It all comes spilling out, everything she’s been keeping inside these past three days. The anger, the pain, the hunger, the tiredness, the fear. The torture and the guilt, her constant companions. Guilt, for daring to live when so many do not.
She doesn’t remember when she last spoke so bluntly, so boldly, in her lady’s presence. Maybe never. At home Merewyn wouldn’t have stood for such an outburst. But they aren’t at home. They aren’t mistress and servant any more. None of who they used to be matters any more. All that ended when the Normans came.
‘Let them find us,’ Tova says. ‘Let them do what they will. At least then we won’t have to run any more. We won’t have to live like outcasts in our own land.’
‘Don’t say such things. It’ll be all right. I know it will.’
Stop it, she thinks. Just stop it. I can’t bear to hear those words any more.
*
One foot after another, somehow she forces herself to keep moving. It’s all she can do as she tries to ignore the voice in the back of her mind. The voice of reason. The voice of doubt.
Run, walk or crawl, she tells herself. It doesn’t matter how. Just keep going. She keeps on murmuring it to herself, quietly so that no one but her can hear, trying to keep that other voice at bay.
That other voice, which whispers to her, soothingly, even sweetly, repeating the same few words again and again and again.
Let it be over.
*
The wind is rising, howling down the dale. They struggle against it for a while but make little headway. Days of rain have made the slopes treacherous; sooner or later, one of them will slip and hurt themselves. And there is snow in the air too – a few flakes, nothing more, but enough to worry Tova.
Beorn wants to press on, to cross this ridge before dark; Merewyn is desperate to turn back. Eventually he hears her pleas and they descend through thickly wooded slopes into the lee of the hill. Close to the old road, which is what they wanted to avoid, but they have no choice.
‘There’s a ford an hour upstream from where the road crosses the river, if I remember rightly,’ Beorn says. ‘We’ll make for that. If we’re lucky we can cross before nightfall.’
‘You’re sure this time, are you?’ Merewyn asks.
He doesn’t answer.
The snowflakes continue to dance and swirl. Few enough that Tova can count them one by one as they fall, but with every hour that passes, the clouds grow blacker, lower, heavy with the promise of more to come.
*
Upon the horizon to the east, a fire blazes. It licks the sky, sending up great plumes of grey-white smoke. A warning beacon, perhaps, or more likely another hall burning. Three, four miles away. From somewhere unseen in the distance comes the tolling of a church bell. On and on it rings, by turns clear and then muffled, faint and then strident, as the wind gusts and dies away.
They hurry, pick their way down into a steep griff, down tracks that are slippery with leaves and often seem at first to lead nowhere. It’s quiet. They could be the only four people in the world. The only four living creatures anywhere.
It’s almost dark when Tova hears water trickling, tumbling, rushing. They’re close.
A little after that, between the trees, she spies the shadowy remains of an old mill. It must have been abandoned years ago. The roof has rotted away and so too have parts of the walls, although the timber posts are still standing. The leats and millpond have filled up, clogged with leaves and reeds. Brambles and ferns grow thickly all about.
The path leads down towards the river. And there, in front of them, is the ford.
‘I told you we’d find it,’ Beorn says.
Not a moment too soon, either. Night is closing around them. White specks dance and twirl around her. They settle on the ground and disappear in an eyeblink.
Don’t let it snow yet, Tova thinks. Not until we’re somewhere warm and sheltered. Somewhere with a roof. Then it can snow all it likes.
This river isn’t nearly as wide as the one they crossed yesterday morning. It doesn’t look as deep either. But the waters, thick and murky with mud, look every bit as cold. This time she decides not to take off her shoes; some of the stones look sharp.
Guthred goes first this time. Merewyn is behind him and Tova next. Beorn last of all. She picks her way carefully down the crumbling bank towards the water’s edge, tugging sharply at Winter’s reins, making encouraging noises as she coaxes her on. The mare doesn’t want to enter the river, and Tova doesn’t blame her. She’s tired, like the rest of them. But they can’t rest yet. Just a little further.
A rustling in the reeds on the other side; a bird chirps indignantly. Something long and sleek slides into the water and vanishes beneath the surface. An otter, maybe.