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.