In The Grip Of Old Winter (25 page)

He’d never held a knife
before, not even a penknife, because mum didn’t like dangerous objects in the
home. She’d bought a set of kitchen knives that came in a wooden box that she
kept locked. Even dad had to ask for the carving knife when he sliced the
Sunday roast.

He rotated the handle as he
judged the weight. Did he have the guts to stab someone? He didn’t even know
how, except to thrust the knife forward, but that blade, sharp and hard as it
cut through soft skin and into flesh... it made his legs wobble. Best not think
about that, because he’d have to use it in a fight if it meant life or death.

The slope steepened and his
legs ached. Thick tree roots broke through the surface and he watched where he
trod in case he tripped.

Godwine raised his hand and
they halted. Wulfwyn’s shoulders tensed as if he meant to strike.

Peter gripped the knife and
stepped to one side to have a clearer view. Before them grew another bramble
bush. Its tangled branches, sharp with thorns, reached around the base of an
oak tree. Sprawled on the ground, half-hidden by the bush, lay Eorl Bosa.

***

Oswald whispered. “Does he
breathe?”

He might be unconscious,
thought Peter, or dead, for he didn’t hear us approach. Or it might be a trap.
Godwine must have the same idea, for he glanced left and right, but didn’t
approach.

Wulfwyn said, “Wait.” He trod
with care. When a twig cracked underfoot, he halted and waited and listened.
Eorl Bosa’s eyes stayed shut.

Oswald tapped Godwine’s
shoulder. “Is this the tunnel into the manor?” Godwine nodded.

Wulfwyn came closer and still
Eorl Bosa didn’t stir.

Peter searched for the manor
below, but the trees hid it from view. The tunnel must be long and dark. Did
Bosa carry a light? How did he find his way? He must have come alone, for Peter
didn’t see any knights, dead or alive, nor Leonor. Unless the knights hid,
ready to take them by surprise.

Wulfwyn crouched beside Eorl
Bosa’s head. Godwine came closer. He stepped to the left and then to the right,
alert to the smallest sound or movement.

Oswald said, “Come,” and
Peter followed. He held the knife level with his chest and forced his gaze away
from the blade, for its gleam held his attention with a strange fascination. If
he stabbed someone, they’d bleed and might even die. He carried death in his
hand and a strange thrill, mingled with fear, jolted his body.

Eorl Bosa’s cheek pressed
into the earth. His back rose and fell as if he slept. The bush hid his lower
body from the waist down. A candle stub, burnt to the end of its wick, lay
beside his left hand.

“He lives,” said Oswald. “Let
us drag him free, for he might wake.”

Wulfwyn gripped Bosa under
the arms and pulled. Once his legs emerged from under the bush, Wulfwyn turned
him over onto his back.

Oswald leaned forward. “I see
no mark or wound upon his body. I cannot know why he seems so afflicted.”

Peter bent down to look under
the bush and pushed aside the sharp thorns with his knife. The ground at his
feet sloped down, sudden and sheer. His eyes adjusted to the gloom. At the base
of the steep slope, flattened earth, packed hard, marked the tunnel’s start,
soon lost in darkness. Earth-smell and damp wafted up from the its depths.
Peter released the thorns and they sprang back to hide this secret way.

“What is your council, my
Eorl?” said Wulfwyn. “Leave Eorl Bosa as carrion for whatever beast chooses to
feast upon a traitor - or open his throat to ease this sleep into death?”

Oswald’s shoulders hunched as
he stared at the sleeping man. “I do not give any such council.” He pressed his
boot into Bosa’s shoulder. “He took Leonor. Took her into his manor. She is not
here. He must awake so that I might learn of her fate.”

“It is unwise to wait
unsheltered within these woods,” said Wulfwyn. “If he sleeps so sound that our
words do not break his slumber, then he might never wake.”

Oswald’s eyes glittered as he
stared back at Wulfwyn. “I will not move.”

Godwine crouched beside Bosa’s
head and slapped his cheeks.

“He might be poisoned,” said
Wulfwyn. “Or his wits broken.”

