An orange glimmer, so tiny as to be barely visible. A lantern? A campfire?
It might be a hundred paces away, or more like half a mile; in the gloom it’s hard to tell. A shadow moves briefly in front of the light. There’s someone there.
‘Is it them, do you think?’ she says, keeping her voice low.
His hand reaches to the loop in his belt from which his axe hangs. ‘Unlikely. The fire looks too small for it to be one of their raiding bands.’
It’s quiet. The rain is fine, more like a mist, and it makes not a sound as it falls. She remembers the laughter, the singing, the raised voices of the Normans last night. She doesn’t hear any of that. Maybe they’re just too far away.
He says, ‘I’m going to get closer. Stay here.’
He starts to move, but Merewyn grabs at his arm. ‘You’re not leaving us on our own. Not if the enemy are nearby. We’re coming with you.’
‘All right. But stay close to me, and don’t do anything unless I tell you to.’
Leaving the horses and their packs, they descend the track towards the source of the light, speaking not a word, moving slowly so as to make as little noise as possible, with Beorn leading the way.
The barn stands by a beck, under some alders, with the fire in front of it. Of whoever started it, there’s no sign.
‘Where did they go?’ Merewyn asks as they duck behind a bramble hedge.
Beorn glares at her, puts a finger to his lips and signals for them to keep low to the ground. They’re close now, so close that the slightest sound might give them away.
A man emerges from the barn. He stands between the fire and them, so Tova can’t easily make out his features, but he moves stiffly, with a slight limp and a weary look about him. Wispy hair straggles past his shoulders. To her eyes he seems old, although that doesn’t mean much. He must be about the same age as Skalpi, she thinks. Not for the first time, she wishes he were there with them. He would keep them safe. He would know what to do.
This man isn’t Skalpi. He’s not exactly fat but he’s wide around the middle, with a rounded face and pudgy-looking fingers. He’s no warrior. He lacks the stature: the broad shoulders, the sturdy arms. Neither, though, does he have the look of someone who has spent his years labouring in the fields and toiling at the plough.
‘He doesn’t look like one of them,’ she whispers. She means the Normans, of course.
Beorn nods but doesn’t say anything. His gaze is fixed upon the man. They’ve gone the whole day without seeing another soul, and now here at last, maybe, is someone like them. The flame she holds inside her warms, just a little. They aren’t the only ones, after all.
He carries a scrap of timber, which he tosses on to the flames, throwing up a cloud of sparks. He stands by the fire, staring at it, hardly moving, his arms folded tight against his chest. His lips are moving; he seems to be muttering something. To himself, though. There doesn’t seem to be anyone else about. Not that she can see, anyway.
Without warning he falls to his knees. His hands clasped tight, he bends forward, his chin pressed against his chest.
‘Forgive me, Lord,’ he cries into the night, loud enough that even from fifty paces away they can hear him, and he’s sobbing. ‘Forgive me, I beg you!’
Tova looks at her lady, and then they both look at Beorn.
‘What now?’ Merewyn asks.
But he has already made up his mind. Hefting his axe, he rises and, as silent as the night itself, darts out from their hiding place, towards the barn and the campfire and the kneeling, whimpering figure.
‘Beorn,’ Merewyn says. Too late: he’s already beyond earshot. Then, because she’s too scared to look for herself, she asks Tova, ‘What’s he doing?’
The fire is between Beorn and the other man as, keeping low to the ground, he approaches. Only when he’s less than twenty paces away does he slow. The man is still lost in prayer and hasn’t noticed him yet. No one else rushes out from the barn to challenge Beorn. Whoever this person is, he’s travelling alone.
Beorn’s waving to them, signalling something. He’s beckoning them over.
‘It’s safe,’ Tova says as she takes hold of Merewyn’s hand and helps her up. ‘Come on.’
They hurry after Beorn, stumbling across the ridges and furrows, Tova’s feet sinking into the soft earth. He’s nearly at the fire already. His axe remains in his hand. Just in case, she supposes. Still the older man’s head is bowed. He’s muttering to himself.
Beorn stops. He clears his throat.
The man breaks from his prayers and looks up. He sees Beorn, standing in front of him. His eyes widen in panic and his mouth opens, but no words come out. He tries to rise, but his feet find no purchase on the damp grass and he scrabbles on all fours as he backs towards the barn, trying to get away.