In The Grip Of Old Winter Read online

  Granddad muttered. “Not much fallen under them trees. Not so hard to shift.”

  “Last night, I saw...”

  Granddad thrust his shovel into the snow and lifted up a huge pile. “Off you go now. We’ll meet somewhere in the middle.”

  Peter swallowed. Did granddad already know that somebody walked through the trees with a burning torch at night? Did granddad want him to go and look?

  ***

  Peter jumped onto the unbroken snow and it crunched under his weight. He held the shovel in both hands and took one big running stride after another. When he stopped to catch his breath, he saw the huge holes he’d made.

  I’m a giant and this is the snow-land where I live. Everyone hides when I go stomping.

  He took three more big jumps. Nothing moved in the wood, no birds sang or squirrel scampered and when he passed beneath the branches laden with snow, the immediate sensation of being watched and of something waiting took him by surprise.

  The fear that accompanied it yesterday didn’t overwhelm him this time, for wherever he looked, nothing unexpected appeared. The track dipped between the steep banks, its mud rutted into frozen ridges, as it went down to meet the lane.

  The snow, less thick here, clumped in pockets inside hollows and between tree roots, blown there by the wind.

  He left the track and underfoot, frozen leaves, brown and brittle, crackled. He didn’t know if he was searching for something obvious, or to find evidence that the yellow light he’d seen last night wasn’t his imagination. Boot marks perhaps, or broken twigs.

  Leonor spoke about the light, but she might have meant something different, something that only she might see. If Leonor wasn’t real, then she might see anything. Granddad might know, but because he didn’t tell, perhaps not. As Peter moved further into the forest, the repetitious slice and thump of granddad’s shovel as he cleared the snow, diminished.

  He passed a fallen tree and where the trunk had cracked, green moss gleamed. Just beyond it, a tree, patch-worked with moss and twisted with age, grew apart from the others. Low branches coiled above the forest floor. High up, the trunk split into two, so its canopy of twigs grew downwards.

  He glanced at the house. His bedroom and this tree lined up, though the tree grew back from the edge of the wood and that would make it difficult to see from his window.

  The tree’s roots emerged from the frozen woodland soil in contorted and writhing loops. Peter imagined that they might crush and strangle any bush or plant they encountered, for nothing grew around this tree for as far as its branches spread.

  Propped between two roots, so close to the trunk that it might be part of the bark, stood a charred branch, blackened by fire. Soot smudged the snow that gathered at its base. Is this where the flame burned last night?

  He glanced around, for the sensation of being watched and as if something waited, flowed very strong.

  In the distance, granddad shovelled snow. Big white flakes drifted through the branches and whenever one landed on the charred branch, it melted. It must still be warm. Peter dropped the shovel. How warm? And he took off his glove and touched the branch with his fingertips.

  The light changed from day to night then back to day. The tree contracted, like a film that runs backwards and the branches shrank and shortened and the roots curled back into the trunk and slithered under the earth. A bitter wind skimmed off a layer of snow and blew it into his face.

  All this happened as fast as an eye blink and when he wiped his eyes clear, he stared, amazed, at the tree that now grew no taller than the sideboard. He still touched the blackened branch and he flicked his hand away, for the charred wood warmed his fingers, but the heat increased and burned the longer he stayed in contact.

  What just happened? Somehow, more trees filled the wood and they crowded around him like a trap. A long wooden barn occupied the ground where his grandparent’s house stood. A squat tower built upon an earth bank rose higher than the barn roof. Beyond the barn and the tower, a cluster of small huts might be a village, for chickens pecked in front of open doors and a pig shovelled its snout through the soil.

  No sight or sound of granddad shovelling snow. Not much snow on the ground at all. It piled up on the branches and as Peter stared, one shed its load in a cloud of sparkling crystals.

  Panic built in his chest and he reached out to touch the branch, wishing and hoping to be back where he had started when, through the trees, he heard a rhythmic thud-thud, thud-thud of something hard hitting the earth.

