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.