In The Grip Of Old Winter (29 page)

“Did you kill Eorl Oswald?”
said Peter.

Bosa’s mouth hung slack as if
shocked by the question. “No... no...”

Peter pressed. “Then how did
you escape from the tunnel?”

Bosa swallowed. “The... the
dog... its growl like thunder, startled me awake. I saw it rake Eorl Oswald’s
face so that he dropped his sword and blinded, fell. Fear forced me away,
though...” Bosa’s fingers twitched at his lips as if they might pluck the words
from his mouth. “The carrier and the spae-wife waited above and a mist, cold as
tomb air, rose from the ground and wreathed the trees in shadow. Between them
lay Leonor and she did not move. They paid me no heed, though I cried out in
fear and ran. The mist shielded me from sight.”

Wulfwyn banged the flat of
his hand on the ground. “You forsake Eorl Oswald when countrymen expect honour
over common strife when enemies threaten and you leave a maiden, whose love you
profess to cherish, to an unknown fate.” He sprang to his feet and paced with
short sharp steps, backwards and forwards. “What word, that means not man, can
be placed upon your head.”

Eorl Bosa huddled into a
ball. “I am not proud... but who knows fear before it strikes?”

Wulfwyn stopped pacing.
“Where is Leonor to be taken?”

Bosa wrung his hands. “I did
not watch; I did not wait. Men of mine still hold Eorl Oswald’s manor and I
hastened to reach them before night, but when the shadows lengthened I... I
feared to be alone and hid within this place.”

Wulfwyn frowned. “It is known
to you?”

Bosa nodded. “Reports of many
secret places used by outlaws have long been known.”

Wulfwyn shut his eyes and
stretched his neck until the back of his head rested on his shoulders. “We must
eat. Cut us some venison, Godwine.”

Godwine rose, unwound the
rope and lowered the haunch of meat. He cut slices with his sword and laid them
before the fire.

Wulfwyn climbed back up the
trunk and when he returned he carried the iron pot filled to the brim with
snow. He hung it above the fire, took the meat and handed the slices round.
Even Bosa took some and nibbled at the edges.

Wulfwyn placed a small log
onto the fire as wisps of steam rose from the pot. “The spae-wife means to
return to Eorl Oswald’s manor with Leonor. I do not know the reasons or the
actions that she means to take.” He tore the meat with his teeth and chewed.
“Peter is not close and the seal-amulet sleeps. Maybe she knows that we follow,
waits for us, even watches as we approach, expects us to fight for Leonor’s
release. Without the seal-amulet her will is weak, though who can say that this
is always so. Eorl Bosa’s men might fight and force her back. If she waits
until we are close, then the seal-amulet will renew her will and the knights
will fall as they did at Eorl Bosa’s manor.”

Peter’s stomach fluttered. So
much depended on him. How to make the seal-amulet work? Did it trigger from a
thought, an instinct? Once he knew, he didn’t need to fear or doubt his ability
and deep down he sensed that elusive perception, though it slipped and
slithered just out of reach and he failed to understand its shape or form.

Wulfwyn took another slice of
meat. “If we reach the manor before the spae-wife, Eorl Bosa will be able to
command his knights to our aid. A strategy that all will follow must be agreed.
That will be decided when we arrive at the manor.” He chewed the meat.

Peter regarded Eorl Bosa.
Such a broken man, not tall and proud as he first saw him when he rode to Eorl
Oswald’s to ask for Leonor’s hand in marriage. Why did Wulfwyn trust him? “Eorl
Bosa and Leonor might be already joined. Even before the spae-wife attacked
Bosa’s manor, because that’s why he took Leonor, isn’t it?”

Bosa shook his head. “No...
no... we are not joined. Fear made her fretful and full of doubts. I despaired
to see her so sad and promised to wait until light and beauty shone from her
face once more.”

Wulfwyn snorted. “With you
that day might never dawn.”

“She didn’t love you,” said
Peter. “And I don’t think you love her. You want more land, that’s why you
pretend to love her. You want more land to prove your loyalty to King William,
so that he makes you a knight or one of his lords. You want to use Leonor, not
love her.”

Bosa nibbled at the ragged
bit of meat he held. “I longed for our union... as did she... she told me
so...”

“I don’t trust him,” said
Peter. “I think he’ll turn his knights against us. Why should he care what
happens to outlaws?”

