“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.
Chapter One
Summer, Four Years Later: The Island of Cyprus
Rannulf snatched off his helmet and ran his fingers through sweat-drenched hair, lifting it from his scalp in an effort to get cool. Waiting in the lee of the harbour wall, he was protected from the sea breezes, and that was the last thing he wanted protection from. He’d give half of his hard-won bezants for one refreshing blast of wind. The heat was almost unbearable.
He shaded his eyes with his hand and squinted at the ship unloading its human cargo on to the long wooden jetty that ran from ship to quayside. He was looking for passage home, but wanted nothing to do with slavers.
Perspiration trickled down Rannulf’s back. He eased his shoulders with a grimace and cursed the ship’s master who kept him waiting out here at noon, where there was no shade. He’d learnt that the sun could be as merciless a foe as any. He had taken to wearing a white robe over his coat of mail, and while this shielded him from the worst of the heat, he still felt as though he were being stewed alive inside a tin pot.
His eyes made another circuit of the harbour, and came to rest again on the bedraggled wretches who were emerging, blinking and filthy, from the hold of the slave ship.
If his man didn’t appear soon, he’d try and find another vessel. But that would not be easy. The seas of the eastern Mediterranean were reputed to be jostling with pirate ships this year—all on the prowl for the booty crusaders were bringing back home. There were few vessels with masters brave enough to risk the sun. And those that were were loaded themselves to bursting point to make it all worthwhile. Everyone, it seemed, wanted passage west.
Rannulf scowled into the heat haze, no longer seeing the glares. Where was the man? Beautiful though this island was, he did not want to watch the year out here. It was time to go home. He sighed. It was beginning to look as though the man he’d met in the tavern had been spinning a yarn. John Beaufour was not here. His scowl deepened, and he fingered the scar that stood out pale against the tanned skin of his face. He’d cause enough to dislike Beaufour; but his brother’s knight had trading links out here and, if meeting with Beaufour secured passage home for him and his comrades, he’d do it willingly.
The captives, roped together like beasts going to auction, were being driven along the quayside. A crowd of onlookers appeared out of nowhere. Despite himself, Rannulf found he was watching. Some of the poor devils were women. Their clothes were little more than rags, and barely covered pale limbs that had been incarcerated too long away from the sun. Rannulf frowned. He did not like to think where they would be going.
Slavers. Suddenly a memory stirred in Rannulf’s mind and his face lightened. He was back in the Chase at home and he saw again the bright blue eyes looking up at him, torn with indecision. Even after all these years he still thought of her. Judith. She’d said slavers had been seen in Mandeville Chase. She’d mistaken him for one. He had never forgotten the way she had looked at him that day, half afraid, half wanting to trust…
Some of the women being bullied along towards the harbour perimeter were blonde. They looked drugged, poor souls. He wondered if any of them had been snatched from home. A wooden platform had been constructed in the square at the end of the quay. The slaves were to be sold here, then. Rannulf folded his arms and leaned against the wall. He would have nothing to do with such traffickings.
The heat shimmered upwards from the stone flags in the square. The haze blurred his vision. He shook his head and blinked sweat from his eyes. It must be like a cauldron out there. His gaze sharpened. A fellow knight—the one he was looking for—detached himself from the crowd and joined the slave master on the rostrum. John Beaufour. Rannulf swore under his breath. His skin crawled despite the strength of the sun. Surely even as disreputable a man as Beaufour would not treat with slavers?
Judith’s words came back to haunt him. “Slavers have been seen in the Chase. Where’ve you been that you’ve not heard the warnings?” He’d always felt he’d failed her back there in the Chase. Perhaps, for her memory’s sake.
Tucking his helmet under his arm, Rannulf pushed himself away from the harbour wall and walked towards the block. He could not help the slaves, he was being sentimental—there was no denying that. Judith had been dead for nigh on four years.
Rannulf’s mouth twisted, but memory drove him on. Before he knew it, he had crossed the square and was standing, with the sun beating down on his bare head, at the steps of the auction block. Beaufour had vanished.
Judith blinked and tried to focus her eyes. The light was so bright it burned. They must be in the harbour, as she could hear the sea slapping the sides of the ship. Her head felt thick and muzzy. She shook it, and her shoulder-length hair rippled about her face, but still her head did not clear. She’d been all right till they’d told her to strip and wash. When she’d refused to obey, they’d forced that drink down her throat, and her limbs had suddenly felt as though they belonged to someone else. Then they’d scrubbed her themselves and they’d dressed her, unresisting, in a clean smock.
