I held Goody in my arms for a long while, staring at the dead man while she cried silently into my chest. Then I wrapped her up in a cloak, checked on Bernard - he was unconscious but breathing easily - revived the fire and then tended to myself. My right arm was swollen and sore but only bruised. I rubbed it with snow to reduce the swelling and the cold numbed the pain to some extent. Then I wrenched the poniard out of Ralph’s skull and cleaned it on his kilt before dragging the corpse out of the hollow tree across the clearing and into the treeline. I had no strength to dig a grave or even find stones to cover the body. So I just left it there, thirty yards from our camp, out of sight in the trees. As I walked back to the warmth of the fire I heard the first of the howls. A lonely sound, mournful in the silent forest - and I hurried my steps back to Goody and Bernard.
I dozed until dawn, with Goody clasped in my arms, and the wolves making their ghastly night music in the forest around us; and at first gleam, I scrubbed my face with snow and searched our wooden hideout in the dim morning light for anything that could help us. I found an old iron pot and set it by the fire filled with snow. But, apart from that, I found nothing but some scraps of cloth, mouldy and stinking and a few old bones that looked disturbingly human. I gathered the bones and took them to where I had left Ralph’s body at the edge of the clearing. But the body was gone. The place had been churned up by the feet of dozens of wolves and there was a little blood on the snow and a few scraps of fur but nothing else. It was Wolf Month in Sherwood and these starving animals would eat old boots if they were left outside a cottage at night.
Bernard was still unconscious, with a great knot on his temple from Ralph’s club. But, as far as I could tell, his skull was not cracked and I believed he would wake up in time. Goody was sleeping again and, given what she had been through in the past day and night - watching her parents’ deaths and then taking the life of a monster herself - I was happy for her to be unconscious, too. I realised that we were not going to go anywhere that day. I couldn’t carry Bernard and Goody and I reasoned that it would be better to stay warm in the tree shelter than to go wandering about the woods without knowing where we were or where we were going. So I set about gathering more firewood, breaking off dead branches and hauling them into our shelter. I grew hungry as I worked and once or twice I heard the wailing of wolves and hurried back with my armful of wood to the safety of the camp.
I built up a good fire and a stockpile of wood for the night and managed to get a few hours uneasy sleep. Hunger was gnawing at my belly - it had been a day and a night since we had eaten that meagre meal of pork scraps and dry bread under the holly tree. I even began to envy Bernard, who was still unconscious and therefore oblivious to hunger pains. He was pale but his heart was beating regularly. I covered him with his cloak and let him lie. Goody woke in the mid-afternoon, asked about food and accepted a drink of warmed water instead. I felt slightly in awe of her - ten years old and handling this situation like a grown woman, like a seasoned soldier, in fact. I still could not get used to the idea that she had coolly dispatched a madman with a single strike of my poniard. But then she was the daughter of a warrior and had grown up among outlaws. Violent death at Thangbrand’s was hardly an uncommon occurrence.
As the dusk settled around the clearing, the wolves began their mournful chant. First one and then a second joined the chorus. Then three and four. The pack was being summoned and, as if I were a wolf myself, the hair stood up on the back of my neck.
‘It’s really quite beautiful, isn’t it?’ said Bernard. ‘Almost in harmony but not quite. And so sad . . .’
I was so pleased to have him back with us that I rushed over and embraced him. ‘Don’t smother me, boy,’ he said testily. ‘And stop that ridiculous snivelling.’ He was exaggerating, of course. There was merely a suspicion of dampness about my eyes. But I was very happy to have him back in the land of the living. He groaned and sat up feeling the knot on his head. ‘So what happened?’ he asked. ‘My head is killing me but I feel I haven’t had a drink for a lifetime.’ And so I told him, the words tumbling out: the wolf-like man, the club to his sleeping head, the fight and Goody’s life-saving poniard strike, and about the madman’s body being eaten by wolves.
Bernard nodded and then winced at the head movement. ‘You are a very brave girl,’ he said to Goody, who blushed. ‘So what is our plan?’ he asked me.
Together we considered our situation: night was falling but it was no longer snowing; we had no food, but we did have warmth and shelter; then there was the possibility of Murdac’s men still looking for us; and the possibility of other survivors needing our help. Should we stay put? Or push on south and hope to find some cottage where we could beg for help? And then there were the wolves . . . Our discussions had been punctuated by a rising volume of howls, and they were close by. In the treeline at the edge of the clearing, from time to time, I caught a glimpse of eyes glinting in the darkness, catching the reflection of the firelight. Here and there a grey form moved in the trees.
