Leaves on the Wind

by Carol Townend

  “Judith?” He jerked her back to reality. “If you would read my fortune, I’m told the future is written on the palms of the hands.”

  Her cheeks burned. “Aye. I know that. There is something I wanted to say, but ’tis hard—” she gulped. This felt sickeningly like betrayal. She rallied herself. He must not suspect.

  “Go on,” he said.

  Now. Now was the time. But her head was void. She picked out some of his own words to help her begin. “I do feel bound to you, Rannulf,” she said. Then inspiration struck. She extricated her hand from his, and started to wind her reins around his wrists. She lifted her eyes to his. She would not have to lie.

  Rannulf sat very still in the saddle.

  “My heart is yours,” she said. “I think it has been since the day my father was taken from me.”

  Something flared into life in his eyes which made the breath catch in her throat. She bent her head and continued binding his wrists. Why did he submit so trustfully? It made it all the worse.

  “Judith, princess—” His voice was soft. That old voice he had used when he kissed her on the beach.

  “D…don’t!” She kept her head down. She could not bear to see that light in his eyes. Shining for her, she knew it was. And in a moment—would it be shining then? “Remember, Rannulf I have told you the truth.” She jerked on the reins to tighten them. “I cannot accept your protection, Rannulf. But I am bound to you. Whatever else befalls—” she slid and stood poised for flight on the woodland floor “—but there are other chains which held me prisoner before ever I met you.”

  “Judith! No!”

  She shut her ears. “Those fetters were forged in Hell. Forged with blood, Rannulf. Such chains cannot be broken. Farewell.” She dived into the foliage.

  “Judith! Listen to me. Trust me! Judith!”

  Leaves brushed cool on the skin of hands and face. She heard the sounding of a distant horn. One of her feet, the one she had jammed into the gelding’s flanks, was hurting, but she pressed on. A bellow of rage and frustration followed her. She heard him swearing, imagined him struggling to free his hands, heard him call for Guy and Wilfred…

  Wildly she looked about her. She must be almost at the place where the pheasant had started up. Heart pumping, Judith ploughed past a scratchy hawthorn, deeper into the thicket. Her tired muscles shrieked in protest, but she couldn’t rest yet.

  It must be about here. The bird had been startled from about here, so there should be…

  A man rose up from the bracken and grappled her. She was flung to the ground, and pinned on her back. A pair of blue eyes glared down at her, familiar blue eyes. It was like looking into a silvered mirror.

  “Saewulf!” she gasped.

  “J…Jude…Judith?” The blue eyes widened.

  “Thank Heaven!” She was out of breath. “I was hoping…it would be you…not Eadwold…Where is Eadwold?…Not here, I hope…? Oh, God, Saewulf…we must get away!”

  “Judith! You’re alive!” Saewulf thought his eyes must be deceiving him. He’d been wandering back to camp with two hares he’d snared for the pot, when he overheard the party moving through the Chase. He’d seen at once they were Norman crusaders, and had stopped to watch them not because he desired another blood-letting, but because he was curious to see who it was who rode along this little-known byway. As far as he could recall the path had never been used, in all the years they had been outlaws in the forest.

  “Saewulf!” Judith thumped him on the shoulder. “Have your wits deserted you? We must be gone! Move, you mindless ox!”

  Saewulf’s mouth curved into an affectionate smile. “Now I know ’tis truly you, sister. You always did have a way with words.” He rolled off her, climbed on to his haunches, and offered his hand.

  “Is Eadwold near?” Judith demanded, hauling herself into a sitting position. She felt as though she’d been pounded to death. She rubbed the back of her head. “Is this an ambush?”

  “Nay, sister, Eadwold is not here. This is no attack.” Saewulf ruffled her hair. “Oh, sister, I am right glad to see you! I’d given you up for dead long since.” He drew her to her feet and gave her a hug which nearly cracked her ribs. “I gather you are in some haste to escape.”

  “Escape!” A harsh laugh slid from her lips.

  Saewulf stared. “Jude?”

  She could not explain “Aye. I want to escape,” she said.

  “Run, then!”