  A rider on a brown horse rode along the track towards the barn, such a rider as he’d never seen in real life. Like one of his fantasy games, where lords and princes fought evil men and monsters for treasure and glory, this man wore a deep blue cloak, fixed at the neck with a silver clasp. One fold of the cloak turned back, tucked behind the hilt of a sword carried in a leather scabbard. Black hair grew to the man’s shoulders and his face, set and stern, gazed straight ahead with intent.

  Peter ducked behind a tree, but the rider passed and, curious that such a man existed outside of a computer game, he followed.

  Easy to stay hidden with so many trees to hide behind, but twigs that cracked underfoot and the rustle of dead leaves that sounded so loud in the woodland silence made him cautious.

  As he approached the barn, the rider slowed the horse to a walk and, at the same moment, an archer appeared on the tower, an arrow notched to his bowstring, ready to shoot.

  Peter’s heart jumped. A real archer!

  The archer’s voice rang out loud and clear. “Halt, in my Eorl’s name. State your business or turn away.”

  The rider reined in the horse and halted. “My business is my own. I would see your Eorl and talk with him.”

  The archer called down. “Your name?”

  The rider’s shoulders rose and fell as he gave a loud sigh of exasperation. “You know my name, Tobias. Hold this foolishness and tell Oswald that I am come.”

  The archer reached out of the tower and aimed. “I cannot allow you to pass. Turn back.”

  The rider raised his hands to prove that he held no weapons. “I do not come in strife, only to talk.”

  The archer yelled back. “My word is my warning.”

  An opening appeared at the end of the barn as somebody swept aside a large curtain and the rider’s attention turned from the archer to the man who now stepped into the light. This man dressed in an old-fashioned way too, with loose clothes that bagged and flapped.

  The rider pointed to the archer. “Ah! Tell Oswald that I am here on private business between myself and him and that I do not wish to present myself like some hunted animal stuck with arrows.”

  The man peered up at the tower. “Hold, Tobias!”

  “He must speak his name and business before...”

  “HOLD, TOBIAS!”

  Tobias lowered his bow and Peter heard him mutter as he stepped back from the tower’s edge.

  The rider dismounted and handed the reins across. “My thanks. It is unusual to experience so cold a greeting at this manor.”

  The man acknowledged the rider’s thanks with a nod. “It is my Eorl’s wish that all who desire to pass through his lands announce their purpose. These are strange times.” He gestured towards the barn. “Eorl Oswald waits within.” He led the horse around the corner of the barn and out of sight.

  The rider glanced at the tower and then with a rough shove, pushed past the curtain.

  Peter’s heart thumped. A different time, so very different from his own, yet the barn, that might be a house - what did it look like inside? Who lived here with an archer to keep people away?

  He needed to divert Tobias’s attention.

  ***

  There might be another entrance, like the kitchen door in granddad’s house. The trees thinned the nearer he came to the barn, or as the rider called it, the manor.

  Tobias, the archer, walked with a slow tread around the tower. Whenever he faced his direction, Peter crouched and waite
d for him to turn before he set off through the trees again.

  A diversion might not be necessary, for Tobias completed a circuit of the tower much slower than it took Peter to dart from tree to tree. If he timed it right, Tobias’s patrol at the front of the tower should coincide with his arrival at the back of the manor.

  Peter ducked behind a tree as Tobias appeared once more and as he waited, he leaned back against the trunk. The excitement made him breathless, the difference of time and the changes to the house made everything unreal. He didn’t want to go back, not yet, for decisions here and now were for him to make and this new experience made him confident enough to want to find out more.

  He counted a slow ten. Tobias must be out of sight and he edged around the trunk, then stopped and held his breath. Away to his right, close to where the track must be, a man ran from tree to tree, his stare fixed on the tower and Tobias.

  A round shield hung across his back and he carried a sword, the blade shorter than the rider’s, its sheen dull, almost black, the same man that yesterday, Peter saw from the car.

