Read In The Grip Of Old Winter for Free Online Page A

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