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 and 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.’