Читать книгу Leaves On The Wind - Carol Townend - Страница 7

Beckford, Yorkshire, 1095

Judith stood in the doorway of the herbalist’s hovel, staring up at the castle. She should have been giving her full attention to the advice the old woman was offering, but whenever she came to the village it was the same. She could not tear her gaze from the blank cliff-like walls of the keep that loomed over the villagers’ simple wooden houses. Her blue eyes narrowed and fixed on the grey stone walls in much the same way as a puzzled scribe would stare at a parchment written in a language he could not understand. Two slender window slits scowled back at her from the top of the tower, like hostile eyes, she thought.

“Judith? You’re wandering,” Aethel chided gently, her rheumy eyes full of sympathy. “Did you hear what I said?”

Judith started. “I’m sorry, Aethelgyth,” she apologised, using the old woman’s full name to atone for her transgression. “You said I’m to continue giving Mother the horehound…”

“Aye, and remember: boil plenty of it in t’water, strain it off and give her the infusion. She should take it four times a day. And mind ’tis fresh each time.”

Judith wrinkled her nose. “Poor Mother. It tastes foul. And I’ve been giving it to her for so long. Don’t you think she should be improving by now?”

Aethel bent her head quickly over the herbs she was sorting and ignored the young girl’s question. “You can sweeten it with honey, if that helps,” she offered.

Judith opened her mouth to demand a more specific answer to her question, but a distant flurry at the drawbridge of Mandeville Tower drew her eyes once more in that direction. At this Aethel gave a soft sigh of relief, like the breeze rustling in the autumn leaves. She did not like telling people unpleasant truths.

Judith did not hear Aethel’s sigh. “Oh, God, Aethel…look!” she cried, snatching at the old woman’s arm. “The knights are riding out!”

Aethel’s face shrivelled up like a wrinkled apple and she made the sign of the cross. “Lord ha’ mercy,” she muttered. “What are those devils up to now?”

Judith tossed her blonde plaits over her shoulders and stepped boldly out into the main village street.

“Judith!” Aethel shrieked. “Have you run mad! Stay out of sight. Come back here!”

“Nay, Aethel. I want to see them. With my own eyes. I cannot believe what my brothers have told me about these knights. I’ll see them with my own eyes. Then I’ll believe.”

“Judith, Judith, you don’t know what you’re saying. Aethel shook her head, and tried to force her old bones to obey her. She must get that girl out of the way. “You’re fifteen now. Stay out of sight.”

But Judith stayed put in the middle of the road, blue eyes burning, cheeks flushed, hands clenched tight at her sides.

Already the Norman knights were clattering across the drawbridge. Each rider had his place in the troop. They were carrying burning torches. To a man, they wheeled their mounts round on to the worn track, and galloped straight at the village. Feet scurried. Doors slammed.

Judith’s heart missed a beat. It was beginning to look as though Eadwold’s stories were true.

By the time the riders reached the cottages, their route was clear. Even brainless chickens knew better than to peck in the path of the lord and his men, for they had scuttled to safety. The knights could have been riding through a plague village. It was still as death.

Judith’s blue gown fluttered in the warm, evening breeze. Ten pairs of hard eyes, concealed beneath steel helmets, noticed the movement. They saw a slender wand of a girl standing before one of the meanest huts, watching them with open curiosity. A strand of wavy fair hair floated free from her braids and shone in the waning rays of the sun.

“Here’s sport!” one of the riders bawled. He hauled on his reins and broke line. The lack of fear in the girl’s eyes was a challenge he could not resist.

Judith felt a small hand slip into hers. It gripped hard and tugged. “Judith!” a child’s voice piped up at her. “Grandma wants you!”

“Leofric,” Judith did not need to look at the boy to know his identity. It was Aethel’s young grandson. “Run along, now. I’ll be in in a minute.” She ignored the insistent pull on her arm.

The rider had pointed his mount at Judith. His destrier came forwards slowly, huge feet stamping the dry earth. Fine clouds of powdered soil curled like mist round the stallion’s hocks. The knight’s shield hung from his saddlebow, blue with a silver device—a crescent moon? Judith found herself looking up into a face that was all steel. She could see nothing human beneath the mail and helmet. His torch flickered and muttered.

“John!” a commanding voice shouted, loud but slurred with drink.

The knight checked, reluctantly, and glanced over his shoulder. He was the only one who’d left his place. “My lord?” There was insolence in his tone.

“Curb your lusts for once, will you?” Baron Hugo, their Norman lord, was in command. Wine made his words run together. “I thought we’d other fish to fry. That one’ll keep.”

“My lord.” The knight’s helmet dipped in reluctant acknowledgement. The eyes behind the steel turned once more to Judith and gleamed. The man saluted. She could see his teeth. She knew he’d be back.

Spurs flashed, dust rose, and then the riders were gone, riding like demons from Hell.