  “Aye. But Saewulf, I beg you…not straight to the camp. I would speak with you privately before I face Eadwold.”

  Saewulf nodded, caught up the game he had poached, and plunged without further ado into the Chase.

  Judith lifted her skirts clear of the bracken and forged on after him. God had been smiling on her, that he had sent this brother to meet her. She pulled a face. Her blue dress was not suited to this life. Jude the outlaw had no need for pretty gowns. Regret pierced her. She flung a yearning glance over her shoulder in the direction of the boar-run. Already it was lost to sight. She found herself wondering if Rannulf had attempted to follow her. Shouts and cries floated clearly back to her on the warm, still air.

  Gradually the sounds faded, and at length all she could hear was the pounding of her feet on the damp earth, and the harsh gasps of her breathing as she laboured to keep pace with her youngest brother. She must keep going. Rannulf would have freed himself by now. He could be chasing her. She must keep going. It would be his death if he followed her to Eadwold. Thus goaded, she forced her weary limbs to move.

  A bramble clutched at her skirt, and as she wrenched the fabric free she felt it tear. So too my heart, she thought bitterly, and stumbled on into the dank deeps of Mandeville Chase.

  “So, Saewulf, now you know all my tale,” Judith finished.

  She and her brother were leaning their backs against the gnarled trunk of a huge oak, and had recovered their breath.

  Saewulf blew a soundless whistle. “’Tis a story good enough for any minstrel,” he said.

  “Nay, Saewulf,” she said earnestly. “This must be our secret.” She was alarmed at the gleam in his eyes. “I dread to think how Eadwold would react if he knew that his sister had been saved by a Norman! And not only a Norman but one of them—” She jerked her head in the direction she knew the castle lay. “I can hear him saying ’twould have been better for me to have ended my life on the point of a blade than accept help from one of them. Do you think he will believe me when I protest my innocence? ’Tis more like that he will charge me with becoming a Norman whore.”

  “Aye,” Saewulf agreed “He will not believe you. If my memory serves, he was not inclined to believe in your innocence when we found you hiding in that bower with only a cloak between you and the wolves.”

  He looked at her thoughtfully. She was picking burrs from her skirts. “And you were but a child then. But now you are a woman, and to come back thus gowned…” He shook his fair head.

  An unpleasant suspicion jumped into Judith’s mind. “Saewulf, does it seem so incredible? You must believe me? You do, don’t you? Why should I lie to you?”

  She flushed under her brother’s careful scrutiny, but met it steadily.

  “What will you have me believe?” Saewulf parried her question. “That you are still a maid? Or that you were helped by a Norman?”

  “Both! Sweet Jesus, you must believe me!” She ground her teeth. “If I can’t persuade you of the truth, then in cessions from all the saints in Heaven will not help me when we get back to Eadwold!”

  Saewulf’s features softened. He put a loving arm round her and tweaked a tendril of sun-streaked hair. “Judith, I am overjoyed to find you still alive, and come home again. I care not how you managed it. I am only glad to find you are not rotting in some wayside ditch as I had feared.”

  She made to pull away. He did not believe her. “But I’ve told you the truth!” she insisted.

  “Then I believe you.”

  “My thanks.” She relaxed against him, picked up a l
eaf and idly folded it over and over. “Saewulf?”

  “Mmm?”

  “Do…do you think all Normans are evil?”

  “Nay, lass—” his voice reverberated through his chest “—Baron Hugo must have been spawned by the devil, there can’t be anything even remotely human in that man. Our father’s murder was bad enough, but he’s added to his sins since then. Apart from the slaving, that is. He’s ridden roughshod over our people, turned them from their houses, levied arbitrary taxes and fines…He is all evil.

  “But I cannot condemn all Normans for the deeds of one man, Judith. I have been thinking that the time has come to find a new way; for us to put down our weapons. What future is there in this way of life? I’ve no mind to die at swordpoint…or worse.”

  He took a deep breath. “But Eadwold is not easily persuaded. And for our mother’s sake I would have preferred us to remain united. Much as I loathe Hugo de Mandeville, I have spent enough of my life’s span in fighting him. This killing does sicken me, sister. Inevitably the innocent get hurt. And who gains from that?” Saewulf lowered his voice “I would prefer to follow a gentler way, Judith. I do not see cruelty glaring from every Norman’s eye. A man should be judged on his own merits, and not on the sins of his brother.”