Wulfwyn stopped chewing and
glared at Bosa. “What word can you give that all will believe? Be true,” and he
unsheathed his knife. “Or your neck will feel this iron’s sharp edge.”

Bosa folded his slice of meat
over and over between his fingers. “My manor is lost...”

“It is empty,” said Wulfwyn.
“Not lost.”

“What hope do I have without
your aid?” Bosa patted his belt. “I have lost my sword - my men perished - I
cannot wish you harm, for we fight against one enemy that will slay us both if
we are not united. I do not know what word to give, for I am at your mercy. Is
my torment not enough?”

Wulfwyn flicked his knife
from side to side, so that the tip scratched the earth. “Eorl Oswald promised
me Leonor’s hand in union. It is wished by us both. A union that keeps the old
ways unchanged.”

Bosa nodded. “Leonor told me
this. Her tears revealed the truth of her heart. That she tricked my hopes with
her show of love, hurt. That Eorl Oswald weaved webs of deceit to reveal to me
that which I wished for, when all the while he meant to bring me down, delivers
such mistrust as will stay with me all my days.” He shrugged. “It is to be
wished that every man accepts the new king’s rule, or the strife between us all
will never cease. I will not oppose Leonor’s union with you, if that is both
your wills.” He spread his hands. “Look upon me. All I wish is to live my life
by the laws of the land within my hearth stead. What has come to pass between
us cannot be undone, though the outcome of certain actions might be different
from those we hoped. The glory, the honour, the desire that any man considers,
will pass as swift as river water when other actions change those hopes, so
that old and long-cherished dreams depart beyond our grasp.”

Wulfwyn grunted. “Clever
words.”

Peter still didn’t trust him.
“You promise to help us?”

Bosa pressed his palms
together as if in prayer. The shredded meat dangled between his fingers like
loose skin. “I give my word.”

The water bubbled in the iron
pot and Wulfwyn reached for a small pouch attached to his belt. He sprinkled
three pinches of dried leaves into the pot and the smell of mint sharpened the
air with its clean scent. He dipped wooden bowls into the water and Peter took
one.

“We shall rest here until
dawn,” said Wulfwyn. “It is wise that not all slumber. I shall keep the first
part of the night, then Godwine, then Peter.” He rose and picked a fur for each
of them.

Peter wrapped the fur about
him and sat with his back against the tree. He cradled the bowl in both hands
and sipped at the hot mint water. Bosa curled up into his fur and seemed to
sleep at once. Peter’s eyes drooped and with the bowl by his side, he fell fast
asleep.

***

Peter awoke from a dreamless
sleep when Godwine shook his shoulder. He’d slumped sideways as he slept and
his neck ached where it pressed against the tree. The bowl had tipped upside
down, the water soaked into the earth. Godwine picked it up and scooped a fresh
bowl from the iron pot. Lazy flames flicked in the fire pit.

Godwine watched as Peter sat up
and sipped. The mint tingled on Peter’s tongue and when he swallowed, the sharp
aftertaste made him wince. As he drank, blurry sleep evaporated and Godwine,
satisfied that Peter might be alert enough to stay awake, rolled into a fur and
lay down.

Wulfwyn lay on his back, his
mouth half-open and with each breath he gave a gentle snore. Bosa’s fur covered
him from head to toe so that no part of his body showed.

Outside, through the trunk,
Peter heard the stream’s rush and gurgle as it swept past. How long until dawn?
He mustn’t fall asleep, though the fire’s warmth and the fur’s cosiness tempted
him to lie down and sink back into a gentle doze.
No!
Wulfwyn trusted
him to keep watch and Peter didn’t want to let him down. He drank again. What
plans did Wulfwyn have when daylight came?
Don’t think about it.
It made
his stomach tense. He put down the bowl and pulled out the seal-amulet from
under his fur. Hard and black and cold.

Bosa muttered in his sleep.
He made sounds that might be words, but muffled by the fur, Peter didn’t
understand any of them. The fur rose and fell as Bosa twisted and turned.
Is
he having a nightmare? He might wake the others if he shouts too loud.

Peter reached across to shake
Bosa awake. As if aware, Bosa rolled away and the fur slipped from his
shoulders. A green light flickered across the Eorl’s face, like a candle flame
caught in a draught. A green not of life and growth, but pale as if weak with
sick and decay. It flared once and went out and Bosa’s eyes opened. He sat up
and gazed ahead as if awake, but unfocused.