Judith stared after them. “They’re crossing the ford,” she announced, puzzled. “The water’s splashing up; I can see the spray. Where can they be going?”

Aethel shuffled to her door, and propped herself on her stick. Her face was haggard. “They’ll be taking t’shortcut through t’Chase,” she said heavily.

Judith frowned.

“Why are Baron Hugo’s men carrying torches?” Leofric demanded.

Judith stiffened. She felt the hair rise on the back of her neck.

“Baron de Mandeville to you, young Leo,” Aethel corrected her grandson.

Leofric released Judith’s hand and picked up a stick. He swished it through the dead leaves that had blown in from the Chase. “Aye, Grandmother,” he muttered sulkily. “Baron de Mandeville. But why are they carrying torches? “Tis light still, and I’ve not heard the Vespers bell.”

Judith had gone cold all over. She looked sharply at Aethel.

Suddenly severe, the old woman snatched the stick from her grandson and frowned at him. “Why don’t you occupy yourself with something useful—like helping me to tie up those bundles of herbs.” She waved her stick in the direction of her hut.

“Oh, Grandma!” Leo wailed his complaint, painfully aware that this was work for girls.

“Cease your moaning. Inside with you.” Not unkindly, the old woman pushed the boy through the door and made as if to follow.

Judith opened her mouth. “Aethel…”

Aethel froze.

“You…you don’t think they’re headed for our cottage, do you, Aethel?” Judith blurted at Aethel’s back.

Stiffly Aethel turned her head. She did not speak. Her old, tired eyes were sad.

Judith stepped backwards. Her blue eyes widened “No! No!’ Her voice rose. “Not my mother! Not my father! No!”

Aethel sighed. “The miracle is, me dear, that it did not happen sooner.”

“No! I won’t let them!” Judith cried. She took hold of Aethel by the upper arms. “I need a horse,” she got out. “Quick, a horse, tell me…where can I find one?”

“But Judith, you can’t—”

“I can, and I will.” Judith shook the old woman mercilessly. “Now, for God’s sake, Aethel, tell me. I must find a horse!”

“Smithy…he’ll be shoeing—”

“My thanks, Aethel.” Judith whirled and began to run.

Aethel sighed, and shook her head. She sagged against the door-frame and her eyes were sadder than ever. There were days when she thought it was a curse to have lived so long.

The dust had settled, the village square had come alive again, but Judith did not notice. Hens scratched in the road. Two pigs guzzled, snuffling with delight, on a tumble of apples spilled from a basket. A girl stalked up to the swine, stick in hand, and, shrieking, beat them back; but Judith did not hear her any more than she heard the rising chatter of peasant voices or the rhythmic swishing of flails.

Her ears were tuned to the dull clanging of hammer on iron. It matched the pounding of her heart. She raced towards it. The saints were with her. The smith was in his forge. Outside, unattended and tethered to the rail, a dainty bay mare waited, begging to be taken.

Judith snatched at the reins, hitched up her skirts, and launched herself on to the animal’s bare back. The mare sprang forwards. Judith turned her towards the ford, thanking God that her skill made the lack of a saddle unimportant. Cold water splashed on her bare legs. Behind her someone loosed a string of curses. Judith ignored them.

She leaned forwards over her mount’s neck. “Come on, my beauty,” she addressed the mare. “Show me your paces. Show me how you can fly.”

She dug in her heels and thought of her mother. Edith, whose beauty still shone through the deep furrows that pain and loss had scored across her face. Edith, who had not let bitterness sour her sweet nature. She dug in her heels and thought of her father. Godric Coverdale. A proud Saxon thegn in that other lifetime, before she’d been born. He was a cripple now, he needed a stick to help him hobble about. He’d lost more than his health at Hastings. The howling winds of change had blown her mother and father down from their rightful place, and now it seemed that fate had not finished with them. Sweet heaven, her parents were unprotected—Eadwold and Saewulf had gone to Tanfield! Surely God would not desert them?

The bay plunged into the Chase. Blackthorn twigs plucked at the skirts bundled about Judith’s hips. They scratched her arms and knees, and left long, red trails along her thighs.

“Faster, beauty, faster!” Judith urged. She must get there in time, she must. She would warn them. They could hide in the wood, until the Baron had gone, until her brothers returned. Then they’d go to the Abbey. They could hide there, claim sanctuary. What had they done wrong? Their only sin was that they were of the old nobility. They were Saxons, and it seemed their Norman lord had sworn to be rid of them.

Horse and girl streaked past a clump of hazels. The bay stumbled. Judith held her together by sheer will-power. She gulped in some air. She should not be riding the woodland path at such a speed. She knew that. If the mare fell, and broke her leg, she’d have to be destroyed. Judith set her jaw and ruthlessly wrung another spurt of speed from the beast.