  Judith’s head lifted from his shoulder. She should have known she could hide nothing from Saewulf. He was ever sensitive to her feelings.

  “Judith?”

  “S…Saewulf?”

  “You have told me the truth, sister,” he smiled. “But not, I think, all of it.”

  She ducked her head, and hid her mouth with her hand.

  Saewulf pulled her hand away. His voice was gentle. “I think you have discovered you have it in you to love a Norman.”

  She shrugged. She had no words to deny it.

  “Aye. I thought so,” Saewulf sighed. “’Tis no crime in my eyes, Judith. But Eadwold…will not react well.”

  “Not react well!” Judith cried, and her eyes were very bright. “I fear he may kill me for it!”

  “We shall not tell him, sister. I’ll keep your secret We must fabricate some other tale to explain what befell you.”

  “Aye.” She felt utterly miserable.

  “I hope you appreciate the sacrifice I am making,” Saewulf added brightly.

  “Sacrifice?”

  He grinned. “In not making your story into a ballad. The men have grown weary of my repertoire, and with autumn on its way, the long, cold nights will soon be upon us. A new tale would help to pass the time.”

  She pinned a smile on her face, but knew it was a weak one and would not fool Saewulf. “Very well. Compose another tale that will convince Eadwold. One which will explain my long absence without mentioning Normans.”

  Saewulf pursed his lips. “Mandeville Chase is reputed to house a monster…we could say you had been carried off by the dragon, and have only now escaped.”

  Her smile warmed. “Oh, do be serious, Saewulf!”

  “You’re right,” Saewulf agreed, wrapping his arm about her. “That tale will not suffice. There are those who believe the dragon exists, but Eadwold is not numbered among them.”

  They fell silent. The swaying leaf canopy whispered above them. A jay screeched. A wood pigeon cooed.

  “I know,” Judith bolted upright “We’ll tell Eadwold a branch fell from a tree and hit me. Dazed, I wandered out of the forest, and one of the monks found me wandering on the moor. You know, the one that lies north of here—”

  “Dinmore,” supplied Saewulf.

  “Aye, Dinmore. We’ll tell him the monks thought me simple—”

  “Wise monks.” Saewulf tweaked her ear.

  “You miserable churl, let me tell this tale! Is it not a good one?”

  “Continue, sister. My apologies. ’Tis a tale fit for the King.” He sounded doubtful.

  “Let me finish it before you condemn it,” she said. “There I am, cloistered with the monks for nigh on four months before my head heals. The monks see it as a charitable duty to care for me, and they give me this robe. It’s rather too fine, but with another tear or two, and a bit more dirt, it will look more like the sort of garment some fine lady has discarded for the benefit of others. Well?” She searched his face anxiously. “Is Eadwold likely to believe that explanation? Surely even he would not question the honour of the monks in the Abbey?”

  Saewulf tapped his teeth. “I fear you would not make much of a harper,” he said.

  Her heart sank. “Not good enough?”

  “Afraid not.”

  “There must be some plausible explanation,” she insisted, pushing her hair back.

  “Your hair has grown,” Saewulf observed, watching the movement.

  Judith grimaced. “I know. But it would have grown in the Abbey. I could say the monks were shocked to see me garbed as a boy, and that while I had to accept their hospitality I thought it best to let my hair grow long so as not to offend them.”

  “It suits you. You are as pretty as a maiden, brother Jude.”

  A bitter laugh burst from her lips, but something in Saewulf’s expression gave her pause. “My thanks, brother,” she said, sobering. “It was strange at first in women’s clothes. But now, I vow I shall be sorry to exchange them for my old attire.” She surprised herself with this admission and fell silent. She turned and fixed her eyes on a tree-trunk opposite her.

  A large hand dropped comfortingly on her shoulder.

  “You are learning to like being a woman, Judith,” Saewulf said astutely.

  Judith blinked and sniffed. She shrugged.