“Do you want a drink?” asked
Peter.

Bosa faced him. “Yes.”

Peter leaned forward and
picked up one of the wooden bowls closest to the fire. Did the stone that hung
around Bosa’s neck cast that green light? Why? How? He’d wait for the Eorl to
be more awake and then ask.

Aware that Bosa watched him,
he glanced back. The Eorl’s eyes stared, but never blinked and though that made
him scary, his face appeared calm and passive, like a child who is content, but
not engaged with their surroundings. Perhaps the dream that woke him hadn’t
cleared.

Peter slipped the bowl’s lip
into the water and filled it half-full. “Here you are.”

Bosa took the bowl with both
hands. His attention fixed on the water as he rotated the bowl with his fingers.
The green stone hung from his neck and, though polished to a high shine, it
didn’t glow or flicker.

Bosa raised his head and
stared at Peter. “This is very prettily done.” His voice cracked as it swooped
high and then low.

Peter leaned away. “What?” Asleep
or not, or mad, as Wulfwyn thought, Bosa’s oddness frightened. “What do you
mean?”

The corners of Bosa’s lips
lifted as if he meant to smile, though his eyes stared with intent into
Peter’s. “Give me the seal-amulet.”

Peter shuffled back, but the
fur caught around his legs. He kicked hard, desperate with panic. “Wulfwyn!”

Bosa swept aside his fur and
leapt upright. He threw the bowl at Peter’s head. The bowl missed, but drops of
hot water scalded his cheeks. Half-blind, Peter leaned on one hand and tried to
wriggle backwards and wipe his face at the same time.

Bosa’s voice growled like an
animal’s. “For the one who is waiting.”

Peter yelled. “No.”

Bosa’s hands gripped Peter’s
neck and forced him onto his back. Peter lashed out with punches and slaps, but
Bosa’s strength and weight crushed the breath out of his lungs. He grabbed the
Eorl’s arms to prise his hands free before he choked. The green stone dangled
in front of Peter’s face and the pale light shone deep within its core and the
swirls of black glared like a lidless eye.

Bosa’s grip relaxed, as with
one hand he clutched a handful of Peter’s hair, pulled his head up and with his
other, snatched hold of the seal-amulet’s chain.

Peter grabbed the seal-amulet
to stop Bosa from pulling it over his head. Warmth tingled through his fingers
as its surface flared.

“For the one who is waiting.”
The Eorl slammed Peter’s head into the ground.

Black night pulsed at the
edge of Peter’s sight. Strength left his arms and his hands flopped across his
chest. He watched, as if from a distance, as Bosa lifted the seal-amulet free and
leapt over the fire towards the rough-cut rungs in the tree’s trunk.

Wulfwyn grabbed at Bosa’s leg,
but missed. Godwine rolled out from under his fur, crouched and jumped. Bosa
raised his elbow and smashed it into the outlaw’s face. Godwine fell backwards
and blood sprayed from his nose.

Bosa sprang up the rungs fast
as a cat, but Wulfwyn caught hold of the Eorl’s ankle and with the fingers of
his other hand, gripped a lower rung for support.

Bosa yelled with fury and with
his free foot stamped on Wulfwyn’s knuckles. Wulfwyn screamed, let go, fell and
hit the ground with a loud
thud
.

Bosa climbed up into the dark
and out of sight.

Wulfwyn’s face grimaced with
pain. “The seal-amulet... the spae-wife...” He stood, his hand clasped against
his chest. “A trick to find him here and tell us lies.”

Peter gripped his head with
both hands and sat. A sharp ache pulsed backwards and forwards between his
ears. “The green stone... it glowed like an eye...”

Godwine covered his nose with
the fur and sat with his head bent forward.

Wulfwyn shook his hand as if
that might relieve the pain. “Green stone?”

“Around his neck,” said
Peter. An elusive thought, of something he’d missed, worried his mind. “It lit
up and then went out, but when he attacked me it shone again.” What did he find
so hard to remember about the green stone?
Of course!
“He wasn’t wearing
it when we found him by the tunnel.” The pain in his head subsided to a dull
ache. “Bosa didn’t have it when we left him with Oswald. The spae-wife must
have put it on him after the barghest killed Oswald. That’s why the spae-wife
didn’t chase him when he ran away. It must be like a... like CCTV that she can
watch through.”

Wulfwyn stared back, his eyes
glazed.

“She must have another
stone,” said Peter. “She can see where Bosa is and who he meets.”

