In The Grip Of Old Winter Page 18

  Then the carrier shuffled round and faced the cleared way.

  Peter wriggled backwards, found the knife and gripped it tight. The barghest didn’t pounce. If it crouched nearby, it stayed hidden. Wulfwyn sat up and leaned back against the tree. Godwine stayed alert and focused on the carrier.

  Oswald sat back on his shins. Tears glistened on his cheeks and he wiped them away. “What must I do? If there is help, tell me. I am bereft of thought.”

  Wulfwyn tapped Godwine’s shoulder. “Do you know of any hidden way that leads into the manor?”

  Godwine nodded and pointed towards the trees where the slope came down from the ridge.

  Wulfwyn said, “Of what manner is this hidden way?”

  Godwine straightened his arm and rippled it from side to side. Like a fish, thought Peter.

  “A tunnel?” said Wulfwyn. He studied the distant trees. “To flee from the manor when foes threaten.”

  Oswald gripped the edges of his cloak and wrapped them around his chest. “Godwine meant to lead me earlier, but you came upon us by surprise. Every step I make takes me back. And time passes...” He pulled the cloak tighter and buried his chin in its folds.

  Wulfwyn stood. “Godwine will take us now, my Eorl. We cannot accomplish any deed here while the carrier watches. Let us move back into the trees and then trust to Godwine’s skills as he scouts.” He took Oswald’s arm and helped him to his feet. “Move with care until the manor is no longer in sight.”

  Peter followed Oswald and Godwine came last. The kept in single file until they reached the edge of a wide shallow dip where a bramble bush grew. Peter glanced back and though he looked hard, the forest hid every part of the manor.

  Godwine took the lead. They climbed as the ground rose in a gentle slope and where a hole opened in the canopy high above, caused by a fallen tree or broken branches, deep snowdrifts covered the forest floor. Birds sharp claws left trails across the snow’s surface and sometimes the paw prints of an animal. A fox, thought Peter, or a badger, though not the barghest, for the dog left massive prints.

  He held the knife with the blade slanted upwards, like Wulfwyn. The blade gleamed black as did the leather around the hilt. Had the leather been treated or painted to last longer? It might be tar, he thought. He’d seen tar tipped from a lorry when workmen mended a road and he’d watched it steam and glisten as they rolled it flat. It smelt strong too, though he didn’t smell anything when he sniffed the handle. Two round blobs, like large black beads, stood proud at either end of the bar that protected his hand from the blade.

  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.

  Wulfwyn said, “Eorl Oswald’s need must be great. Come.” He grasped Peter’s shoulder and shone the torch back down the tunnel - and gasped.

  Peter gripped his knife. He’d need to fight if the barghest attacked, but the torchlight didn’t shine on white teeth sharp as daggers. Water drops sparkled and twinkled as they fell through the torch’s beam and the drops fell faster and joined together to become thin streams. Muddy bubbles blossomed on the tunnel floor. They expanded until they burst and the water ran and gathered at his feet. The walls glistened and dislodged earth fell in large lumps which dissolved into mud that oozed as it slid and tumbled down.

  Peter’s hair soaked through as the water fell faster. It streamed p
ast his boots as it ran towards the big puddle. “The tunnel’s going to cave in.”

  “Or we shall be drowned like rats in a flood,” said Wulfwyn. He gripped the seal-amulet. “These charms cannot be known?”

  “I can’t... I don’t... No.”

  “Then we must run.” A clod of earth dropped from the roof and landed in the water with a loud splash. “As swift as the wind.”

  Water blurred Peter’s sight and he wiped the drops away with his sleeve. Wulfwyn leapt forward and Peter sprang after. With each splash they made, its echo repeated, along with the drips and the gurgles and the suck and sigh of the mud as it broke apart and slid into the water. A lump landed on Peter’s head and ran in a gritty stream down his cheeks.

  As they approached the large puddle, the water deepened. The surface rippled in flurries of little waves. Wulfwyn waded in up to his knees and reached back to grab Peter’s hand.

  Peter grunted as he forced his legs through for, faster and faster, the water streamed and dripped and flowed. Sudden currents and eddies formed above and below the surface that buffeted against his boots and threatened to topple him over.

  The water reached his knees and with his next step it streamed into his boots and over his feet. Icy cold, the shock made him hold his breath. Small waves, caused by their struggle, splashed against the tunnel walls, first on one side and then on the other and as they swept backwards and forwards, each one reached higher on Peter’s body. They soaked his jeans and he gritted his teeth as each wave splashed a bit harder.

  From behind, louder than the waves and the drips and the gurgles, there came a rumble and a thump. He spun round and so did Wulfwyn as he aimed the torch. The roof bulged and then dropped and in a foam of white froth, a wall of water cascaded into the tunnel and tumbled straight towards them.