  He let out his breath in a long slow sigh. Had the man touched the branch, like him? Why had neither of them heard the other? What was he doing here?

  The man crept closer to the tower. He, like Peter, moved when Tobias’ patrol took him out of sight. At the last tree, that stood about ten yards from the tower, the man sheathed his sword and reached inside his shirt.

  Tobias re-appeared and the man stepped out from hiding, whirled his arm round and round above his head and with a great cry, stretched out his hand and aimed it straight at Tobias.

  A black stone or rock flew towards the tower. Tobias yelled and ducked and a puff of wood-dust erupted where the projectile slammed into a stout upright.

  The man’s arm whirled again and Peter saw the black sling he held, but Tobias notched his bow before the man released his missile and an arrow sped down faster than Peter’s sight followed.

  The man dived sideways and his hand shot up, so that he released the rock straight into a branch where a large ball of snow dislodged in a flurry of white powder. The arrow hit the tree with a loud thunk and quivered from the impact.

  Tobias yelled. “To arms! To arms!” His cry echoed through the wood.

  The man sprang to his feet and ran, not in a straight line, but first one way and then the other, then another, as he zigzagged between the trees.

  The curtain that covered the manor’s doorway billowed and out sprang the rider, sword drawn, followed by another man and a very fat lady, who carried a long knife which she held high above her head, ready to strike.

  They gave chase, but the man, already far ahead, sprinted faster. Peter lost sight of him, only the split and crack of undergrowth as he escaped carried on the cold air.

  He shivered, if that arrow struck, then that man died. This place didn’t pretend to be fantasy, like a computer game, even though he might wish it. Here danger and death existed for real.

  His fear tingled, for he had strayed too far from the charred branch. If he ran and Tobias spotted him, then he might shoot and Peter didn’t trust his skill at dodging arrows.

  The manor stood close-by and Tobias’s attention concentrated on the man and his pursuers. Curiosity overcame Peter’s fear and he darted through the remaining trees and flattened himself against the manor’s cold walls.

  Just keep close and I can’t be seen from the tower.

  He followed the wall round until the small huts came into view. Built the same as the barn, with wood and thatch and what looked like lumpy cream plaster, trails of grey smoke rose from holes in their roofs.

  No sight or sound of anyone. Another opening into the manor, the curtain, or maybe an animal skin, for close to, thick brown fur glistened with a faint sheen, had been hitched back with a strip of tattered leather. Just a few steps away and he crept closer, listened and then crossed the threshold.

  A fire burned in a large hole in the middle of the floor and suspended above it hung a black pot that bubbled and filled, what must be the kitchen, with steam. Slabs of red meat hung from the ceiling and on a low table, turnips, onions and a short purple... thing... that looked like a carrot, but wasn’t the right colour, lay in a jumbled heap.

  The inside walls, made of the same lumpy plaster, divided one area from another. No curtains or animal skins filled the gaps and Peter slipped out of the kitchen and into a long hallway. To his right, a small passage led into another room. Not a sound of anyone. He half-ran, half-tiptoed down the passage. At the gap between the walls, he listened. Nothing stirred, though he heard the spit and crack of a fire. He pressed his back against the wall and stepped into a room as big as The Hall in granddad’s house.

  Candles in black holders burned in the middle around a scooped out hollow where a fire crackled. Low couches, covered in thick furs, stood arranged in a semi-circle around the fire.

  On one wall hung a large, what looked like, blanket, in bright colours; greens and golds and browns and oranges. A picture of men and dogs hunting wild animals and women resting under fruit-laden trees. His history books at school had pictures like this, including one of King Harold dying at the Battle of Hastings with an arrow in his eye. The colours on this one shone much brighter.

  Voices, loud and harsh, echoed down the passage. The rider had returned. Too late to reach the kitchen and Peter’s chest tightened. Stupid to have come inside, stupid to think he might get away with it, for there was nowhere to hide.

