Through the trees to the north she spies the river, or thinks she does. Its banks are shrouded by tall spindly trees. No sign yet of a bridge. Beorn would say, wouldn’t he, if he thought they were near?
She turns to look back the way they’ve come, towards the crossroads at the bottom of the vale, where the droveway and their own muddy track met. So many miles behind them already. So many still to go. It doesn’t matter in which direction she turns, it’s all the same. Hills upon hills, as far as her eyes can make out. Dense copses of birch and elm. Empty fields, recently ploughed. Green meadows where the grass grows long. Everything so still, caught in winter’s grip.
Black specks flutter up to the east, from one of the far thickets close to the droveway. Dozens, scores, hundreds. Spiralling up, swooping, diving. Too far away to hear their chatter above the wind. A quarter of a mile? Less than that?
She knows she ought to be riding on, trying to catch up with the others. But she doesn’t. Instead, leaving Winter, she ventures off the track, tramping through the undergrowth, brambles catching at her cloak and her dress, towards the edge of the trees, trying to get a better look.
Something must have scared them, she thinks. Those crows, or jackdaws or rooks or whatever they are, they wouldn’t just take flight for no reason. She wouldn’t, if she were them. It’s too cold. Better to stay still and conserve warmth. Stay close. Huddle together.
She fixes her gaze on the distant thicket and the birds circling high above. Just for a moment, she tells herself. Then she’ll go.
The moment passes. Still nothing. A deer bounds across the hillside. Nothing else moves. No other sign of life. She hears her lady calling from further up the track, sounding alarmed.
She should go, she knows. She’s about to call back to say she’s all right when she sees them. A cluster of figures on foot. Three of them. No, four, bursting out from the cover of the trees. Shields slung across their backs, brightly daubed in red and green and yellow. Pelting across the open ground, across the harrowed earth. Scrambling over a hedge, over ridge and furrow. Falling and then picking themselves up. Running along the valley, across the open pasture. Running as if their lives depended on it.
Running from what?
‘Girl,’ Beorn calls from behind her. ‘Are you listening to me? Come on. You shouldn’t be wandering on your own.’
She glances over her shoulder, sees him fighting the bracken as he comes towards her.
‘Look,’ she says, beckoning him closer. ‘Look!’
Pursuing them, charging from out of the thicket, comes a band of mounted men. Three at first, then another two behind them, and another two, then three more. Ten in all. Pennons flying. Their shouts carry faintly across the ploughed fields. The blast of a war horn. And this time she isn’t hearing things.
It’s them.
Galloping after the four men on foot, skirting field edges, rounding hedges. Closing on them. Closing fast. Hooves pounding the dirt. Helmets glinting, spear points gleaming wickedly in the grey afternoon light.
The Normans.
Beorn asks, ‘What is it, girl?’
He stands beside her, following the line of her outstretched finger. And he sees.
‘Get down,’ he says.
She doesn’t move. She can’t. She’s forgotten how.
His hand on her arm. Clutching so tight that it hurts. Before she knows what’s happening he’s pulling her down. Hard. To the ground. She lands on her elbow and wants to let out a yelp but he clamps his hand across her mouth.
‘Quiet,’ he says. ‘Stay still.’
He crouches low behind the brambles and peers over. Tova joins him, rubbing her arm where she fell.
‘Will they have seen us?’
‘I don’t know. Let’s not take any chances.’
They can’t have done, Tova thinks. Surely they can’t. They’re too intent on their prey.
The men on foot are no longer together, but strung out. Each man for himself. They fling aside their spears, their shields, their packs, cloaks, everything, so that they can flee all the faster. But where? She can hear them calling to one another, the panic in their voices, faint though they are. Those ahead shouting to the stragglers. The enemy not far behind. Only a couple of hundred paces away now. Getting closer and closer to the crossroads.
One of the Englishmen trips, falls face first on to the earth, struggles to get up. Looks over his shoulder as he does so, sees the horde bearing down upon him. And yells out something that Tova can’t make out.
‘Don’t watch,’ Beorn says.
But she does. She can’t help it.
A lance head strikes the man’s shoulder, spinning him around. Another glances off his side and he staggers back. A sword across the back of his neck. He falls, disappearing amid the long grass.
‘No,’ she says under her breath. ‘No, no, no.’
‘What did I tell you, girl?’