She nods.
Beorn nods too. Then he clamps his free hand on Oslac’s chin and wrenches his head up, exposing the poet’s pale neck. He lowers his knife so that the edge rests against the skin.
Oslac’s breath comes in short, sharp stutters. His teeth are clenched but he doesn’t struggle. He knows it’s no use. There is no escaping his fate now.
‘You did what you had to do,’ says Beorn. ‘And so do we.’
*
They stumble on through the darkness. Through the trees. Through ditches and hollows thick with wet bracken. Through freezing streams. Tova keeps glancing over her shoulder, expecting to see the enemy bearing down on them, to hear them shouting to one another, to hear the sound of hooves, but there’s no sign of them.
‘Don’t stop,’ says Beorn.
‘What about Wulfnoth and the others?’ she asks.
‘He’s dead. I don’t know about the rest of them. They ran. I didn’t see where they went.’
She wants to go back to find Winter, to find Guthred’s body so that they can pay their respects to him, but she knows they can’t. Their packs too. Their provisions, their food, water, firewood, blankets.
Gone. All of it.
Guthred’s scrip slaps against her thigh as she runs, or tries to. The strap digs into her shoulder. She hadn’t appreciated its weight until now.
Beorn sees that she’s struggling. ‘Leave it.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Yes, you can. It’s not important. What do you plan to do with it, anyway?’
‘It was important to him, so it’s important to me. Don’t you see? It’s all we have of his. It’s what he would have wanted.’
‘Girl—’
Her mind is made up. ‘I’m not leaving it.’
He shakes his head in frustration, but he doesn’t bother arguing.
*
The snow is falling again, heavier this time, darting and swirling about them, by the time they find the small church nestling near the bottom of a wide vale, almost hidden from sight amidst the folds of the earth. It stings Tova’s cheeks, but she grits her teeth as the three of them make their way carefully down the slope, fighting the gusting wind, trying not to slip on the wet grass, towards the squat dark building with the cross nailed to the gable.
They try the door. The lock is rusted, but one good strike from Beorn’s axe and it gives way. The door is heavy; it grinds against the floor, but he presses against it with his shoulder and it opens.
He moves stiffly, she sees, and with a limp. Is he injured? Was he wounded during the fight? Why didn’t she notice before? Why hasn’t he said anything?
Inside it smells stale, as if no one has been here in weeks, or months, or maybe even years. At least the roof still holds. It’s shelter, and that’s what matters.
There are hangings on the walls: thick linen, nothing extravagant. Motheaten but otherwise in one piece. Beorn tears them down while Tova sits Merewyn down, then takes the altar cloth and wraps it around her lady’s shoulders. She’s shivering violently, drawing quick, shallow breaths. They need to get a fire going and get her out of her sodden dress, and soon.
Beorn goes in search of wood they can burn while Tova huddles close to her lady, rubbing her arms and her shoulders, doing her best to keep her warm.
Outside, the night wind howls.
Sixth Day
In the morning the hills, the fields, the trees are white. The whole world lies silent and empty beneath winter’s blanket. And still it snows, sometimes lighter, sometimes so heavy that it’s impossible to see even ten paces beyond the door of the church.
Beorn ventures out to fetch more wood. It looks like they’re going to be stuck here, at least until tomorrow. Hopefully by then it’ll have relented. In the meantime they’ll have to stay put and keep warm as best they can.
They sit in silence on what used to be one of the wall hangings, in front of the meagre fire. Merewyn’s cheek rests on her shoulder. Her eyes are closed but Tova thinks she’s awake. She has stopped shivering, but her nose won’t stop running. Every so often she’ll break out in a fit of coughing that leaves her hoarse. Some honey mixed with warm water is what she needs to soothe her throat. That’s what Eda would say.
Tova hefts the book in her lap. What’s left of it, anyway. Already more than a third of the pages have gone. Beorn couldn’t find much by way of dry wood in the dark last night, and they needed the parchment to help feed the flames, to keep them going. A good thing she didn’t leave it behind, she thinks bitterly, although she doesn’t think Beorn appreciates the irony.