All at once the men are yelling, their horses shrieking. Tova prises herself away from Merewyn. She shakes her head free from her lady’s cloak and sees one of the animals rearing up, teetering on its hind hooves, the whites of its eyes gleaming. Its rider is on the ground, yelling as he struggles to free his foot from the stirrup where it’s lodged.
Again that sound. And again, and again. Shouting to one another, the men unsling their shields from across their backs and draw their swords. No longer interested in her and Merewyn, they face the darkness, turning first this way and then that. Something silver flashes through the air, ringing off a helmet. Another strikes the bearded man square in the back. He staggers towards Tova and Merewyn, before crashing to the ground inches from their feet. White feathers adorn the shaft protruding from his byrnie. His eyes are glazed. He doesn’t move.
Tova would scream but all the breath has been stolen from her. Merewyn squirms away, as if afraid that his corpse could still hurt them. Her lips move, but above the thunder of blood inside her skull and the shouts of the men, Tova can’t hear what she’s saying. Fear has her in its grip and won’t let go.
Another arrow. And another. And another. The Normans duck behind their shields, still yelling. Their horses are bolting back the way they came, down the track.
Merewyn clings to Tova’s arm. ‘What’s happening?’
The one on the ground has freed his trapped leg; he scrambles away from where his mount writhes on its side in the mud: a flurry of flailing hooves kicking up stones and clods of mud and turf. The giant who laid his hands upon Tova is in the centre of the yard, pointing, waving his sword as he bellows orders. And then they’re charging towards the long barn on the other side of the yard.
Towards the barn, where stands a figure. A shadow among shadows. He tosses his bow aside; in his hand instead is an axe.
The first of the Normans hurls himself at the newcomer. The axe blade whirls, gleaming silver in the moon’s light. It crashes into the foreigner’s mailed stomach, sending him sprawling, and the stranger is spinning away, ducking beneath a sword swing as he heaves his axe around, into the shin of the next man.
A crack. The blade sinks through flesh into bone. The Norman gives an unholy scream as he falls.
‘Run!’ the stranger barks. With the barn to his rear, he sets himself to face those who are left. Dark hair trails over shoulders as broad as an ox’s. He wears no byrnie, no helmet. ‘Run!’
It takes Tova a moment to understand what he’s saying: first that he’s speaking English, and then that he means herself and Merewyn.
Rising, she extends an arm to help her lady up. Merewyn clasps it and is halfway to her feet before she falls back down again, crying out. She must have injured herself when she fell. Once more Tova tries, this time with both hands. She’s strong for her size, or so she has often been told, but it’s a struggle all the same. She grits her teeth as she places one arm under Merewyn’s shoulder.
A ring of steel. A roar of anger. A howl of pain.
Tova glances up as the stranger’s blade strikes a Norman’s cheek, slitting his face open from ear to chin. Blood and teeth fly; he goes down heavily, limply, like a sack of grain, and the stranger is twisting away, teeth bared, roaring as he does so.
Two still standing.
Two, when moments ago there were five.
One is bent over, clutching at his stomach with his shield hand. He staggers forward, but he is slow, unsteady on his feet. The stranger is on him before he can raise his shield or get out of the way. He buries his axe in his foe’s neck. The Norman falls and doesn’t get up. The stranger snatches up his shield from where it lies.
Leaving just one.
‘Behind you!’ Tova screams. The giant is coming at him again, sword in hand.
She doesn’t know if the stranger hears her, or if he has already sensed the danger. He turns just in time to meet the giant’s sword strike upon his shield, and another and another and another still. Scraps of hide flail loose from the wood as the stranger is forced back under the hail of blows towards the barn.
One pace. Two, three, four. Nearly stumbling. He’s struggling. Tiring. And if he falls then the giant will come after them next.
She has to do something. That’s the only thought going through her mind as she glances about for the corpse of the bearded man, the one who was arrow-shot.
There, close by the well.
Ignoring Merewyn’s shouts, she runs towards the body. His sword arm is outstretched, his weapon still in hand. Clumsily, trying not to retch, she prises his limp, still-warm fingers away from the hilt and snatches it up. It’s lighter than she’s expecting, but even so she needs both hands to lift it.
The Norman hasn’t yet noticed what she’s doing, but the stranger has.
‘No,’ he yells above the crash of steel. ‘While you can, run!’