Judith had never ridden so fast. The air rushed past her face and tugged her hair free from her braids. It was like flying. But a sinking feeling in her stomach warned her that it was not fast enough. They’d reached the tall oaks that grew in the heart of the Chase. A pheasant started up with a clatter of wings from a browning patch of bracken. The mare shied. Grim-faced, Judith clung like a leech, and pressed on.

She could smell burning.

On the fringe of Mandeville Chase, Judith reined in, and flung herself to the ground. Panic had not driven prudence entirely from her mind. She was now only a spear-throw from the cottage. Quiet as a mouse, she crawled forwards. A sturdy tree trunk blocked her view.

The burning smell was stronger now. She wrinkled her nose, a pretty nose, slightly uptilted, with a scatter of freckles left by the summer sun. Judith swallowed. She felt sick. She dared not look. She told herself it was the time of year for bonfires. She’d left her mother preparing food stores for the winter. Perhaps she was smoking the fish herself this year, perhaps…

The mare snickered behind her. An answering whinny floated back on the warm, evening air along with the smell of the woodsmoke. Judith’s heart slammed. Her parents had no horse, and the mule had gone to Tanfield…

Then the screaming began.

It was an ungodly sound, barely human, more like a wolf howling. It was her mother. Judith braced herself to peer round the tree. How could that raw, animal lament be her soft-voiced mother? She prayed her instincts were wrong and stuck her head out.

A gasp stole the breath from her lungs. Wide-eyed, Judith stared at a scene straight from the mouth of Hell.

The Baron and his knights filled the clearing. War-horses stamped and shuffled by the fallen tree her father liked to sit on to catch the last warmth of the setting sun, and ease his stiff joints. But the sun had betrayed him. It was not warming Godric now. Silver-bright, it flashed instead from the mail coats and helmets of the Norman knights.

Something was winking at her through a shifting forest of horses’ legs. With a sudden feeling of detachment, as though she was looking through a veil, Judith saw the sun was bouncing off the polished steel blade of a spear—a spear that was rammed through Godric’s chest.

Judith’s vision blurred. She swayed, shook her head to clear it, clutched at the rough bark of the tree, and looked again.

Her eyes locked on her mother’s green robe. Edith was bending over Godric, and that unearthly sound was still issuing from her mouth.

One of the knights had wrenched the spear free. A rush of blood stained her father’s tunic, her mother’s green gown, and the leaf-littered grass. Edith was keening loud enough to be heard in London.

“Cease that wailing, woman.” A voice as hard as stone sounded through the rushing in Judith’s ears. The man’s accent was as foreign as his chain-mail coat. “And be warned. So die all traitors to the King!”

Judith was still numb with horror. Her lips moved, but no sound came out. Oddly, other senses were heightened, for she could feel the hard, deep ridges of the bark beneath her fingers and palms. She heard an animal rustling in the Chase behind her. A wood pigeon cooed.

One of the Baron’s men wheeled his horse round and the pigeon was forgotten. He drew back his arm and threw his torch. It described a flaming arch through the evening air and landed squarely on the cottage thatch. It was then that Judith realised why the smell of burning had set that tocsin pealing through her brain. It was not her mother’s cooking fire that she’d smelled. It was more than that. The cottage had been fired. That knight had not been the first to fling his torch. Blue smoke and yellow fire were already creeping up from under the eaves.

It had been a long, hot summer. Long enough and hot enough to ripen all the grain. Judith had helped Edith dry pounds of fruit for their winter store. The straw on the roof was dry too; a small spark would have been enough to fire it. Now the dry grasses crackled. Golden flames shot along the length of the roof; greedy tongues licked upwards. It would not take long.

“Burn! Burn out all traitors!” Another fiery brand was chucked with cruel carelessness on to the thatch. The man who’d flung it was grinning, pleased with his handiwork. Edith’s lament was loud enough to split the heavens apart. One of the riders laughed. Baron Hugo de Mandeville swayed like a sot in his saddle.

Judith could taste bile in her mouth. To think she’d not believed the stories…to think she’d wanted to see with her own eyes. She believed now. Eadwold was right. They were Devil’s spawn. Something snapped inside her. She felt a scream of outrage rise in her throat. It threatened to choke her. Murderers! Norman swine! She set her teeth and snatched out her dagger. She’d get one of them, or die trying…

Judith lurched forwards.

A hard arm clamped round her waist and jerked her back.

““I wouldn’t if I were you,” a male voice hissed urgently in her car. “A pretty girl like you is all they need to complete their day’s entertainment.”

“Let me go!” Judith twisted to try and confront the owner of that iron arm. “Let me go!”

The arm slackened enough for her to turn, and she found herself looking into the bronzed face of a young man she had not seen before. Judith caught a glimpse of unruly brown hair and vivid green eyes. Someone had slashed his face with a whip. A red weal cut across one cheek.

