In The Grip Of Old Winter (17 page)

The mud and ice around the
knight’s face darkened. Peter, ready to strike, shuffled closer. The darkness
spread and when it flowed beyond the shadow cast by the knight’s shoulder, he saw
that it was blood and he stumbled backwards and retched.

The horn’s strident note
sounded through the trees. Peter glanced up at the bank, fearful that more
knights might attack. None stood there and he doubled over and retched again.
His legs trembled, but he staggered off the common way and leaned against the
nearest tree. He brushed away the tears that watered his eyes every time his
stomach heaved.

In the distance, horses’
hooves pounded as they broke into a gallop. He inched his way around the trunk
and saw the outlaws, already far ahead, break into a sprint.

A group of knights burst onto
the common way from the track. They urged their horses after the outlaws and,
with lowered spears, charged.

Peter didn’t watch. He leaned
against the tree and slid to the ground. He didn’t look at the motionless
knight either, but crawled on all fours up the bank until he found a hollow
formed by a fallen tree’s exposed roots.

Far away, men screamed and
horses whinnied and he clamped his hands over his ears. Now that the knights
occupied the manor and the surrounding woods, he’d never reach the charred
branch. His head tingled with panic. He’d be stuck in this time for ever
without any chance of escape. He still had the seal-amulet. It worked for him
once, why not again? If he took the time to learn, maybe men as well as giant
dogs might come under his control.

With slow care, he took his
hands away from his ears. The fight must be over, for he heard nothing. He
needed a plan. The best start was to find his way back to the outlaws’ camp. If
Leonor and Oswald had reached it too, that might give him some idea about what
to do next.

He grasped hold of a dry
root, but as he eased himself up he heard the
thud-thud, thud-thud
of an
approaching horse, and crouched.

A mounted knight trotted into
view with his spear lodged against the horse’s shoulder. He didn’t have a
shield, but a sword hung from a scabbard at his waist. With a cry, he reined
the horse in and dismounted.

The knight paced all around
the motionless man and glanced up at the banks, his right hand gripped around
the sword’s hilt. Satisfied that whoever had floored his fellow brother-in-arms
didn’t mean to strike with a sudden ambush, he knelt and pulled the prone man
over and onto his back.

A long red cut, where the
sword’s tip pierced the throat, revealed the manner of the man’s death. Peter
covered his mouth and stared in a different direction. More hooves
thud
ded
down the common way and voices called, not loud, but urgent and in a foreign
language.

When he dared to look again,
the dead knight had been lifted up and slung over a horse’s back and the riders
re-mounted. They urged their steeds back up the common way towards the track.

Peter slithered down the bank
for a clearer look. At the entrance to the track, the knights guided their horses
towards the manor and disappeared from sight. No sign of the outlaws. He
scurried, head bent, towards their secret camp. In his pocket, the seal-amulet
pulsed with heat and he ran his fingers over its warm surface.

***

As he approached the track, he
climbed the far bank and weaved his way between the trees and bushes. Where the
track levelled out towards the manor, two mounted knights stood guard.

Peter crouched and crawled on
all fours. His need to stay silent and out of sight slowed his progress. Twigs
and thorns scratched at his exposed cheeks and snagged the backpack. Twice he
checked his position relative to the knights’ and on the third time the trees
hid them from view. He stood up and hurried down to the common way.

His breath came in shallow
gasps, for he half-expected, half-dreaded to stumble upon a pile of dead
outlaws run down by the knights’ charge. Small pools of blood filled shallow
hollows in the frozen mud, but not a single body, anywhere. Did the knights
drag them away to be buried? He mustn’t waste time wondering. Relief that such
a grisly sight didn’t need to be witnessed gave him renewed courage to hurry
onward.

As he ran, he pulled the
seal-amulet from his pocket. The surface glowed red and the silver marks
swirled as if rotated by some hidden eddy. What did the seal-amulet mean when
it was like this? Why didn’t it show him a definite symbol? And if not, why
didn’t it cool and fade like the last time? He gave it an angry shake, but nothing
changed and he stuffed it back into his pocket.

