‘And people really pay to hear you sing, do they?’ Beorn asks. ‘They pay good silver?’
The poet shrugs. ‘Sometimes. But just as often I’ll settle for a hot meal, a jug of ale and a bed of straw in the hall of whoever is lord. I’ll stay a day or two, and then I’ll move on to the next place, wherever there’s a feast taking place.’
But now there are no halls, Tova thinks. No halls. No lords. No feasts. And what use are stories then?
*
The wind’s changing. It gusts in her face; she keeps her hood up and her head down to try to keep the worst of the rain off, but it’s not enough. Icy darts prick her cheeks.
North and west they ride, following the course of the river valley. Deserted strip-fields stretch out under a wide sky. It’s too open, too exposed. To the rain and the wind. To the eyes of the enemy.
They move cautiously, keeping to the cover of woodland wherever they can. To the north, to the south, to the west, to the east, smoke rises in thin coils. More hall burnings. Some of the larger fires still glowing. Every so often Beorn pauses to glance over his shoulder, scanning the distant hills. When he goes on ahead, he doesn’t venture as far. It’s the first time he has betrayed any sign of disquiet. The fact that he’s worried makes Tova worried too.
This isn’t the way he would have chosen, she knows. It’s taking them closer to the old road, the one that the Romans built in years gone by. And closer to the old road means closer to the Normans.
They’ll be watching it, he says. Watching for folk fleeing towards Dunholm, into St Cuthbert’s land, seeking sanctuary. Folk like them.
They have no other choice, though. And so they carry on, mile by mile, as the skies ahead of them grow heavier.
*
They lead their horses one at a time. Branches overhang the path, crossing over one another. Oak and hornbeam. Beech and birch. It’s not long after midday but it feels closer to dusk. A strange half-light falls over everything.
A half-light upon a half-world, slipping into a shadow from which it might never emerge.
‘Wait,’ Beorn says. He stops in his tracks, his arm raised.
‘What is it?’ asks Merewyn, who’s behind him. ‘What have you seen?’
Tova cranes her neck to see what’s happening. It’s not the first time they’ve halted this afternoon, and it probably won’t be the last either.
‘Why are we stopping?’ Oslac calls. He’s bringing up the rear, keeping a lookout behind.
Tova leaves Winter momentarily and ducks under the low branches as she makes her way forward to join Merewyn. And she sees what they’re looking at.
Horse dung.
‘We aren’t the only ones going this way,’ says Beorn as he crouches down and takes a pinch of it, rubbing it between his fingers.
Tova feels a prickling all over her body. They could be close. They might be watching them right now. She searches amid the trees, past the tangle of brambles, the hollow lichen-matted trunks and the thick holly bushes that the birds have picked clean of berries.
Beorn sniffs at his fingertips. ‘A few hours old, I’d say. Not warm, but not cold either.’
A few hours ago. She breathes more easily as the prickling feeling subsides. She was worried it was more recent.
‘Maybe we should turn back,’ Oslac suggests. ‘Maybe coming this way wasn’t such a good idea.’
Absently he fingers what looks like a gold chain hanging around his neck. Some keepsake or charm? He catches her looking at him and immediately tucks it back out of sight, under the collar of his tunic. He fixes her with a warning glare, his cheeks blossoming red, then turns abruptly away as if embarrassed.
Beorn is already marching back to his horse. ‘We go on,’ he calls over his shoulder. ‘But keep your eyes and your ears open.’
*
She can tell when Winter is tired. Her head is low; she won’t go when told to, and when she moves she won’t obey commands, but picks and chooses which ones she thinks sensible and which ones not. She isn’t used to long journeys, or to being made to carry such heavy packs.
Three days it’s been now since they fled Heldeby. Almost, anyway. Once this day is out, it will be. No wonder Tova can hardly feel her feet any more.
Because Winter isn’t the only one who’s struggling. Not for the first time she finds herself trailing behind as they climb through the woods. The rain keeps falling and her nose is running and it won’t stop, no matter how many times she wipes it. She hears her lady calling to her, urging her on. She knows she has to keep up. But she can only see so many burned-out halls, so many animal carcasses with limbs missing and eyes picked out, so many broken corpses lying cold and ashen in the fields. If she’d had any idea it would be like this, she’d never have come.
She has to stop for a moment. Her head is spinning; she can’t feel her feet.