She remembered her dagger, but before she could even blink the young man moved, and conjured her knife into his hand.

Judith stared at it. Her mind was spinning thoughts so fast she couldn’t take them in. She did not believe any of this was happening.

Her mother’s keening stopped abruptly. Judith’s skin chilled. A horse blew through his nose. A harness jingled. And her mother? Judith moaned and struggled to see.

The house was burning furiously. It crackled and spat. Flames streamed from it like golden pennants fluttering in the breeze. The roof ridge sagged. There was a dull crash. The main beam had collapsed, and a shower of bright sparks went spiralling upwards in the twilight air. Her mother lifted a grief-ravaged face and stared blindly at the wreck of her home.

Desperate to reach her parent, Judith lashed out. Her captor held fast. She opened her mouth, but the wretch read her intention, threw her dagger aside, and clamped a firm hand round her mouth. A piece of burning thatch rolled off what was left of the roof and landed in the grass at Judith’s feet. She was whipped clear.

“We’re not safe here,” the voice muttered from behind her. “That wall is about to fall. We’ll hide in the Chase.” He began to drag her into the wood.

Judith fought to hold her ground. She clawed. She kicked. She bit. Her captor yelped, and snatched his hands away. She’d drawn blood. Revolted, she spat it out. She faced her captor and backed to where her dagger lay. Eyes on the young man, she caught it up. “Go and skulk in the forest, coward!” Her voice shook. “I go to help my mother!”

As Judith’s scornful words penetrated, the tanned face hardened. Green eyes dropped to her dagger and came back to look into her eyes. Judith frowned. She did not want to strike him…

He stepped towards her.

Judith brandished her dagger. She hesitated. It was a grave mistake. A swift hand flicked out, and clamped on her arm. The young man twisted lithely, and suddenly Judith was dangling over his shoulder like an unwieldy bundle of sticks. He made straight for the cover of the trees.

“Put-me-down!” Judith shrieked, legs flailing. The Chase seemed to be swinging up and down. It made her dizzy. She could not see straight. “Let-me-go! I-must-help-my-mother. Please, please, put-me-down!” The words jerked from her mouth in time with her abductor’s running steps. She was wasting air. Her captor did not even falter and she needed all of her breath, for it was being bounced from her with every step he took. Her hair swept the forest floor. A few strides, and her already loosened braids unravelled completely.

Judith clenched her fists and tried beating them against the young man’s leather-clad back, but it had no effect. She thought of her mother and let out a strangled moan.

Suddenly the jarring stopped. The young man bent his knees and Judith was tipped into a drift of red leaves.

She pushed herself to her knees, twitched a leaf from her face and watched him through the golden tangle of her hair.

“We’re far enough away. I don’t think they saw us. You’ll be safe now.” He was breathing heavily, but his voice was low and pleasant. He smiled.

Judith saw him wince. His hand rose briefly to touch his damaged cheek, and continued upwards to rake back his hair.

Judith was in no mood to respond to an easy smile. She glared at him from her ignominious perch among the leaves. “Who are you?” she demanded. “What gives you the right to carry me off like this? Did you not see what they did to my father? And my mother. I cannot desert her. What kind of a man are you to run off and leave a helpless woman to face those…those bastards?”

Her eyes ran over him, and a frown creased her brow. She could not make him out. He was no serf. No serf she knew ever possessed a fine leather over-tunic and trousers like his. His belt was a good one. It boasted a silver buckle, but it was not elaborate enough to mark him as noble. Her gaze dropped to his hands. They were fine-boned and unscarred by manual labour.

A sob rose in her throat, Judith held it down. A ghastly suspicion was taking root in her mind, and she knew she’d gone white. “Who are you?” she repeated. “And what are you doing in the Chase?” Her stomach twisted. She threw a harried look over her shoulder. Was he alone?

There was only one reason that she knew of for a stranger to be lurking in the Chase…

“My name is Rannulf. I was hunting.” He shrugged easily. “What else is a chase for?”

Again that persuasive smile. Judith mistrusted it. She had to find out. She’d never be able to help her mother if her supposition was correct. She sat back on her heels and decided to try a direct attack. “I’m told the slavers are back in the Chase,” she said, bluntly.

“Slavers?” The young man called Rannulf looked startled.

That had wiped the smile from his mouth. He had not been expecting that. Perhaps she might trust him…

“Aye, slavers,” she said. “Where have you been that you’ve not heard the warnings?” Again she watched for his reaction.

He looked utterly bewildered, utterly at a loss. He was no slaver.

“So,” Judith freed a trembling breath. “You claim you’re a hunter?”

Rannulf was frowning at the ground, muttering. “Slavers,” he mumbled, and nodded absently in answer to her question.

That explained the leather jerkin he wore, but not his presence in the Chase. “For whom do you hunt?” Judith demanded. “This wood belongs to the Baron de Mandeville. He was leading those brave warriors who just murdered a helpless old man.” She sobbed. “Do you hunt for him?”