The rustle and bump from his
backpack as it bounced against his shoulders made it difficult to hear and he
stopped running. He glanced behind him and along the tops of the banks. A
mounted knight might charge him down with ease and a knight on foot keep him
within easy sight from a high vantage.

The barghest too, might be
close and maybe the spae-wife. Was it she that animated the seal-amulet, as
Bear thought?

Nothing stirred on the common
way or up on the banks and with his hands through the straps to steady the
backpack, he set off at a run. How had Eorl Bosa known about the outlaw’s trap?
Or had it been a lucky chance that he sent two groups of knights spaced far
enough apart to catch the outlaws by surprise? Wulfwyn’s camp must be close. He
hoped to spot the concealed entrance, though he didn’t remember the exact
place.

Then he saw it. He didn’t
need to search. The long thin stems with their waxy leaves lay broken and shredded,
ripped from the ground at their roots and scattered in every direction.

Eorl Bosa
had
discovered the outlaws camp and Peter shuddered.

He crept closer and tip-toed
up to the ravine’s entrance. A thin sliver of light showed at the other end.
Impossible to see anything in the glade from this distance and he held his
breath and listened. Not a sound and he stepped off the common way and into the
dark.

He didn’t dare use his torch,
though the sudden gloom made it hard to see and he ran with his arms stretched
out to the sides. He’d risk the chance that the carrier might be hiding somewhere
up ahead. As the light at the end of the ravine brightened, he slowed to a
walk. No voices and no sound of any movement. The bush he’d hidden behind, when
he listened to Wulfwyn’s plan, lay snapped in pieces across his path.

He crouched, as more of the
glade came into view. No outlaws anywhere and no sign of Leonor or Oswald. The
iron pot, that hung suspended over the fire, now lay on its side, empty. A
small mound of snow covered the fire’s cold ashes.

Peter crept out of the
ravine, but kept to the side of the glade where the trees grew thickest. Blood
spots spattered the ground. Had any outlaws escaped, did Eorl Bosa take Leonor
and Oswald prisoner, or did he kill them all?

His mouth went dry and he
swallowed. Bosa wanted to marry Leonor, so she might be alive, but Oswald... if
Bosa wanted his manor, then Oswald’s friendship with the outlaws gave Bosa a
good excuse to kill all of Wulfwyn’s allies.

He reached the trees opposite
the ravine. What now? His mind went blank as he gazed at the fallen pot and the
cold ashes and the empty glade. With a sigh, he slipped off his backpack and
sat down against a tree. Fear and frustration made him feel useless and his
thoughts darkened.

Why didn’t he go back to his
time with Almina when he had the chance? Dad and mum needed him and that must
be more important than trying to change the lives of people who lived over a
thousand years ago? Why did he let granddad and Bear tell him what to do when
his instinct told him otherwise?

If only he’d thrown away the
seal-amulet, hadn’t cared about Leonor, hadn’t listened to Bear, or let
granddad encourage him to explore, for these were their stories he lived
through, not his. He’d been too willing to help when he should have turned his
back on them and ignored their pleas. What made them think that he might be
able to change anything? He’d dug a big hole from which escape proved
impossible, stuck in a time and a place that he might never be able to leave.

Tears blurred his sight, but
anger at his stupidity bubbled too and he wiped his eyes dry with the back of
his hand.
What a baby to cry. It doesn’t solve anything
.

He didn’t know what to do.
Search for Leonor and Oswald, but where to begin? Make his way back to the
manor and the charred branch? With so many knights, he didn’t stand a chance.
Attempt to understand the seal-amulet? It might be easier to learn Chinese.

