In The Grip Of Old Winter Page 22

  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.

  ***

  Wulfwyn’s hand pressed on Peter’s shoulder. All three stood in the dark as the shallow water swirled around their feet.

  “We cannot pass further this way,” said Wulfwyn. “We are up against the bank and the rise is sheer.”

  Peter listened for sounds of pursuit or for any clue that hinted at the spae-wife’s intent. Did Bosa take Leonor? Where and how? Did he have the strength to carry her away?

  Wulfwyn said, “We must return. Be wary.”

  Peter turned around and followed Wulfwyn back along the stream. Godwine came behind. Ahead, the curtains of moss flickered with an orange glow and the fire cracked and roared as the old oak burned.

  Wulfwyn halted at the first strands of moss and with slow care pushed them aside. Each curtain hung longer, wider and deeper than the one before and after he’d lifted it, Wulfwyn waited for a long time before he moved on to the next.

  The fire’s orange light pulsed and the shadows shifted and darted. The moss brushed against Peter’s face, cold and damp.

  At the last curtain, Wulfwyn took his knife and with the tip, pierced the moss and drew the knife down to part the strands.

  Peter held his breath as he watched Wulfwyn’s immobile back. He’d have to run if he needed to escape and none of them stood a chance once they reached the bank. The distance, though short, didn’t give them time to hide amongst the trees.

  Wulfwyn’s back straightened and, with his knife poised ready to thrust, he pushed back the curtain’s edge and stepped out from behind the moss.

  Godwine’s hand rested on Peter’s shoulder, a silent signal to make him wait. Wulfwyn’s outline, blurred and indistinct through the moss, stayed still as a statue. Peter’s heart thumped and he drew a long deep silent breath. His feet chilled as the water washed over his boots. If Wulfwyn didn’t dart straight back, then the spae-wife must have gone. She wanted Leonor, so she’d chase Bosa. She didn’t need to hunt after the seal-amulet any more.

  Wulfwyn eased the moss aside and whispered. “Come. They are not in sight, but they must be close. Do not speak or make any sound.”

  Peter lifted each foot clear of the water and walked as if he tiptoed on his heels. That way he reached Wulfwyn’s side without a single loud splash.

  Flames burned on every part of the dead oak and black smoke pumped from its broken crown. Hot ashes spattered into the stream and hissed in a puff of white steam as they went out.

  Wulfwyn peered left, then right, then all around. With a flick of his hand, he gestured that Peter and Godwine follow as he stepped across to the bank where Bosa and Leonor had lain.

  “Keep watch,” said Wulfwyn and he crouched to study the ground.

  With a crack that made Peter jump, a branch snapped high up on the oak and tumbled into the water in a flurry of fire and sparks. The hot bark steamed and smoke, thick as a cloud, rolled across the surface.

  Wulfwyn stood and strode up the bank. “They came this way. Follow.”

  “We shan’t be able to see,” said Peter. “It’s still dark and the firelight won’t reach that far into the trees.”

  Wulfwyn climbed higher. “It is clear that the path they take leads to Eorl Oswald’s. Stay close and silent.”

  Peter scrambled after Wulfwyn and Godwine followed. With a terrible rending of splitting wood and a jolt that shook the earth, the old tree broke in two and one half toppled into the stream. The water bubbled at the oak’s fiery demise and extinguished the flames that charred the bark bl
ack. The fire’s orange light diminished and darkness on both sides of the stream thickened.

  My backpack and knife and granddad’s thermos are lost for ever. Weird, that the backpack and thermos burned up centuries and centuries before they were made. The torch too, lost underground and left to rust. He reached Wulfwyn where he waited at the top of the bank. I’ve lost everything that might be of any use. All I can do is follow and do as I’m told.

  “Their path leads towards our old glade and that is our way too,” said Wulfwyn. “They must be close, so move with stealth.”

  Peter followed Wulfwyn and blinked to adjust his eyes to the dark. Their steady pace as they brushed past bushes and low hanging-boughs gave them a chance to stay quiet, though twigs cracked underfoot and dead leaves rustled. Wulfwyn’s direction never faltered except to move around trees and the roots that blocked their path.