Suspicions crowded back, curdling the food in Judith’s belly. She edged away from this man, Rannulf, feeling like a cornered hind facing the hounds. It appeared she had escaped one trap, only to find herself in another. She shot another look over her shoulder. If she could run very, very fast perhaps she could lose him in the dense undergrowth…

His green eyes were watching her. “I wouldn’t if I were you,” he recommended drily. “I know every inch of Mandeville Chase. I would soon catch you.” He dropped to his knees, and held out a hand palm uppermost, as though she were a wild beast that needed gentling.

Judith shrank back. “You did not answer,” she prompted.

“What?”

“Do you hunt with the Baron’s men?”

His lips curved, and Judith felt her stomach tighten. He had very white teeth.

“I?” He seemed to find that amusing. “Hunt with the Baron’s men? Never!” He fingered the red weal on his cheek. “I hunt for myself. Do not fear that I shall take you to him. He did ever like to break things, and I will not give you up to him. Did I not snatch you from under his nose? I did that to save you. Why should I deliver you to him now, having winded myself in getting you away?”

His hand remained outstretched towards her. Judith hesitated, wanting, but not daring, to trust him. She took refuge in scorn. “You think to reassure me by such words?”

“Aye.”

“Well you do not. If you are not in the pay of de Mandeville, you must be an outlaw.”

“Must I?” Rannulf smiled.

“Why else be hunting in the Chase? “Tis reserved for that nest of Norman vipers. Anyone else caught hunting here is hanged as a thief, and if you don’t mind taking that risk you must be desperate indeed. A man with a price on your head. What would an outlaw want with me?”

Rannulf’s lips curved. “What indeed?” he murmured, eyeing her. Then, seeing her worried look, he relented. “Don’t look so worried, I’ll not harm you. I give you my word.”

“The word of an outlaw is meant to reassure me?”

“I begin to think I have rescued a shrew,” he sighed. “Perhaps I should have left you to Hugo’s men. They’re hot blooded enough to knock some sense into you, though I doubt that you would benefit from the lesson.” Rannulf rose to his feet and swung away.

It seemed to have gone very dark in the wood. The trees loomed in on them, like twisted bars in a prison cell. Judith shivered. She did not want to be abandoned here.

She scrambled to her feet, ran to Rannulf, and touched his sleeve. “I’m sorry, R…Rannulf. Don’t leave me. P…please, take me with you.”

Rannulf’s hand closed over hers. It felt warm.

“I won’t leave you. I know where you can stay the night, and tomorrow—”

“Tomorrow?” Judith bit on her lips to stop them trembling. Her voice broke. “I never want tomorrow to come. My father is dead. And my mother…Oh, God! What has happened to my mother?”

Rannulf grasped her chin and forced her to look at him. His eyes were as green as the Chase in high summer. “Listen,” he said. “We’ll get you safe, and then I’ll go back. I’ll see to your mother.”

Judith clutched at his arm. “You will? Oh, Rannulf—”

“Trust me?”

Judith nodded and swallowed.

“Come on, then,” Rannulf said briskly. “We’re wasting time.” He waved towards the thick of the Chase. “That way.” He offered his hand for the second time, and Judith put hers in his.

Rannulf had been gone from the shelter a long time. Judith pulled the folds of the fur-lined cloak he had lent her more tightly about her body, and willed him to return.

She could hear the night-time stirrings of the forest rise and fall outside the hunter’s hide. That was the sound of the wind in the dying dew-damp leaves, and that was the shriek of an owl baulked of its prey. It was black as pitch.

Judith huddled further into the small bower, wondering what protection it would offer her should a wild boar or a wolf come across her scent and decide to investigate. She fumbled for the branches of her refuge, and shook them to test their strength. She was not reassured.

Two large wattle hurdles were leaning against each other. Tied tightly at the top, they left an opening at either end. Two pieces of leather served as doors, and the outside was camouflaged with turves and leaves. It kept the wind off, but it was not designed to protect its occupant from other, more tangible enemies.

A twig cracked outside the bower and Judith’s breath caught in her throat. Rannulf had returned her knife to her. She groped for it.

The leather curtain was drawn inside. “Judith?”

Rannulf’s voice. Judith dropped the dagger. “M…my mother?” she asked at once, moving to make room for him.

He found her hand. “Judith, I’m sorry—”

“She’s dead, isn’t she?”

“Judith,” Rannulf hesitated. “Judith, I don’t know.”

Hope flared. “What do you mean?”

“I went back, as I promised. Your father was lying as we last saw him. Your house was no more than a smouldering pile of ashes, but your mother was not there. I looked everywhere. She has gone.”

“My brothers!” Judith exclaimed. “My brothers must have got her away. They must.”

“Brothers?”

