When he heard the news that she was alive—’

  That name.

  ‘Eadmer?’ she echoes. Merewyn’s brother. The one she hasn’t heard from in months, since before the rebellion.

  Lyfing nods. ‘I fought by his side at Hagustaldesham, stopped him from getting himself killed. He would have done too. He thought he’d lost everyone and everything dear to him. H
e often talked to me about his sister, and how they’d once been close but had grown apart, and how he thought it was his fault. He missed her more than he missed anyone. And to think that, if I hadn’t pulled him from the fray when I did, he’d never have known.’

  Tova strokes Merewyn on the arm and then clasps her hand. ‘Did you hear that?’ she whispers, even though her lady doesn’t stir. ‘Eadmer’s alive. He’s alive and we’re going to see him. Everything will be all right. It will, just like you said.’

  *

  The other party arrives within the hour. Four more men, in the next valley when they heard the horn. The newcomers bring more supplies, though little cheer.

  Eadmer isn’t among them. He would have joined the search, Lyfing explains, but he was hurt during the fighting.

  ‘Lost his hand,’ he says. ‘His sword hand it was too, although he could have lost much more than that. When it was agreed we’d send out people to look for you, of course he wanted to come with us, but he’s still weak, and we told him it would be better if he waited back at the camp.’

  ‘The camp?’ Tova asks. ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘A short way to the north of here. The other side of Hagustaldesham, a few miles up the valley, near where the river bends. It’s where we fled after the battle, everyone who managed to get away. It’s where we’ll find him.’

  Eighth Day

  They spend that night in the church, and then in the morning, as soon as Merewyn is strong enough, they leave it behind. The wind is still from the north; Lyfing thinks they might be due another heavy snowfall soon, and he doesn’t want to be trapped out in the wilds if that’s the case, and so they set out, eight men and Tova and her lady, fighting the wind and the occasional flurry.

  Merewyn’s strength is returning, though slowly. Her nose is running and her forehead is hot and she says her throat is sore and her feet are unsteady, but she’s determined to stay awake. Her eyes are red and bloodshot, but she insists she’s fine and tells Tova there’s no need to keep fussing.