Then this one must be Lady Merewyn, says Tova, because she’s thin and pale, and they fall about giggling and shushing each other. They know if anyone hears them they’ll be for it.
Tova can’t help herself, though, and when Ase starts talking about the sow that escaped its pen, which Leofric spent an hour this morning chasing around the yard, that sets her off again, and once she’s started she can’t stop, and Ase is telling her to keep quiet but at the same time is laughing too, until they hear footsteps outside in the yard and suddenly things are no longer funny. Hurriedly they shove the t?fl board with its pieces under their mattress. The set doesn’t belong to them; they found it on the table in the hall, left out by Orm and ?lfric when they went to bed, and Tova knows they’ll have to return it quickly in the morning before anyone notices it’s missing. No sooner is it out of the way than they blow out the candle and leap under the blankets and then they lie as still as stone, not even daring to whisper to one another, their hearts pounding as they do their best to still their breathing, until the footsteps go away and they know they’re safe.
How long ago it all seems now, Tova thinks, although it was only last spring. Of course it can’t have been long after that night when—
She’s doing it again. Stop it, stop it, stop it.
‘How’s the stew?’ she asks Guthred, to distract herself more than anything. She can’t smell it yet, but she can see wisps of steam rising. ‘It must be nearly ready by now.’
The old man doesn’t answer. He’s staring into the fire, his eyes glazed.
‘Guthred?’
At the sound of his name he turns around, blinking. ‘I’m sorry. I was thinking.’
‘What about?’
He smiles gently, sadly. ‘I was thinking how only a few hours ago I was wondering whether I was going to die without ever seeing another friendly face again. Now here you are. Here we are.’
‘None of us is going to die,’ Merewyn says, in that stern way that she has. ‘We’re going to survive this, somehow. All of us. I know it. We’re going to get to Hagustaldesham, and everything will be all right.’
‘Where?’ Oslac asks.
‘Hagustaldesham. It’s somewhere to the north of here. About a week’s ride, Beorn says, or maybe a little less. I’d barely heard of it before, either, but he tells us we’ll be safe there. It’s where the rest of the rebels are mustering, apparently. The ones who are left.’
‘The rebels? But I thought the war was over.’
‘We did too,’ Tova says. ‘But Beorn says otherwise, so that’s where we’re going.’
‘And you don’t think that if that’s where they’re rallying, King Wilelm will be on his way there as well soon enough, to crush them once and for all?’
‘He wouldn’t dare,’ says a voice from out of the darkness of the barn. It’s Beorn, returned from feeding the horses. ‘Not that far north, so far from his castles. Certainly not in the middle of winter like this.’
‘How do you know? What’s to stop him? He’s already come this far, hasn’t he?’
‘Into a land where he met no resistance, where his foes have already scattered. Beyond the River Tine, things are different. Gospatric, earl of Bebbanburh, rules there. He was one of the rebellion’s leaders, one of the last to give up the struggle, even after half our army had abandoned the cause.’
‘You fought in the rebellion?’ Guthred asks.
‘I did,’ Beorn says. ‘Much good though it did.’
Oslac says, ‘What brings you here, then? Did you desert?’
‘You take me for a coward, do you?’
‘No—’
‘Then keep your mouth shut.’
A hush falls.
‘I think you underestimate the king,’ Oslac says after a while, softly but firmly, speaking as he might to an ill-tempered child, which sounds strange coming from him, young as he is.
‘Oh, you do, do you? And what would you know?’
‘Only what I’ve seen and heard on my travels. He’s single-minded in everything he does. Once he has made up his mind, he doesn’t change it. He’ll stop at nothing to destroy those who oppose him, even if that means marching the length and breadth of Britain.’
Beorn folds his arms across his chest. ‘So tell me, then. Where should we go instead?’
‘I don’t know. Across the sea, maybe. That was my plan. If we make for the coast, we might be able to find a boat that will take us far enough away that we won’t have to worry about the Normans. To Yrland, or across the German Sea. Away from England entirely.’
‘Away from England?’ Tova echoes, her heart sinking. She has barely left the manor in all her life; now already they’re talking about distant shores.
‘No,’ says Beorn. ‘The Danes are prowling in their ships all the way from the Humber to the Tine, doing what they do best. Taking everything they can. Food, slaves, silver – whatever they can lay their hands on.’