Judith nodded before she remembered the darkness hid her face. “Aye, I’ve two of them. They are both older than I. They will have her. I know they will.”

“I pray you are right.”

“Tomorrow I will find them,” Judith declared. “And tomorrow we will…we will bury my father.” She sniffed and dashed away a tear. She’d not cry before a stranger.

“Judith?” Rannulf’s voice came softly through the blackness.

“Aye?”

“’Tis no shame to weep.”

Judith sniffed again. A silence fell over them. She could hear the wind soughing in the branches above them.

Rannulf shook her hand. “You must rest. You will need your strength tomorrow.”

“I won’t sleep. How could I?” she asked, rousing herself with an effort to speak.

“If you cannot sleep, at least you can be rested. Come. Lie you here. And my cloak, thus. There. I will stand guard over you. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Rannulf. My thanks,” Judith whispered, and settled down into the softness of his ermine-lined cloak.

The Normans had thrust a knife in her heart. They were twisting it. The pain was not to be borne.

Judith screamed and woke. She did not know where she was. Memory flooded back. She groaned aloud.

“Judith, Judith, hush.” Warm arms enfolded her, comforting arms. Childlike, she clung.

“Rannulf?” She gave a dry sob.

“You are not alone,” he said. “Cry. ’Tis better to grieve.” Rannulf stroked her hair from her face. The gesture was oddly reminiscent of her mother.

The dam broke. Tears flooded, and streamed scalding down her cheeks. Judith did not hear Rannulf’s murmured words, did not notice the hand that caressed her. She burrowed closer into his arms. She needed comfort and here was its source.

At length the sobbing eased. Rannulf’s arms fell away.

Judith lifted her head “Hold me tight. It hurts less when you hold me.”

“Judith.” Rannulf hesitated. “’Tis late. We should sleep now.”

“Aye.” Judith made to pull him down beside her. She could feel his body stiffen, resisting her. “What’s the matter? Rannulf?” She was annoyed that he should hold back from her. She needed the comfort he gave her.

“’Tis not seemly,” came his stiff rely.

“Not seemly?” Judith was astounded. “Not seemly? But you are far older than I!”

“I’m twenty-one—” amusement entered his voice “—is that such a great age? Those knights were older still, and that would not have saved you from them!” he pointed out, more soberly.

“But they are monsters,” Judith said. “Invaders. Normans. I wish a thousand plagues on them. You are not like that. You are no Norman.”

“Judith, I must tell you—”

“Just hold me. Please, Rannulf. I hurt so.”

Rannulf could not see Judith through the gloom, but his ears were those of a hunter. They were trained to be sensitive to the slightest of sounds. He heard the quaver in Judith’s voice and capitulated. “Very well,” he replied lightly. “If you’ll try to sleep. Give me some of that cloak; I’m freezing out here.”

Light glimmered faintly from the east. A bird high in a tree cried out a note or two of his morning song.

Judith surfaced slowly from a deep sleep. She was warm. Unconsciously, she shifted closer to the body next to hers, and hugged it to her.

Deep in the Chase a dog barked. Another bird joined in the song.

Judith lifted her head, and turned curious eyes on the reassuring presence in whose arms she lay. Rannulf was still asleep. One strong arm fitted neatly around her waist. She discovered she was holding his other hand. She had no desire to move.

A grey light seeped round the edges of the leather curtain, and Judith studied Rannulf’s features. His brown hair was wavy and tousled. He wore it shorter than either of her brothers, but longer than was favoured by the Normans. A shadow of overnight stubble marked jaw and chin. His nose was straight, lips well shaped, and slightly parted to reveal strong, white teeth. He had the tanned skin of one who had spent most of the summer out of doors. To Judith’s uncritical eyes, he looked as handsome as a prince in a harper’s tale.

Only the red mark disfigured him. Judith slipped her hand free of his. Curious, she ran her finger the length of the weal, from cheekbone to dark stubble on his chin. Though her touch had been as light as the kiss of a butterfly’s wing, his eyes opened. He smiled. Judith’s cheeks burned.

“You’ve managed to appropriate all of the cloak,” Rannulf grumbled drowsily.

His eyes were startling at close range. Fringed with long, charcoal lashes they were not pure green, but were flecked with tints of brown and gold. Judith’s stomach tightened.

“I’m sorry.” She fumbled at the heavy folds of the cloak.

“’Tis early yet,” Rannulf yawned, and reached for her. He pulled her back into his arms, as casually as though he woke every day of the week with a strange girl in his arms. “Sleep awhile longer,” he murmured lazily. “I’ll go and catch us something to eat later.”

Judith was jerked into full consciousness by a rough hand shaking her shoulder.

“Judith!” a familiar voice called. “Judith! My God, Eadwold, she’s alive!”

“Saewulf!”