“Then,” said Wulfwyn, “she
sees from afar and follows.”

Peter swallowed. “Yes.” He
reached for the seal-amulet and the empty space where it once hung made his
heart sink. Without it, none of them stood a chance against the spae-wife and
Leonor’s rescue must now be impossible.

The fire erupted with a burst
as violent as an exploding firework. Sparks and hot embers showered down. Peter
yelled, ducked and covered his head and the sparks landed on the fur and wisps
of smoke puffed as the strands smouldered.

The fire rolled over the edge
of the pit as if it bubbled out of the earth, like lava.

Wulfwyn leapt for the rungs.
“Flee! Flee!” He grimaced as he gripped the first rung with his wounded hand.

Peter scrambled to his feet.
The fire caught the fur’s far corner and it burst into flames. A narrow path
around the fire and against the trunk gave him one chance to escape and he
darted round. Wulfwyn scrambled up the trunk to give Godwine room to climb.

Peter’s backpack smoked as
the fire flared. The straps ignited before he managed to grab them and the
backpack crumpled, collapsed and burned.

Wulfwyn yelled. “Godwine,
catch him.” He climbed higher.

Godwine reached down and
Peter jumped to grab his hand. The outlaw pulled him up as fire covered the
ground and blackened the tree’s trunk. Wood cracked and white ash floated in
the heat.

Large flames flicked at him from
below as the tree caught light on the inside. Godwine held him steady as Peter
fumbled for the rungs. The heat scorched his face and he squinted to stop his
eyes from smarting. Godwine let go as Peter climbed.

The smoke choked the back of
his throat and he breathed in shallow gasps to stop from retching. A hand
gripped his shoulder and pulled him up to the crack in the trunk. Cold fresh
air cooled his cheeks and he breathed deep.

Outside, Wulfwyn crouched on
one side of the bough. Peter squeezed through the crack and Godwine followed.

Below in the water stood the
spae-wife, the carrier and the barghest.

***

The spae-wife, wreathed in
grey dust that coiled around her skeletal form, wore the seal-amulet. It hung
from the bones that supported her neck and shone a bright crimson.

Her lidless eyes stared into
Peter’s and her teeth
clack
ed as her jaw, more bone than skin, opened and
shut, faster and faster. The fingers, shaped like talons that extended to the
tips of her twisted nails, rose and fell, curved and plucked, as if she played
an invisible musical instrument.

Fire erupted on the bough
where Wulfwyn stood. He leapt back and crashed into Godwine who clasped hold of
Peter to keep his balance.

Wulfwyn yelled. “Climb
further back.”

Godwine pushed past Peter.
The bough below needed a wide stride or a jump to reach and Godwine leapt upon
it, squatted and wobbled until sure of his balance.

Wulfwyn gripped Peter’s
shoulder. “Jump.”

The barghest prowled around
the trunk, its teeth bared, its glare cruel.

Peter stammered. “It’s... too
wide. I daren’t.”

Wulfwyn grabbed him under the
armpits, lifted him up and threw him down to Godwine. Peter’s mouth went dry as
Godwine, the bough, the water, the barghest rushed upwards and he whirled his
arms as if he tried to fly.

Godwine caught him in a bear
hug that knocked the breath out of Peter.

The barghest leapt, its mouth
wide, ready to snatch and tear and its claws scrabbled on the bark, but however
high it jumped, it didn’t reach the bough.

Godwine pushed Peter back
against the trunk and then tensed, half-crouched ready to catch Wulfwyn. Peter
dug his fingers into the tree.

The carrier splashed through
the water as he scuttled round from the other side of the trunk and spray flew
in all directions.

He can’t climb. He can’t
jump.

The spae-wife stayed out of
view, hidden by the trunk, the sharp
clack-clack-clack
of her teeth might
be the words of some alien language.

Opposite Peter, on the bank,
Bosa lay on his back, his eyes open. Beside him lay Leonor, curled up as if
asleep, her head on her arm.

Wulfwyn jumped and Godwine
caught him round the waist as he landed. They shifted left and right, backwards
and forwards and neither let go until confident and balanced.

The fire crackled and a thin
finger of flame chased after Wulfwyn as if it saw and followed. Down the trunk
it burned towards Peter’s feet and the bark crisped to black. The bough below
didn’t need such a big jump and Peter tested if he might be able to reach it.
He crouched and stretched his leg until the tip of his boot just scraped the
branch.