Oswald stepped back. “I must
see some sign. He is before me. I never thought this might come to pass. If the
fates decreed such a chance, then a man risks their wrath to dismiss such
fortune.”

“We can carry him back to the
den,” said Peter.

Wulfwyn shook his head. “I
will not return. Our trail will tell even stronger.”

Peter pointed at the bush.
“Suppose we drag him into the tunnel. Perhaps - perhaps Leonor did come with
him. She might be unconscious too, down there.”

“The boy has wits,” said
Oswald. “Fetch a brand to light our way.”

Peter slipped off his
backpack. “I’ve got a torch.”

“The boy has a flame that
needs no flint to spark,” said Wulfwyn.

Oswald grumbled. “Another
charm with ways as yet unlearned?”

Peter held up the torch.
“This is much easier to light. You just press this button...”

The beam dazzled Oswald and
he staggered back, his arms up to protect his face. Godwine sprang sideways on
all fours, like a cat taken by surprise, and crouched ready to flee.

Wulfwyn snorted as if
delighted by their reaction. “It does not harm. Nor does it trail smoke that
might be seen and smelled.” He grabbed Bosa under the arms and dragged him back
towards the bush. “Godwine, go before me as I lift him down.”

Peter pushed back the thorns
with his knife and then leaned into them to stop them springing back. He shone
the torch down into the tunnel.

Godwine stared at the torch
and then at the pool of light below.

“It won’t hurt you,” said
Peter and slipped his hand in and out of the beam. “It’s just a torch.”

Godwine poked his finger into
the beam until the tip shone bright. He took it out of the light, studied the
skin where the light touched and then placed it between his lips and sucked.

“It works by batteries,” said
Peter. “It doesn’t smell or taste of anything.”

Wulfwyn snapped. “Godwine!”

Oswald peered over Peter’s
shoulder where the beam shone onto the tunnel floor. “This light is sudden to
the eyes. It is not the slow bloom of dawn or a flame that wavers in the
breeze. It is white. Like water that runs in the sun’s brightness.” He stared
at the torch. “So small a tool to hold such wonder.”

“You can try it, if you
like.” Peter held out the torch.

Oswald took it between his
finger and thumb and shifted it left and right and up and down and the beam
flicked across the tunnel walls. “It shows where you want to see. It is not
unlike an eye.”

Godwine jumped into the hole,
took Bosa from Wulfwyn and lowered him onto the tunnel floor.

Wulfwyn backed into the bush
to push the sharp thorns out of the way. “We must take shelter, my Eorl.”

Oswald handed the torch back
to Peter. “Can such a tool be crafted?”

“Not in this - no, my Eorl.”
He aimed the beam onto the tunnel floor.

Oswald sat down on the edge
of the hole and slid down on his bottom. Peter did the same. Wulfwyn jumped
down and the thorns sprang back over his head.

The tunnel sloped downwards
for as far as the torch’s beam reached. No sign of Leonor.

Oswald stood next to Peter
and squinted as he followed the light. “How long is this tunnel?”

Godwine shrugged.

Peter played the light across
the tunnel roof. Cracks in the earth ran where roots broke through and dangled.
“Is there a tunnel like this in your manor?”

“There is none such,” said
Oswald.

“My Eorl,” said Wulfwyn. “It
is wise, if he should wake and flee, that one of us stay with Eorl Bosa.”

Oswald stuck his sword into
the soft earth. “I will stay. I shall learn of Leonor’s fate from his lips. My
actions, if he speaks truth or lies, I will hold until Leonor is before me or
you tell me true. Gods be kind that she is still unharmed.”

“Let us be swift,” said
Wulfwyn. He faced Peter. “It is better that I fight if danger comes upon us
unawares.”

Peter handed him the torch.
“Of course.”

Wulfwyn clasped Godwine’s
shoulder. “Be at my back. Come.”

Oswald knelt beside Bosa and
slapped his face hard. “Awake! Gods curse you.”