Bernard stopped my talk with an upheld hand. ‘I think it’s clear that we must stay here tonight, if we all want to remain in one piece.’ He gestured at the dark wood where three separate sets of animal eyes could now be seen. He was right. The howling had stopped. The wolf pack was assembled on our doorstep, and we were going nowhere.
We built up the fire and for half a dozen hours of that long night nothing much happened. We dozed and drank hot water and watched the eyes come and go in the tree line. Then, long past midnight, a slinking shadow detached itself from the dark wood and a wolf trotted across the white clearing before disappearing into the forest on the other side. He was a big animal, but lean, and he eyed us malevolently as he crossed in front of our pathetic shelter. Then, in ones and twos, made bold by the first wolf’s crossing, other animals came out of the darkness and began to approach our camp. We piled more branches on the fire and, at first, the animals moved away from the roaring heat. But gradually, they came back. Eventually, one wolf sat on his haunches a mere dozen feet away. He yawned massively and I could clearly see his huge tongue and his teeth glinting in the light of a great full moon.
We stared at the hulking animal in silence. It yawned again, curling back black lips to reveal the big, razor sharp killing teeth. I pulled a branch from the fire, and waved it to fan the glowing end into flames. Then I hurled it straight at the wolf. It dodged easily and moved away a few paces - but then returned to exactly the same spot. And his brothers came out to join him, more than a score of lean grey beasts.
‘Don’t waste wood like that,’ said Bernard. ‘We are probably going to need it.’ I looked at the woodpile at one side of the tree shelter and I knew with a sinking heart that he was right. Though dawn could not be all that far away, we had barely enough wood even to keep a small fire burning for the rest of the night. I cursed myself for not collecting more. The wolves gathered in a loose ring around the edge of the firelight, looking like the fiends of Hell, all big teeth and eyes and savage hunger. After the haunting beauty of their howls earlier that evening, they were strangely silent. But they didn’t sit still - some peeled off to investigate behind our hollow tree, others changed position to observe us from the left or the right with their evil yellow eyes. Bernard and I had armed ourselves with clubs; Bernard had a stout tree branch and I had Ralph’s weapon. We stood on either side of the fire in the entrance to the tree shelter waiting for the attack which we knew would come. But the wolves appeared to be in no hurry. Goody stood directly behind the fire, feeding it from time to time, as sparingly as she could, from the dwindling pile of firewood, and standing ready with the poniard. The wolves were now running back and forward across the clearing in front of the fire, staying well clear of our clubs, and the fire, but coming nearer with each crossing. Occasionally one would run towards us, a little probing run within yards of us, loping closer and closer, until we reacted and stepped out to swipe at the beast with the club. Then the animal would dodge, and angle away into the darkness. They seemed to be testing us, trying our strength, perhaps trying to scare us into running away from our shelter and the safety of the fire. But we had nowhere to run to and, with the hollow tree at our backs and the fire between us, Bernard and I were in the best positions we could imagine in the circumstances.
But I admit that I was scared. If they got in among us, those great beasts could tear us to bloody ribbons in a snarling instant. I tried not to think what those pointed white teeth would feel like plunging into my flesh, ripping, tearing me open. But if I was frightened by the wolves, they showed little fear of us. The probing runs continued, the animals always staying just out of danger and then when Bernard and I had grown thoroughly weary of this game, one beast came sauntering towards me and then suddenly made a great leap for my throat.
He almost caught me unawares; I had been so lulled by dozens of similar advances, which had always ended in a swift retreat, that I was unprepared for the assault when it came. But, thank God, I reacted just in time as the huge grey shape launched itself at me. I stepped back a pace and swung the club in a short vicious arc, catching the beast full on the side of the snout while it was in the air. He tumbled sideways, yelping in pain, but, landing like a cat, he simply slunk round behind the mass of his brothers, licking at his nose and seeming more embarrassed than hurt. That first move, however, had broken the deadlock.
