They could concoct some sort of infusion, couldn’t they? She’s heard that willow bark is good for headaches and other pains; if they could find some, maybe they could boil it in water for him to drink. At the very least they could bind his wounds.
It won’t stop him from dying, of course. She understands it’s too late for that.
‘There is one thing we could do,’ says Beorn.
She turns. They all turn.
‘What?’ asks Merewyn.
He hesitates. Whatever it is, he clearly doesn’t want to say, at least not out loud. He reaches up to the back of his head; for a moment she thinks he’s scratching it, until she realises the motion he’s making. How he’s holding his hand. Flat, like a blade. The edge striking the back of his skull.
‘No,’ says Tova under her breath. ‘No, we can’t.’
He’s thinking it’s the kindest thing they can do for him. The merciful thing. They can put an end to his pain here and now. Let him be with God, where he belongs.
That doesn’t make it right, though, does it? Taking someone’s life, when for days all around them they’ve seen only death. What would that make them? He’s not some old nag that’s gone lame.
Why didn’t the ones who did this finish him off when they had the chance? Why did they have to leave him like this?
But she already knows the answer. To make him suffer for as long as possible. They didn’t want his end to be easy. No, of course not. That’s why they did it.
But if the five of them were to leave him now, they would only be condemning him to a slow, lonely death. That’s exactly what Wulfnoth and the others did. They would be no different.
‘I agree with Beorn,’ says Oslac.
‘It’s the right thing to do,’ Merewyn says. ‘We might not like it, but it is.’
Tova doesn’t like it. But she knows in her heart of hearts that they’re right.
‘What do you say, Father?’ Merewyn asks.
Guthred blinks and stares at her. There is a look of terror in his eyes, as if he has been shaken from sleep and has forgotten where he is. He looks surprised that someone should be addressing him or interested in what he has to say.
The monk coughs, and Tova reaches for the ale flask. Cradling his head, she raises it to his lips, letting a few drops at a time into his mouth. With every swallow he groans.
‘Is there a p-priest with you?’ he asks when he has finished. ‘I would very much like to speak with him, if I may. T-to pray with him, before it’s too late.’
Tova squeezes the young man’s hands one last time, then stands and lets Guthred take her place by his side. He does so slowly, gingerly, as if not quite sure what he’s meant to do. The frightened look hasn’t vanished but seems to have become frozen on his face.
‘I’m here,’ he says as he takes the monk’s hand, which still clutches the rosary, and cups his own around it.
Beorn alone remains behind with them; Tova and Merewyn and Oslac carry on a short way down the track. For a while she’s able to make out Guthred’s soft murmur, but then they’re too far away.
They halt and pace about while the horses graze.
‘It’s the right thing,’ Merewyn says again, as if she needs to convince herself.
Tova doesn’t hear the axe fall. There is no cry. No sound at all. Nothing but the wind buffeting her cheeks and blowing her hair in her face. But somehow she can sense the moment when it happens. A fleeting stillness. A chill. She closes her eyes and says her own silent prayer for the young monk’s soul. For all their souls.
When she opens them again, she sees Guthred, his head bowed, leading his horse up the path after them. A short way behind him is Beorn, his axe slung over his back as usual, his expression as flat as always, as if nothing has changed.
It’s done.
*
‘You shouldn’t have told Wulfnoth you were going to Lindisfarena,’ Oslac tells the priest. It’s been at least an hour since they left Godstan. An hour since any of them has spoken.
‘I wasn’t thinking,’ Guthred says in a quiet voice.
‘You realise, don’t you,’ the poet goes on, ‘that if you hadn’t told him, he wouldn’t now be looking for you, and we wouldn’t all be in danger? This isn’t just about you and your precious book; this is about all of us.’
Beorn looks over his shoulder at him. ‘You didn’t think we were in danger before now?’
‘I didn’t say that. I just meant—’
‘What? That the thought of being put to the sword by the foreigners doesn’t scare you? Is that what you meant? Because if it is, then you’re a braver man than I.’
‘There’s no need to be like that,’ Merewyn scolds. ‘He misspoke, that’s all.’
‘I hope so. Because you ought to be afraid. All of you. If you think the Normans will show any more mercy than the priest’s friends, you’re wrong.’ He pauses to let his words sink in, then goes on: ‘Besides, it’s only Guthred here who has anything to fear. They don’t care about the rest of us; they don’t even know we exist. All they want is to get their treasure back.’