Peter followed Godwine into
the tunnel. It ran straight and down and soon the air warmed. The earth
glistened with damp and where water drops dripped in a steady stream, puddles
formed. Peter half-ran, half-walked to keep up with Godwine. Neither outlaw
needed to stoop and when Peter stretched out his arms, the tip of his knife
just scraped the tunnel walls.

The darkness swept back after
the torchlight passed. If I lose them, thought Peter, I just have to turn
around and go back the way I came. There’s only one tunnel and it’s straight.
In the pitch black though and unsure of how long it might take, he didn’t dare
think about it, for his fear of the dark and the nightmare imaginings that
threatened to rush in and smother his mind.

Wulfwyn slowed. “The tunnel
rises, but first there is water that reaches either wall. I cannot tell its depth.
Though Bosa came this way.”

White shapes, like crystals,
shone on the tunnel walls. Wulfwyn waded in and the crystal shapes shimmered in
the light as it reflected off the water’s surface. “It reaches no higher than
my ankles.”

Godwine splashed through the
large puddle and Peter followed. His boots kept his feet dry. Close to the
water line grew clumps of white moss that glittered where the ripples splashed.

The tunnel sloped upwards and
Wulfwyn kept the pace to a walk. Peter wiped his brow. The warmer air, the
confines of the tunnel, their speed, made him hot for the first time since he’d
appeared in this old time. His cheeks burned and as he followed in Godwine’s
muddy prints, the seal-amulet flushed red.

***

Peter halted. “Wulfwyn.”

The torchlight flashed across
the tunnel roof as Wulfwyn squeezed past Godwine and approached. Peter held up
the seal-amulet as the silver marks flared and revolved.

Wulfwyn gripped hold of it.
“The spae-wife is close.” He faced Godwine. “Is the tunnel at an end?” Godwine
shrugged and shook his head. Wulfwyn shone the torch over Peter’s shoulder back
the way they had come, then forward past Godwine and the way ahead. “If we are
below the manor, she may be above. Let us move forward, but tread with care.”
He let go of the seal-amulet and tapped it with his knife. “Tell me when you
see what it shows.”

Peter stared at the silver
marks. Suppose one flared bright? He’d known what to do in the glade by
instinct. At the cleared way it worked too, but not by his will or his command.
It just happened without thought or care. He dreaded the choice he’d need to
make. Try and make a silver mark work or watch, hopeless and clueless, to
whatever might happen?

Wulfwyn crept forward,
Godwine close behind. The torchlight diminished around Peter and left him in
the dark. He shuffled after, his gaze fixed on the silver marks.

From a long way back a growl,
deep as thunder, rumbled down the tunnel.

Peter spun round and in a
moment Wulfwyn and Godwine stood at his back. The tunnel walls glistened in the
torchlight. Another growl, deeper than the first, dislodged loose earth from
the roof which pattered onto the muddy floor.

Water dripped onto Peter’s
head. Godwine pushed past him and ran back down the tunnel, one hand thrust out
as he disappeared into the dark.

“He fears for Eorl Oswald,”
said Wulfwyn. “We must return.” He aimed the torch after Godwine. “Come.”

The seal-amulet burned
crimson and three silver marks lined up in its centre.

Peter’s heart thumped.
“Wulfwyn.”

One mark might be the soft
outline of a cloud, but the other two appeared as three lines together, one set
vertical, the other horizontal. They didn’t mean anything. Peter concentrated
with all his strength. Why didn’t they make sense? What made understanding them
so impossible? He bent his hand so that the first three fingers lined up,
pressed against each other and then pointed them upwards and then sideways. Any
instinct, any natural understanding, failed. Water dripped onto his head and
some splashed onto the seal-amulet.

Wulfwyn frowned. “Do you know
this meaning?”

Peter shook his head, furious
and frustrated that however hard he wished, the marks refused to make any
sense. Water drops splashed onto his hands as they dripped off Wulfwyn’s brow.

Another growl, like a deep
boom
,
reverberated off the tunnel walls.

Peter jabbed at the silver
marks with his finger. He’d touched the mark that chased off the barghest when
it attacked Eorl Oswald. He tried to slide them up and down and from side to
side, but they refused to move or to respond.