‘It’s not their treasure,’ Guthred says. ‘I told you. It belongs to the Church.’
Tova turns to Beorn. ‘What are you saying, then? Are you suggesting that if they find us, we should just hand it over to them?’
‘I’m hoping that they don’t find us at all,’ he replies. ‘And they won’t, as long as we stay far enough ahead of them. Or far enough behind.’
‘But what if they do?’
‘There are four of them. There’s only one of me. I can only do so much.’
‘You fought off five Normans before—’
‘And nearly died doing so.’
‘But—’
‘Girl, you expect too much of me.’
‘So tell us, then,’ Merewyn says. ‘What would you do?’
‘Hand over the book and hope they’re satisfied with that, without any bloodshed.’
‘No,’ says Guthred. ‘If they want it, they’ll have to kill me first.’
Beorn sighs in despair. ‘Don’t be a fool. If it’s a choice between living and dying—’
‘It’s more than that. It’s a choice between eternal life and eternal death. I’ve tried my hardest to explain. I don’t expect you to understand.’
‘I understand one thing, priest: I’m not about to risk my life for the sake of a few parchments, no matter how ancient or how precious or how holy they are.’
‘You might as well give me up at the same time as the book, then. Because I won’t be parted from it.’
If they did those things to the monk, though – a man they didn’t even know – imagine what they might do to Guthred, who has already crossed them.
‘They wouldn’t kill you, would they?’ Merewyn asks. ‘You said that wasn’t their way.’
Guthred shakes his head. ‘I don’t know anything any more.’
*
They manage to find a hall to spend the night in, one that’s still standing, which the Normans haven’t taken the torch to. But someone has clearly been there already; the place has been ransacked. The great doors are open; inside, the benches along each wall have been overturned, floorboards ripped up to reveal hiding places below. Wall hangings lie torn and trampled in heaps upon the floor, which is littered with old rushes. There is a musty smell everywhere – of damp and rot and mouse piss.
Something small scurries away into the darkness as they enter. Above, the thatch rustles.
‘Something happened here,’ says Merewyn. ‘There must have been some kind of struggle.’
Oslac says, ‘I don’t see any bodies.’
No bodies, or pools of blood where bodies might have lain. No other signs of fighting, either. No scorch marks where flames might have licked at timbers. But whoever was here clearly got what they came for. Sturdy iron-bound chests lie open. Empty. Kists with their locks and their lids smashed in. A single tiny silver penny all that’s left of whatever treasure they once held. On one side of the coin a bearded face with a crown and sceptre. On the other some writing that Tova doesn’t understand: three letter shapes, one of them like a cross that’s been turned slantwise.
‘It’s a coin of King Harold,’ says the priest, when she gives it to him to look at. He squints at it, turning it over in grubby fingers. ‘The one who was killed by the foreigners in the battle at H?stinges.’
‘What does the writing say?’
‘Pax. It’s Latin.’
‘What does it mean?’
He looks at her with such defeat in his eyes, such gloom and despondency, that he seems suddenly twenty years older.
‘What?’ she asks.
His voice, when he speaks, is bitter. He says, ‘It means “peace”.’
*
They hack pieces from one of the benches to use as firewood, and from it build a good fire in the hearth. It’s a relief not to have to sleep under thin hides or on the hard ground, and with a roof that doesn’t leak over their heads. The rushes might be old but they’re soft. Tonight, at least, they will be warm and comfortable.
Enjoy it while you can, Tova tells herself. You might not get the chance again for a while.
*
‘How many men have you killed?’ Tova asks Beorn some time later that evening, as they’re sitting around the hearth.
Beorn stops running a whetstone up his knife edge, and stares at her. ‘What?’
At once Oslac stops plucking his harp. Guthred looks up from the book; he’s taken it out so that he might draw comfort from its words. Merewyn stops chewing mid-mouthful.
Everyone’s looking at Tova.
She could apologise, say it isn’t important, that it isn’t any of her business and she doesn’t mean to pry.
But it is important.
‘How many?’ she asks again.
‘More than I’d care to admit.’
‘Twenty? Thirty?’
He looks away in what she takes either for embarrassment or shame.
‘More than that?’
‘You ask too many questions,’ he mutters as he begins sharpening his blade once more. The steel sings softly with every stroke.
She tries another approach. ‘You said you fought in the rebellion.’
‘That’s right.’