  Except, at the far end against the wall stood a long low chest. There might be room to squeeze behind it and he ran fast on tip-toe. A narrow gap between the chest and the wall gave him just enough space to lie down and he swallowed to quieten his ragged breathing.

  “I’ll fetch my horse and give chase.” The rider’s voice.

  “Do not trouble, he will be well away.” Another man, an older voice. “The woods are full of hiding places that none can know unless they learn.”

  A gap below the bottom of the chest gave Peter a view across the floor. A pair of boots fashioned in dark brown leather strode backwards and forwards. He guessed they must be the rider’s.

  “My men will clear these woods when the union between our two manors is blessed.”

  The older man coughed and cleared his throat. “My throat is dry,” and he called, “Una, fetch us some mead.” Then quieter. “That union is to be wished, though I fear that such an undertaking might never be realised.”

  The rider crossed his legs, one booted toe to the floor, the heel raised. “Why do you say that?”

  The older man coughed again. “Folk are wary - such - problems - that cannot be cured with easy words. There is much that is changed that cannot be undone.”

  The rider uncrossed his legs and stood with his feet apart. “True sir and for that reason the folk, as you say, must learn. There is no need for hardship if William of Normandy’s rule is followed. Why Oswald, you accepted it and suffer no ill. Stand forth and let the folk see that what they knew before has not changed. Obedience is all that is required and that will be administered by force, if that is what is demanded.”

  Oswald did not sound convinced. “Oh come, such words are air when fear abounds, there must...” He stopped talking as Peter heard the tread of other feet come into the room.

  Oswald said, “Una, fetch my daughter. She must drink with us.”

  A woman replied. “She is here.”

  “I heard my Eorl arrive.” Leonor’s voice and Peter’s heart jumped.

  ***

  “Let us drink to our union,” declaimed the rider. “To a maid so fair and full of grace.”

  Leonor said. “My Eorl flatters. In answer, I offer him good strength and long life.”

  Oswald coughed. “This is prettily done and I add my best sentiments to you both.”

  Silence followed. Peter guessed they drank and then the rider gave a loud sigh of pleasure. “Fine mead,” followed by the clunk of a wooden cup being set down. “I trust my lady was
not alarmed?”

  “What was it, my Eorl?” asked Leonor. “I heard Tobias shout, but I saw nothing.”

  “An outlaw skulking in the woods,” replied Oswald. “Eorl Bosa gave chase, but his cunning ways threw him off the scent. There is little we can do but stand guard.”

  “It is sad that so many of our kith have taken to hiding and abandoning their ways,” said Leonor, “Do they not see that we mean them no harm?”

  “They do not wish to see,” Eorl Bosa announced. “They believe that the old ways are still possible and will not accept changing times.”

  Oswald sighed. “So it has always been.”

  “It seems,” said Bosa, “that they forget to whom they owe allegiance. They live upon your father’s land, Leonor...”

  Oswald interrupted. “As they always have.”

  “Indeed,” agreed Bosa. “And it is to you they must defer in all matters, as has been the custom and the law since your father’s fathers’ time and his father before. That they break these common bonds renders them outlaws, for which they will not go unpunished.”

  “It is sad, my Eorl, to think that might happen,” said Leonor.

  “My lady’s heart is tender,” replied Bosa. He cleared his throat, much like Peter’s headmaster at school before he made an important announcement. “Fortune granted me the opportunity for travelling here, for I came to arrange the day of our union.”

  Leonor whispered. “My Eorl.”

  Oswald stammered, as if flustered. “It is hard to - after the - I cannot know what to say...”

  Eorl Bosa resumed walking backwards and forwards. “My unexpected arrival and present events have put us all out of temper. It is unwise to desire such longed-for arrangements without a clear head and a light heart. Let me speak again in a few days when these matters might be resolved to all our satisfaction.”

  “I am grateful for your understanding,” said Oswald. “A few more days will be no great hardship. Leonor?”

  “Father.”