‘Others?’
‘We’re not the only ones looking for you. There’s another search party in the next valley. We knew it wouldn’t be easy to find you in the snow, so we decided to split up to cover more ground. But your friend said there were two of you. Tova and Merewyn, he said. Where is she? Is she with you still?’
Merewyn. Of course. Her lady is still waiting for her to come back. She glances back in the direction of the tiny church. From here it’s hard to spot, all but buried in the snow as it is.
‘This way,’ she says. ‘Hurry.’
*
It’s true what Oslac said about Hagustaldesham. About Gospatric and about the rebellion. All of it, every bit. The town is gone. The rebels, the few who are left, all either killed or forced to flee.
It really is over.
That’s what Lyfing, the one with the freckles, says. Despite being the youngest-looking of them, he seems to be in charge. They’ve managed to get the fire going again and they’ve wrapped Merewyn in dry clothes and thick cloaks while they heat beans and lentils and carrots and some kind of salted fish.
‘He didn’t come with you, then,’ Tova says, her voice small, as he sits down beside her. ‘To show you the way himself.’
Lyfing hesitates. He won’t meet her eyes. But it’s all right. He doesn’t have to. She’s worked it out already.
She knows.
He would have said something by now otherwise. Why Beorn isn’t with them. Where he is. What’s happened to him. He’d have told her not to worry. That he’s well and waiting back wherever they’ve come from, and they’ll see him soon.
‘No,’ Lyfing says. ‘He didn’t.’
‘Tell me.’
‘What do you want me to say?’
‘Just what happened. That’s all.’
She’s had enough of people talking down to her, trying to keep her from the truth, shielding her from hurt as if she’s a child and they must take care of her. As if they think she won’t understand. As if she can’t take care of herself.
‘He stumbled into our camp late last night,’ Lyfing says. ‘Wet through. Shivering. Bleeding. Wounded badly. He could barely stand up. He was mumbling something; we could barely make out what at first, or get any sense out of him at all. He told us your names, what you looked like. Said we had to go out straight away to look for you. He was begging us. He said there was no time to lose. We did everything we could for him. It wasn’t enough.’
This isn’t how things were meant to end. Not after everything. He was supposed to come back to help them find safety. The three of them, together. He promised. He gave her his oath.
Why did she ever let him go out on his own, into the cold? She could see he was hurt, but still she let him do it. She should have known he wouldn’t make it. She should have insisted he stay with them.
This isn’t how it was supposed to be. Not Beorn. Not like this.
But it’s how it is.
She closes her eyes, tries to swallow her sobs before they overcome her. There’ll be time enough for that later.
She asks, ‘What about the Normans?’
‘Gone back south. We think, anyway. Now that there’s nothing left to burn or sack, they’ve got no reason to stay.’
Merewyn sighs in her sleep. She was awake for a while earlier, when their rescuers arrived, but she could barely hold her head up long enough to take some food and drink some ale, let alone speak. At least now there is colour in her cheeks again, and her breathing is even.
Tova strokes her on the arm and then clasps her hand, and is relieved to find her skin is no longer icy to the touch.
‘Will she be all right, do you think?’ she asks.
Lyfing takes a long sigh and scratches at his eyebrow. ‘I can only say this: I’ve walked fields of battle after the fighting and seen men who were struck down, barely able to move, their limbs broken, left for hours in the cold and the wet to bleed and bleed until help came. They lived. So will she.’
‘Beorn didn’t, though.’
‘Beorn?’
‘Our friend.’
‘That was his name?’
She nods.
‘He never told us,’ Lyfing says. ‘The strange thing is, I thought I recognised him. From before, you understand. While the war was still going on. I was sure he looked like someone I’d met. One of our best warriors. A man called Cynehelm. When I mentioned that name to him, though, he just stared blankly at me. Obviously I was mistaken. Memory can be a strange thing. It can play tricks on you.’