Judith looked into the clean-shaven face of her nineteen-year-old brother, smiled at the relief she saw written in his blue eyes, and threw herself into his arms. The resemblance between them was very marked.

Another voice, rougher than Saewulf’s, bawled through the opening.

“Out you come, sister. Have you no greeting for your eldest brother?”

Judith scrambled out of the hide, wondering where Rannulf had gone. He must be checking his snares—he’d said he’d go and find food. She hoped the Baron would not catch him poaching.

A dazzling shaft of morning sunlight pierced through the leafy canopy and fell on her face. She blinked up into the stern features of Eadwold. She made no effort to embrace him as she had her younger, best-loved brother.

“You’re unharmed, sister?” Eadwold demanded, hands on hips. “They didn’t…hurt you, did they?”

“Nay. They didn’t even see me. I was in the Chase. Have you seen Mother? Is she safe?”

“Safe enough. We took her to the Abbey.”

“Thank God,” Judith breathed, and the black misery that had her in its grip eased a little.

Eadwold’s face darkened.

Judith’s spirits plummeted again. Her giant of a brother was gazing past her, eyes narrowed in the way she recognised meant growing anger. She turned to see the cause of his wrath.

Saewulf emerged from the shelter, Rannulf’s cloak in hand. It was on this garment that Eadwold’s eyes were fixed.

Judith could see Eadwold assessing the worth of the cloak, hazarding a guess as to the identity of its owner. It did not look like the cloak of a Saxon…

Eadwold rounded on his sister. He was scratching his beard, face like thunder. Judith’s stomach began to churn—Eadwold was best avoided when he was in one of his rages.

“So…you were not harmed, sweet sister?” Eadwold ground out. His grey eyes chilled her to the marrow. “Found yourself a protector, did you?”

“Eadwold, I—”

“What fee did he claim, this protector of yours? What was the price of your safety?”

“Eadwold, Judith is but a child,” Saewulf protested, his face echoing the dawning horror on Judith’s.

“She’s old enough to shame our family,” Eadwold spat. “I am the head of our family now. I would rather see her dead with our father, than whore to save her skin!”

Judith felt as though a cloud had floated between her and the sun. “No! Eadwold, you do not understand.”

But Eadwold had seen her shiver. He stepped towards her and gripped her shoulder.

Something hard dug into Judith’s thigh. She glanced down. “You’re…you’re wearing father’s sword!” she stammered. “And Saewulf…he is armed too! Dear God, Eadwold, if the Baron’s men see you carrying weapons, there will be more trouble You know it’s against the law!”

“There’ll be trouble all right,” Eadwold growled. “Our days of meek submission are over. Yesterday saw to that. I have pledged myself to purge our land of these Norman parasites. My father will not die unavenged. I made an oath over his dead body. Those who block my path will die. I will destroy de Mandeville and all that’s his, or die trying.”

Eadwold’s towering form blotted out the trees. He was a man transformed. Judith scarcely recognised him. This was no ordinary rage. Eadwold had become a stranger, carried along by a surging tide of hatred, and she did not have the strength to swim against it.

Eadwold’s cold gaze dropped to Rannulf’s cloak.

Judith thought about Rannulf. She could see his extraordinary eyes crinkling at the corners, because he was smiling. She looked at her elder brother. The set of Eadwold’s jaw warned her not to confess that she had had a protector. He would never believe Rannulf had behaved honourably. Eadwold was out for revenge, and was like to wreak it on the first person who crossed his path. It was not going to be Rannulf.

Mentally, Judith compared Eadwold with Rannulf. Eadwold was big, over six feet tall—heavily built like a Viking warrior. He had long flaxen hair and a flowing beard in the old Saxon style. Rannulf was not so tall. Rannulf was no weakling, he had carried her easily enough, but he was not built in the same solid mould as Eadwold. She did not like to think of them fighting. She must get her brothers away. Before Rannulf came back with the food he had promised.

Judith cast her eyes around the fringes of the clearing. By the look of the light it was well past Matins. Rannulf could be back at any moment…

Eadwold saw her sidelong glance. His sword scraped clear of its scabbard. “Looking for your protector, sister mine?” Eadwold pressed the point against her breast. Their dead father’s ring gleamed on his finger.

“Eadwold, for the love of God!” Saewulf protested sharply.

The blade moved. Judith caught her breath and glanced down. A faint red mark began to blossom on the fabric of her gown. She forced her eyes to lift to meet her elder brother’s. His pupils were tiny black dots.

“I have no protector—” Judith declared in a voice that was as clear as a bell “—save perhaps my younger brother. Would you kill him, Eadwold, if he were to defend me?”

Eadwold glared into her eyes, and nodded as though satisfied with what he saw there. The sword withdrew.

Judith breathed again.

“No protector, eh?” Still Eadwold probed. “Then how came you to be safe here?”

Half the truth was better than none. “It was getting dark,” Judith told him. “I walked for some while before coming on this shelter.”