Another wolf was coming at me fast, lolloping forward and then leaping up towards my face, a blur of snarling malice, and yet another was trotting up behind him; and out of the corner of my eye I saw a big grey form leaping at Bernard at the same time. I swatted hard and caught the first beast on the body with a crunch of ribs. Reversing the swing I caught the second wolf a glancing blow on the shoulder, and they both scrabbled yowling away out of range. Bernard had his wolf’s teeth fixed into the tree branch, which he was holding like a quarterstaff, horizontally in both hands. The
trouvère
suddenly shoved his staff away from him, dropping it and the attached animal in the snow, and stooping and grabbing a burning branch from the fire, he thrust it into the surprised animal’s face. There was a sizzle and a yelp and the beast retreated but Bernard’s blood was up. He seized another brand from the fire and screaming with rage and whirling two flaming boughs around his head he charged the whole pack. It was a suicidal move, to leave the security of our position, but it worked. The wolves scattered before him, leaping nimbly out of the way of his flailing, half-burnt bludgeons.
They were not daunted for long. I saw a big black wolf circling behind him as he whirled and swiped ineffectually at its pack brothers, but then I too leapt out beyond the protection of the fire, took three paces to reach the animal, and smashed Ralph’s club down on to the centre of its spine. There was a sickening crack and the dark beast, back legs paralysed and howling in rage and agony, pulled itself out of the circle of firelight on its front paws. Bernard and I retreated quickly back to our positions either side of the fire, and as we did so the animals returned, only slightly chastened, and resumed prowling on the edge of the circle of firelight - which I suddenly noticed had grown appreciably smaller.
‘Please don’t do that again,’ said Goody from behind us. ‘Please don’t leave me here alone to be eaten by them.’
I looked back at her and then at Bernard. He was breathless after his mad rampage and laughing silently to himself. ‘Don’t worry, my sweet,’ he gasped. ‘We are all in this together, I believe. If they get one of us they get us all.’ I frowned. I did not consider Bernard’s remarks to be helpful. ‘Not long till dawn, Goody,’ I said. ‘And remember, they are just as frightened of us as we are of them.’ It was a ludicrous thing to say and, in the midst of our terror and exhaustion, we all began to laugh. Bernard was leaning on a half-burnt branch-club, tears streaming down his face as he hooted and screamed with mirth. The wolves truly seemed to be unnerved by the strange noises their prey were making and moved uneasily in and out of the firelight. But not for long. And soon the attack began once more. This time in earnest.
The same pattern developed as before - the wolves would make little short runs at us, in twos and threes; we would swing and they would dance lightly out of the way of the clubs. It was exhausting. Once in a while, Bernard or I would catch a beast with a satisfying crunch. But rarely, and our arms were growing tired, mortally tired from the constant swinging of the heavy clubs. We had a bigger problem than our near exhaustion, though. Firewood.
The fire was growing low and I looked back at Goody in reproach. It was her job to keep the blaze high. But she just mutely pointed at the woodpile and I saw our death in the pathetic handful of sticks that were left. ‘Not long till dawn,’ said Bernard. We had been saying that to each other for several hours now. But what difference dawn would make, I knew not.
The last of the wood went on to the fire: we looked at each other. Goody was clutching my poniard and crouching at the back of the shelter. The wolves were attacking in relays almost continuously by now. As one would make a run, we would swing at it, but while we were engaged with the first animal another was snapping at our legs. Swing at that one and another was leaping, biting at your face. We rarely hit our targets. It was like a game, a deadly game, of charging beast and flashing jaws and the sweep of the heavy club; and the fire settled lower and lower. Our arms grew weaker and weaker and yet there could be no respite. I knew that if I lowered my guard for a second, a wolf would be through the gap and ripping into Goody’s flesh, followed by a wave of snarling, snapping ferocity that would tear us all to bloody ribbons. One animal, leaner than the rest, was skulking by the right side of the tree wall. I could see it from the corner of my eye and, when the other animals gave me a moment’s pause, I jabbed the club at it, forcing the beast back into the shadows. But then a grey shape launched at me from the front and, as I bashed it hard on the hindquarters, the second animal leapt back out of the shadows and sank its teeth into my right forearm. I shrieked in horror and pain; I could feel the animal’s dreadful weight dragging me down, down to the floor where I knew I would be immediately overrun by the pack. But almost at once, Goody - beautiful, brave Goody - was at my side and she lunged with the poniard at the beast’s body. It squealed as the point scored its side and released my arm and, on my knees, with my blood streaming through the frozen air, I swung the club left-handed at another grey form that was flying at my head. By God’s mercy, the pack pulled back then and I could see half a dozen still forms on the snow as I clambered back to my feet, panting, fingers dripping blood.