The barghest leapt and
snapped and Peter recoiled. Wulfwyn and Godwine shuffled closer as the fire
burned hotter and brighter and forced all of them tight against the trunk.

“It is our one chance,” said
Wulfwyn. He drew his knife, sat and half-jumped, half-fell down the trunk and
onto the lower bough.

The barghest snarled and
jumped and its front claws scraped the bark close to Wulfwyn’s boots. He
slashed at the dog’s head, but missed and the barghest fell back.

Wulfwyn yelled. “Come.”

Peter copied Wulfwyn and sat
and slithered and dropped onto the bough. Wulfwyn steadied him with one hand
and stabbed at the barghest with the other as it jumped again and again.

Peter’s heart thumped. He’d
forgotten his knife. He didn’t pick it up when he fled from the fire. He’d left
it inside the tree. His eyes smarted in frustration and anger. He didn’t stand
a chance without a weapon and needed Wulfwyn and Godwine more than ever to keep
him safe. He punched the bough and his knuckles stung where he tore the skin.

The flames crackled on the
bough above and then curled underneath and darted at them, like a snake’s
forked tongue as it hunts its prey. All three crouched, but the flames came
closer and Peter cowered even lower.

With a sudden start, Bosa sat
bolt upright and blinked. At first, he seemed unaware of what he saw and gazed
around him unfocused and untroubled. He studied his hands, the stone around his
neck, his mud-stained robe and frowned. Then his eyes brightened. He stared at
each figure on the tree and in the stream as if he’d never seen them before. He
watched as they crouched or leapt or scuttled and his face grimaced with
concentration. Like mum’s, thought Peter, when she plays Scrabble and searches
for the hardest word. Last of all, Bosa’s attention fixed on Leonor and he
leaned in closer.

The barghest’s jaws snapped
inches from Peter’s feet. Its snarls deepened as its fury grew and its leaps
reached higher than before. Wulfwyn jabbed with his knife, but missed every
time.

The flames thickened and the
trunk between the boughs caught light. The heat pulsed against Peter’s cheeks
and the top of his head warmed fast. Godwine scrambled over him as he searched
for a new way to escape. Peter shuffled back from the flames.

Another bough, higher than
theirs and further round the trunk, grew out across the stream and over the
curtains of moss where the water rushed underneath the bank and disappeared. It
needed a climb to reach and Godwine dug his fingers into the bark as he
searched for handholds. One slip, and with nothing to break his fall, meant a
plunge straight into the water.

Godwine tore rotten wood from
the trunk and the bark splintered and splashed into the stream. Every time he
tested his weight, the wood split and cracked and gave way. He growled like a
hunted animal caught at bay.

Peter’s stomach tensed with
fear. If they jumped into the water, they’d be torn to pieces. If they didn’t
move from this branch, they’d be burned.  All around the trunk, wisps of black
smoke streamed from cracks in the wood. How long before the tree collapsed? He
might knock the carrier out if he landed on him, for the misshapen man stood
right below, but if he missed...

A shriek of high-pitched fury
tore into the night. Every nerve in Peter’s body juddered. The second shriek
reached an even higher pitch and lasted even longer. Peter clamped his jaw
tight, his teeth on edge from the shrill note that rasped and scratched and
screeched. He bunched his hands into fists and squeezed, as if that might stop
the agony.

The final terrible note
echoed through the trees and Peter breathed again. The barghest and the carrier
ran around the trunk and out of sight. The
clack-clack-clack
of the
spae-wife’s teeth chattered, fast and loud.

Godwine glanced back at him
and then at Wulfwyn, a glimpse of hope in his eyes. The fire dimmed and the nearest
flames went out.

No sign of Bosa or Leonor.
Beyond the place where they lay, the night-shadows deepened and hid all that
stirred.

Godwine gripped the trunk,
stepped off the bough and dropped into the water. Peter sat down and jumped
into Godwine’s arms. Wulfwyn straddled the bough, gripped it with both hands,
swung over, let go and landed with the slightest splash. He pointed to the moss
that hung over the stream and they darted under its thick curtain and into the
dark.

Peter slipped on the rotten branches
covered with slime, but Godwine held his arm as they picked their way
downstream. The water gurgled as it ran loud and fast. Rich earth-smell, strong
and deep, thickened.

Behind them, the spae-wife shrieked
again and Peter trembled.