‘Just a little further now,’ she says to them as she rubs Winter’s flank. ‘Then we can rest.’
She notices that one of her saddlebags is hanging open at one end. She goes to tighten the strap, but that’s not the problem. It’s the buckle itself that’s bent. She curses but knows it’s her own fault. She shouldn’t have tried to cram so much into it this morning.
There’s nothing she can do about it now. She takes hold of the reins and turns—
And stops still. And screams.
A figure blocks her path, its features in darkness. A night-stalker, a shadow-wight. As tall as a man. Taller.
Tova backs away as quickly as she dares. She can’t feel her feet. She can’t breathe.
‘No, no, no, no,’ it says hurriedly as it follows her. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you. I thought you heard me.’
It speaks. Not a wight, then. A man.
‘Stay away from me,’ she says, for all the good it’ll do.
A weapon is what I need, she thinks. But he’s hardly five paces away. If she so much as reaches for her knife, he could be upon her in an eyeblink. And even if she had it in her hand now, what would she do with it?
‘I’m not going to hurt you, I swear.’
She keeps backing away but he keeps on coming at her. Where can she go? She could turn and run but he’ll surely be faster. The horses have run off down the track, startled by the noise.
Another time, in another place, it started just like this. Herself and him alone: she helpless, trapped, with nowhere to go . . .
‘It’s all right. I’m not what you think. I’m not one of them. My name is Oslac. I came across your horses and saw the fire. I saw you talking to the old man. I didn’t know that there were any other friendly folk left alive until I saw you all. I thought the Normans had done for everybody. Please, don’t be frightened. Don’t run away. I’m on your side, really I am.’
The words come tumbling out, like water from a burst weir. His voice is young, with a drawl that makes her think he isn’t from these parts. His features are in shadow so it’s hard to say what he looks like, but he doesn’t sound much older than her. Certainly he can’t be any older than Merewyn.
He’s no longer advancing. This is her chance, she knows, if she wants to take it.
But she doesn’t. He sounds earnest, and, in a way, as lost and as desperate and as afraid as she is.
Then she remembers. The sounds she heard, back in the woods.
‘You lie,’ she says.
‘What?’
Now that her heart’s no longer beating quite as fast, she sees him properly for the first time. He wears a cloth cap, cone-shaped with the point drooping forward. Flaps covering his ears. Tufts of curly hair springing out from underneath.
‘You were following us, weren’t you? It was you earlier, I know it was, so don’t try to pretend otherwise.’
‘So what if I was?’
‘Why?’ she asks. ‘Why were you following us?’
‘Tova!’
She turns. Merewyn is running towards her, limbs flailing. Behind her is the old man, Guthred. In front of them both, charging with his axe in his hand, is Beorn.
Oslac spreads his arms wide to show he means no harm, but Beorn doesn’t care. He seizes the newcomer by his collar, nearly lifting him off his feet as he forces him back against the nearest tree. Oslac yells a protest, but the warrior isn’t listening. He brings his knife up to the other man’s face, so that he can see just how wicked is its edge.
‘If I hear you’ve harmed her,’ he says, ‘your death will come so quickly you won’t even have time to scream. And don’t think I won’t do it. When you’ve killed as many men as I have, one more is nothing.’ He calls over his shoulder: ‘Are you all right?’
This last is directed at her, Tova guesses.
She swallows and says, ‘I’m all right.’
‘Who are you?’ Beorn growls at the younger man. ‘Speak!’
Wide-eyed, he opens his mouth but can’t seem to find the words. For all his height, he looks small beside Beorn.
‘His name is Oslac,’ Tova offers. ‘He’s been following us.’
‘He has a tongue of his own, so let him use it,’ Beorn says, and then to his captive, ‘Well? Is what she says true?’
Oslac’s mouth opens again and closes. And opens. And closes.
Beorn pulls harder on the younger man’s collar, shaking him so hard that his cap falls from his head. ‘Answer me!’
‘It’s true,’ he says quickly. ‘Yes, it’s true.’
‘You were following us? Why?’
‘Because I thought you might be friendly.’
He says it without any hint of irony. Just as well, Tova thinks. Anyone who dares joke when there’s a knife at his throat would have to be brave indeed.
‘Yet you waited until now to show yourself?’
Oslac’s eyes flick down towards the blade at his throat, then back to Beorn. ‘I wanted to make sure, that’s all. Please, don’t kill me. I haven’t done anything wrong.’