There’s an unwelcome feeling in the pit of Tova’s stomach, the same as the one she had when Merewyn woke her in the night. She can’t help but feel that someone, somewhere, is watching them.
She remembers the stories the grown-ups used to tell when she was young. Stories of the shadow-walkers, creatures that stalk the night, which were said to come when the moon is new, as it is tonight, to steal away children and livestock to eat or sometimes to sacrifice to the Devil. Tova never paid much heed to those tales; it didn’t take her long to work out that they had been made up only to frighten children into behaving. The closer they get to the hall, though, past the churchyard and the empty sheepfold, the surer she becomes. Something’s out there. A shadow-walker, in one form or another.
Enough, she tells herself. You’re letting your imagination get the better of you.
She keeps a tight hold of Winter’s reins as they approach the hall, which is built in the old style, like a boat turned upside down, wider amidships than at bow and stern, the keel arching towards the sky. Like the one at home, until it burned down five years ago and Skalpi had the new one built. Nowhere near as grand, though. It seems a poorer place than Heldeby; at most a dozen families must live here. Or lived. The roof of one of the barns has collapsed in on itself, while the cob is crumbling away, exposing the wattle. Hoes and shovels have been left propped up against walls. Pails stand half-full of murky water.
They come to the yard, which is bounded on one side by the hall and on two others by squat timber-and-thatch buildings that might be storehouses or kitchens or stables. Tova thought that maybe someone might have come out to greet them, if not from the cottages then from the hall itself. But no one does.
‘Where is everyone?’ she whispers as they near the well in the middle of the yard. She feels the need to be quiet, in case whatever it is that’s watching them should also be listening. The wind has died to nothing. Silence hangs everywhere like a shroud.
‘Stay here with the horses,’ Merewyn says.
‘Where are you going?’ Tova calls after her, but Merewyn is already making her way across the yard to the hall door. Taking charge. Her skirt trails in the mud, but she’s too preoccupied to notice or care. She hammers with pale fists upon the oak, calling to whoever’s inside, asking if they’ll offer respite to two weary travellers. When there’s no answer, she shakes the handle, but it won’t budge.
Tova glances around, searching the shadows. Whatever happened here, she decides, it can’t be good. As desperate as she is for food and warmth and rest, suddenly she wants nothing more than to leave, and as soon as possible. Out here in the yard they’re too exposed. Whatever was watching them before is still out there, and she doesn’t like it.
She’s about to call out to Merewyn, to ask if they can go, when she hears the laughter.
Laughter, and voices.
She stands as still as ice, hardly daring to breathe. There are people here after all. Not just one or two, but more like four or five or six. All men by the sound of it, somewhere beyond the outbuildings that ring the yard.
?lfric and Ketil, Tova thinks. They’ve been tracking us all day, and now they’ve found us.
Then she realises the voices are coming from the other direction: from the north and west. So it can’t be them. Then who? Some of the villagers whose home this is returning from wherever they’ve been?
They’re coming closer. She can hear them muttering to one another and sniggering, as if sharing a joke. She can make out the jangle of harnesses, faint but unmistakable. That, and the clink of mail.
Not just any men. Warriors.
She looks about for her lady. Merewyn’s nowhere in sight, but Tova doesn’t dare call out.
They need to hide, and quickly. If they’re discovered, they’ll be entirely at the mercy of these men, whoever they are.
Taking hold of the horses’ reins, she tries to lead them away from the well. Behind the hall, she thinks; they’ll be out of sight there. Winter follows without complaining, but Merewyn’s palfrey is as wilful as her owner and won’t move an inch.
Please, Tova beseeches the creature as it tosses its head and shies away. Don’t play these games with me. Not now.
The more she fights with it, the more determined it grows. It has travelled far enough already, it’s decided, and will go no further.
‘Tova!’
She glances across the yard, sees Merewyn’s face pale in the moonlight, peering out from behind the door of one of the many sheds and storehouses. Her eyes are wide, frantic, as she beckons Tova.
But the horses, she thinks.
At any moment the men will appear; she can hear them just beyond the low barn opposite the hall. She doesn’t have much time. One lets out a guffaw that splits the night like a roll of thunder. Her throat is dry, her breath sticks in her chest and her feet are rooted where she stands.