  Ahead, with sudden brightness, white light flared. All three halted and peered hard as if they might see the cause.

  The spae-wife activated the seal-amulet. To give them light, or for some other reason? The brightness diminished, though it didn’t go out.

  “It might be a trap,” said Wulfwyn. “To see if we follow.” He drew his knife and Peter heard the soft sigh as Godwine released his sword from its scabbard.

  The white light glimmered, distant and dim through the trees, and Wulfwyn followed, slower than before.

  Peter glanced from side to side. At this pace, it will take hours to reach the glade. The dark makes it hard to know how far we’ve walked. If we’re attacked, I’m dead. The spae-wife came this way when she chased me and Wulfwyn. She didn’t have the seal-amulet then to make a light, so she must know her way through the trees too, even in the dark.

  Did Bosa mean to take Leonor back to Oswald’s? He must be mad to think he stands a chance of escaping. Now that she has the seal-amulet, the spae-wife’s power is complete. How can any of us hope to fight her - or save Leonor?

  Wulfwyn halted in mid-stride and Peter stopped just before they bumped. The white light flickered, like the lights in The Hall before the power cut, and then went out. Peter stared and listened at the darkness and the silence and they muffled his senses as if he dreamed.

  Wulfwyn whispered. “Follow.”

  Patches of snow gleamed where it gathered in hollows between the trees. The cold cut against Peter’s cheeks and he pulled his hood up to keep his ears warm. His feet slipped inside the too-big boots and his right heel chafed where it rubbed. On and on they crept.

  Peter didn’t notice when the darkness lifted. The trees outlines became clearer and the shapes and sizes of the bushes stood out darker against the dawn’s grey light. His legs ached.

  The old tree and the fire that almost claimed their lives already shimmered as a distant memory, as if it happened to someone else, though he still smelled the smoke where it lingered on his skin and clothes.

  Far away, a rook called its raucous note and the daylight brightened. As if Wulfwyn timed it to happen this way, the three of them stepped into the glade and halted.

  Fresh snow covered the ground and the clear imprints of the spae-wife and her two companions proved easy to spot.

  Wulfwyn crouched and pointed. “See, Eorl Bosa came this way.” A boot print showed amongst the scuffed snow. “He might move before them or be captured.”

  Peter leaned over Wulfwyn’s shoulder to study it closer. “Can you tell if he still had Leonor?”

  The trail crossed the glade and into the ravine. Wulfwyn stood. “I cannot. Some charm makes her sleep and these marks do not reveal which of them holds her captive.”

  “The spae-wife can follow Bosa because he wears that green stone,” said Peter. “He’d never move fast enough if he had to carry Leonor.”

  “He means to join his knights,” said Wulfwyn. “A man who is scared may have renewed strength when fear chases at his heels. At Eorl Oswald’s, with a horse, he might make his escape.”

  A lump, large and heavy filled Peter’s chest. “Then what’s the point in chasing him anymore. We can’t fight the spae-wife...” The charred branch, if he managed to reach it, might that help? He didn’t know how, but Bear and the skin-walkers fought the spae-wife before and though she hadn’t been defeated, they’d imprisoned her for many centuries. The heaviness in his chest lifted. The skin-walkers gave him hope.

  “I will not give up this chase,” said Wulfwyn, “for Leonor’s sake. I must know her fate, even if it is mine to die.”

  Peter nodded. “I understand.” He wanted to help Leonor too. He didn’t want her to be a ghost for ever. Nor Wulfwyn either.

  “We are easy prey for eyes to see,” said Wulfwyn. “Our way is clear. Let the fates guide us this day.”

  ***

  They crossed the glade and entered the ravine. As they reached the far end, Wulfwyn slowed and crept out onto the common way. Fresh snow covered the frozen mud and the spae-wife’s tracks followed the way towards Oswald’s manor.

  Wulfwyn increased their pace so that sometimes Peter had to run if he didn’t want to be left behind. At every turn, Wulfwyn slowed and he didn’t hurry on again until satisfied that no ambush threatened.

  Peter pulled a long branch out of the undergrowth. Placed upright, it reached above his head, though its circumference fitted his hand well. Not much of a weapon, but it gave him something to fight with if needed.