She wondered, dully, why she could not see straight. Her mouth was dry. Maybe it was the heat. The harbour wavered and swam before her eyes like a desert mirage in a Bible story.
She was conscious of a vague feeling that she should be angry. She should be frightened. But she could not dredge up any feeling at all. Later…later she would…With difficulty, Judith directed a scowl at the hard-faced goblin of a man who was dragging her along the path. Could he not see she was going as fast as she could?
The path was dusty, and flanked on both sides by row after row of people, all staring at her, all eyes. Judith giggled. So many eyes, they looked like silly, staring sheep. The slave-driver jerked on the rope, and her wrists burned. She tried to remember what all these people had come for, but her mind was no clearer than her vision.
The dust was the colour of amber. It swirled around in little eddies scuffed up by her bare feet. It scorched her soles, and this, rather than the proddings of the fiend at her side prompted her to greater speed. At the back of her mind fear was slowly crystallising. She tried to identify it and failed. Her head ached. It was much too difficult to think.
She forced her head up. The landscape was as alien as her strangely unresponsive mind and body. Thin spiky trees, unlike any she had ever seen, arched upwards. The sky was a rich, deep azure. Its perfect complexion was unmarred by even a single cloud. The pellucid waters around the bay echoed that pure, untainted colour. A donkey’s discordant braying threatened to split sea and sky and her head apart. She stifled a moan.
The sheep-eyed watchers wore clothes whiter than any fleece. The brightness dazzled Judith’s drug-dazed eyes. What were they all staring at, these dark-eyed, dark skinned men?
She licked her lips. The fear shifted uneasily in her mind. She was being shepherded towards a platform. She stared. Her mind emptied. There was a void where her innards should be.
She began to struggle, and tried to cry out, “No! No!” She only managed a mumble. That drink had robbed her of voice as well as will. Her breath came fast. She saw a wooden stage, the height of a man, and on it swayed some half-clad girls, roped together. She recognised them. They’d been with her in the hold. It was on these girls that the men’s eyes were fixed.
Judith stopped in her tracks, as a lamb will when it scents the stench of slaughter. She’d got in the wrong way round…the men with the eyes were not the sheep…the real victims were trussed up on the platform.
/> “Move, girl,” her captor snarled, and thumped her in the back with the butt of a spear.
Judith stumbled towards the dreadful platform. The fog in her mind had quite vanished, leaving it horribly, starkly clear. This was a slave market. And she was about to be sold, like a beast of burden. Wildly she looked about, eyes glazed not with the drug but with blind panic. These men were assessing her worth. And behind the calculating stares, Judith glimpsed something else. Lust. Her legs turned to jelly.
A hundred dark eyes impaled her with the same unwavering, evil desire—the desire to possess and dominate. Far better to be a simple beast of burden than suffer this. Would that she had been ugly, or a crookback…
“Sweet Mother, help me.” Her lips felt stiff, the words came out slurred and indistinct. She was at the bottom of the steps. She tossed her head, and her cropped hair caught the sunlight. An appreciative murmur ran through the onlookers. Judith baulked. The spear butt drove into the small of her back.
“No!” Her tongue was still disconnected from her will, and her shriek emerged as a husky, broken whisper.
Another crippling blow jarred her spine. Judith pitched forward into the dust.
She choked on sand. It filled her mouth and eyes. Someone touched her arm and Judith braced herself for another clout. But the pressure on her arm was gentle—not designed to cause pain. Someone raised her to her feet.
Judith blinked furiously and tried to see through the grit in her eyes.
Her heart began to pump. The drug had dissolved her brain. She was gazing into green eyes, eyes with gold and brown flecks in them, warm eyes, tender eyes. Eyes the colour of the Chase in high summer. The grip on her arms tightened. She heard a sharp intake of breath.
She blinked again, but the manifestation was still there. She must have been driven mad. “R…Rannulf?” She felt dizzy.
“Shift yourself, wench!” her gaoler bawled, in English, placing his rank person belligerently between Judith and the green-eyed apparition. “Who do you think you are? Princess Salomé? We’re waiting for you. Aye, you. ’Tis your turn.”
Leaves on the Wind Page 3