  “You cannot hoodwink me,” Saewulf murmured in her ear. “It is Saewulf who sits beside you. I may oft-times play the fool, but I do know you, Judith. You are no more suited to this wild life than I.”

  Judith whirled and buried herself in her brother’s open arms.

  Saewulf kissed Judith’s brow clear of furrows and smoothed her hair. He whispered reassurances into her ear. The rustling leaves echoed his soft mutterings.

  Mandeville Chase was lost in a blur of tears. Judith closed her eyes on it. For a moment or two her mind lifted her back to a warm balmy evening. The hushing of the wind through the leaves changed into the lapping of waves on a foreign shore. And she could almost imagine that other arms were holding her, almost…

  Chapter Eight

  Twilight thickened around the camp fire. Judith hunched near its warmth, half of her mind occupied in trying to force down unsavoury chunks of burnt hare meat, and the other half listening to Eadwold’s terse outline of his new campaign.

  Eadwold had come upon Saewulf and Judith before they had been able to spin a better yarn. But Eadwold did not seem troubled either by his sister’s unexpected return, or the weak reasons he was given for her long absence. Eadwold had a plan for penetrating the castle itself, and this loomed large in his mind.

  With Eadwold’s head thus occupied, Judith realised he scarcely heard their stammered story. Blind to everything but his own obsessions, the flaws in Judith’s tale escaped him.

  All he had said was, “We missed your healing hands two months back.” It had sounded like an accusation.

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Eadwold. Were many hurt?” she had asked.

  But Eadwold had not dignified her question with an answer. “Well, you’re back now—” again that accusatory tone “—you can occupy yourself with replenishing the medicine basket on the morrow. Stocks are low since you went.”

  “Eadwold, I didn’t mean to go,” she said.

  Eadwold had grunted, “Oh, aye.” He turned his back on her. He had lost interest in her already. Too involved in trying to convince a ragged band of outlaws that an attack on Mandeville Castle would best serve their interests.

  The fireglow lit up Eadwold’s face in the semi-darkness. He no longer looked like the brother she knew. His long golden beard and flying hair cast weird shadows. He was all light, and yet…he was all dark. He cast a bone on to the fire.

  “I’ve had e
nough of us skulking in the woods,” Eadwold declared. “The time is ripe for us to beard the monster in his den.”

  Someone in the ring of listening warriors gasped.

  “We don’t stand a chance, Eadwold,” one protested.

  “Too many guards,” agreed another. “It would be suicide.”

  “Aye. And that’s a mortal sin, is it not?” The voice of the first man again.

  Someone sniggered.

  Judith squinted across the leaping flames, but she could not make out who had spoken. Alfred, perhaps, and Wulfric? Whoever it was, it was clear from the tenor of their speech that Saewulf was not the only fighter who tired of the endless conflict that was leading them nowhere. Eadwold’s doughty warriors hardly seemed keen for battle.

  She chewed mechanically, trying in vain to derive some nourishment from the tough, gristly game. Eadwold’s face was shining with conviction. He believed he was doing right, and the strength of his belief gave him a credibility that made her meat sit even more badly in her stomach.

  Her eyes narrowed All at once she recognised what was wrong about Eadwold’s fervour. What had happened to his fine ideals? He no longer spoke of justice and concern for the Saxon race. He spoke of revenge, of killing, of burning, and of looting. There was not the slightest trace of compassion to soften those hard grey eyes. They shone like beacons now, glaring out at the circle of men. They burned with such intensity they looked as though they could ignite the whole of the Chase.

  He had their attention. The passion in his voice lent him an air of righteousness. Had family loyalty made her quite blind? Why had she never seen this before? Men like Eadwold were dangerous, she realised. They could spark off a conflagration that would destroy them all.

  The harsh voice rose to stress a point. He was obsessed. He was insane. Hatred had turned him inside out, and he had become as twisted as the Baron he had set out to destroy. There was no reasoning with a zealot.

  Would there be any here who would risk voicing a contrary opinion? Her eyes ran round the ring of faces, and she tried vainly to penetrate the fierce expressions they were wearing. She knew all the men behind the facades. But they had themselves well in hand, and she learnt nothing.