  The grey dawn lightened into another grey day and still the snow fell. They kept to the side of the common way where the flat frozen mud made their progress easier. A sudden cascade of ice crystals showered their heads and they all ducked.

  “Snow from a bough,” said Wulfwyn as he peered up into the trees. “Ill-chance that it falls as we pass.”

  “We haven’t seen the spae-wife at all,” said Peter. “She moved really slowly when she attacked us in the glade. I’d have thought we’d have caught her up by now.”

  Wulfwyn said, “The seal-amulet might give her strength.” He shrugged. “Though I cannot tell.”

  The common way rose and then curved down behind the left-hand bank. Wulfwyn approached it with the same care that he’d taken with all the twists and turns along the way.

  Peter and Godwine waited until Wulfwyn beckoned them forward. The common way dipped and further down, where it straightened out, the cut appeared between the right-hand banks where the track led up to Oswald’s manor.

  No sign or sound of any knights or the spae-wife or her companions and relief surged through Peter’s chest, for in just a few more minutes he’d be able to reach the charred branch.

  Wulfwyn beckoned them off the common way and up the left hand bank. “Our way is not barred by any knights. They might have perished at the spae-wife’s approach or hidden from her fury. Let us pass the track and reach the manor through the trees beyond.”

  Peter’s excitement bubbled. “There’s a place in the trees where I can find some help. It’s not far from the track.”

  Wulfwyn frowned. “Some cave or den?”

  Peter shook his head. “No, it’s better than that, but it’s... but it’s difficult to explain.”

  Godwine shrugged when Wulfwyn glanced across to see if he might know this ‘place.’

  “Bring us there,” said Wulfwyn. He led the way forward. “Be wary. I do not trust this stillness.”

  Peter’s branch snagged in the undergrowth and caught against the roots, so he took hold of it with both hands and lifted it high across his chest. Then it hit a low branch and another shower of ice crystals pattered onto their heads.

  “Sorry,” said Peter.

  Godwine drew his sword, took the staff and with a single blow, cut it in two. He handed one half back to Peter.

  “Thanks.”

  As they approached the cut in the banks, they moved, one at a time, from bush to tree to hollow, until they all crouched opposite the track.

  Wulfwyn whispered. “Thunder, before it breaks, oppresses the spirit. There is something of thunder to this stillness. Nothing
moves upon the track. Nothing lies upon the track. Yet I am fearful that some doom waits to strike.”

  Peter sensed it too, a heaviness in the head that came with a desire to lie down in some hidden place and sleep. If he concentrated too hard his temples throbbed, like the start of a headache.

  Wulfwyn and Godwine moved on and Peter followed. Once they passed the track, they trod with less care and more speed and scrambled back down the bank onto the common way.

  Peter scanned the trees on the opposite bank as he tried to spot the place where the knight had seen him and attacked, for just beyond that, further into the trees, stood the charred branch. The knight’s blood might still stain the snow and he scraped the end of his stick backwards and forwards.

  It might be easier to judge where the knight fell if he gauged the distance back to the track and he checked over his shoulder. “Oh no!”

  Wulfwyn and Godwine spun round. Behind them, on horseback, rode Eorl Bosa and six knights. They came down the common way at a steady trot, past the track and straight towards them. The knights couched their spears, ready to charge.

  Too late to run, or hide. Wulfwyn drew his knife and Godwine his sword. Peter grasped his staff with both hands.

  Eorl Bosa raised his hand and the knights slackened their pace, though he still came forward. Fifty paces from where they stood, he reined his horse to a stop and dismounted. “I do not come to fight, but to speak.” He led his horse as he walked. “I am saved by my men’s loyalty, for they came upon me as I stumbled from the trees when the jaws of death closed at my heels.”

  Wulfwyn’s voice grated hard as stones when they are ground one against the other. “Where is Leonor?”

  Bosa halted and rubbed his forehead. “Alas, I faltered, weak with tiredness, for I did not have the strength to run when Leonor did not wake. Our enemy’s pursuit proved swift and fearful of capture... I... I...”

  Peter shouted. “You left her in the forest?”

  “I meant to return with aid,” said Bosa. “If one at least ran free to muster arms and men, then all will know that chance may give them hope.”