He snapped the buckles open
on his backpack and reached inside for the sandwiches. As he took a bite, ham
and tomato, he considered the practicalities of rationing. The sandwiches and hot
chocolate might last for a bit. He’d never hunted, didn’t know how to catch
prey, wasn’t sure how to light a fire except with matches or a lighter and he
didn’t have either. He didn’t know how to skin or cut open an animal to remove
the insides or, even if he did manage to light a fire, know when his catch
might be cooked.

How did you build a shelter
to keep warm at night? He might be able to curl up under a tree, but that gave
him no protection. Suppose the barghest hunted in the dark? He didn’t trust the
seal-amulet to work for him again.

Where did Eorl Bosa live? He
guessed he’d find Leonor and Oswald there, if they’d been taken prisoner. It
might not be that far. Had that much time passed when he returned to Bear and
the skin-walkers? Wulfwyn instructed Oswald to bring Leonor to the outlaw’s
camp that night - so not that much time passed if the outlaws took up their
positions around the manor that same day - today. But, even if he did find Eorl
Bosa’s manor, what then?

He shook his head, find it
first and then work out a new plan when he knew Leonor and Oswald’s fate.
Decided, his confidence returned. He’d continue up the common way until he
found Eorl Bosa’s.

A twig snapped and he spun
round, but a hand gripped his head and squeezed so that it forced him to look
straight ahead. He grabbed hold of the arm, but didn’t have the strength to
wrench it away and the fingers that held him dug deeper and deeper until he let
go, fearful that his skull might split.

“Stay still or I cut your throat.”
A man spoke close to his ear.

Peter obeyed and lowered his
arms.

“What are you doing here?”

“I - I needed somewhere to
hide. I ran away from the knights on the common way.”

The man grunted as if he
didn’t believe the explanation. “Why did the knights give chase to you?”

Peter wriggled backwards, but
the man’s tight grip made him gasp. “I was looking for someone.”

“The common way is a strange
place to search. For there are many who travel its length.”

Peter spluttered. “I... I...”

“What are these persons
called for whom you search?”

Peter squinted sideways to
catch a glimpse of the man, but unable to twist far enough around, he gave up.
Was it a knight, an outlaw, or even the carrier? A dark leather boot scuffed
the ground close to where he sat and he took a risk. “I was looking for Leonor
and Oswald.”

The man didn’t speak for
several seconds and then he asked, “Why?”

“Because I wanted to help
them.”

The man’s grip lessened and
then let go. Peter shuffled back and out of reach. When he glanced up, Wulfwyn
stared back.

***

Wulfwyn’s brow, deep set with
heavy lines, frowned. Unshaven, several days’ growth of golden stubble
flourished. His long blond hair, scraped back from his face and tied in a twist,
like a pony tail, hung down his back. “How do you know those that you name?”

Peter’s mind flooded with
everything that he knew about Leonor and Oswald. He didn’t know how to reply
and in the end said, “Leonor asked me.”

Wulfwyn’s frown deepened.
“You have spoken together?”

Peter nodded.

“I have not heard Eorl Oswald
speak of one such as you.” A pulse beat in his neck.

“I haven’t spoken to him.”

Wulfwyn’s gaze flicked from
Peter’s face to his anorak and then his jeans. “What are you?”

Peter swallowed. “I’m Peter
and I’ve come - I’ve lived - I live in the future - many years forward from now
in the house where Leonor and Oswald live. Grandma and granddad live there,
it’s different now because it’s made of stones and I’m spending the Christmas
holidays with them and my mum and dad...”

Wulfwyn’s troubled gaze darkened.
“You speak strange words. Are you one of King William’s brats, or Eorl Bosa’s
spy that revealed our camp?” His hand went to the hilt of a knife attached to
his belt.

Peter shuffled further back.
“No - no. I’m not French. I’m not a spy, either.”

The outlaw tensed and then
released the knife. He rubbed his chin so that the stubble rasped. “This may be
so. The Norman’s talk with words that few understand. Your words, I know,
though not all. Eorl Bosa,” and he spat on the ground, “means to deceive and I wonder
if you are some crooked fiend sent to trick?”