In The Grip Of Old Winter by Jonathan Broughton Read Free Book Online

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