“’Tis a fine mantle for someone to leave behind so carelessly,” Saewulf commented.

“Aye,” Judith smiled, though she could have throttled Saewulf for harping on the damning garment. “But I was very grateful for its warmth this long night past. And now brothers, where are we going?” she asked brightly. “We cannot stay here.”

“That we can’t. We go on into the heart of the forest,” Eadwold declared.

“Into the forest?” Judith asked.

“Aye, we are outlaws now, Judith,” Saewulf pointed out.

“What?”

“Outlaws,” Eadwold repeated baldly. “You’re either for us, or against us.”

“But, Eadwold, think,” Judith objected. “There will be a price on your head—and anyone who helps you will be outlawed too.”

“With us, or against us,” Eadwold stressed. “You get the same choice, sister. But I tell you this, you side against us, and you are my sister no more. I will never speak to you again. You will be dead to me.”

“But…outlaws!” Judith rubbed her brow. “Eadwold, if you are caught, you will be hanged. Maybe tortured. That would kill Mother, as surely as if you’d stabbed her yourself. Is that what you want?” The light in Eadwold’s eyes told her he was beyond reason, but she had to try.

“Revenge is all I have left.” Eadwold sounded impatient. “Judith, those murderers have destroyed everything else. Now are you with us, or against us?”

Judith hesitated.

A rustling in the bushes brought three blond heads snapping round.

Judith could hardly bear to look, but it was not Rannulf, only a blackbird grubbing in the leaves. “W…with you, of course,” she replied hastily. “Aren’t you my family? Lead on, Eadwold. I will follow you.”

Eadwold scowled down, solid as a rock.

“Well?” She pulled at his huge hand. She must get Eadwold away. Sunlight dappled the ground, the dew had already evaporated…

“We will carry no maids in our band, Judith,” Eadwold said abruptly. “I’ll take you to Mother, for you cannot come with us. I am forming an army. An army of well-trained and disciplined men, dedicated to resisting Norman rule. His eyes gleamed. “’Twill be no common rabble. There will be no women to distract my men. No camp followers. Just warriors fighting together in the old Saxon tradition, fighting for justice for our people.”

“We cannot consign Judith to a nunnery, Eadwold!” Saewulf objected hotly.

Judith spread her hands in resignation. “I am a maid, Saewulf. What else is there for me?”

“Nay, Judith. You…a nun! “Tis unthinkable. Eadwold, we could disguise her. She could become a youth!”

Eadwold snorted.

“Aye. We could cut off her hair, short like a squire—” Saewulf warmed to his idea “—find her a boy’s tunic. Mother will not want her to waste away in a convent. I will teach her to throw a knife, use a bow—”

“She could never bend a bow!” Eadwold declared scornfully. “She lacks the muscle!”

“I will make her a smaller, more supple one. Judith…” Saewulf’s blue eyes pleaded.

Judith looked wildly at the shortening shadows cast by the sun rising inexorably towards its zenith. She was so desperate to leave the glade she would have agreed to face a pack of wolves single-handed. She did not want Rannulf’s blood on her conscience.

“I’ll do it,” she agreed. “Whatever you say. No one will know I’m a girl. I’ll heal your wounds; I’ll cook for you; I’ll even try to fight for you. I’ll put my hand to the wheel. If necessary I’ll die with you. Only please, let’s hurry.”

“Hurry?” Eadwold queried, a dangerous edge to his voice.

“Aye.” Judith tilted her chin. “I…I want to see Mother.”

Eadwold smiled for the first time that morning. “Good. I confess I did not want to lose my little sister. We’ll have to find a new name for you.” He slung his bundle over his broad shoulder, and stalked to the edge of the clearing.

“Why not Jude?” Saewulf suggested with a grin. “’Tis in part her real name.” He winked, and throwing Rannulf’s cloak at Judith, followed Eadwold into the thicket.

Judith stood irresolute. Now that her brothers were quitting the place, she acknowledged a reluctance to leave. Rannulf’s cloak weighed heavy in her hands. She smoothed the fur. She would have to take it with her, or Eadwold would suspect the worst.

She sighed. She did not want Rannulf to think her a thief. But better he think her a thief than die on her brother’s sword. Rannulf was no Norman. Had he not been kind to her? But it would not matter to Eadwold what race Rannulf belonged to. If Eadwold believed that Rannulf had dishonoured their family, that would be enough to condemn him.

Swinging Rannulf’s mantle round her shoulders, she frowned at the blood staining her gown. “If Eadwold had cut her, his sister, he would not hesitate to kill Rannulf if he thought he had cause.

Would Rannulf return and search for her? She wished she could tell him she was safe. But there was no way. Further contact would only put his life at risk.

Realising she was tarrying too long, Judith gathered up her skirts and followed her brothers into the heart of Mandeville Chase.