Leaves on the Wind

by Carol Townend

  A piece of gristle stuck in her teeth. A spasm crossed her face. This meat was ruined. Ruefully, she consigned it to the flames. She wasn’t hungry anyway.

  “Not to your taste, Judith?” Saewulf asked in an undertone.

  She pulled another face. “That animal died for naught! It was cooked so ill a ravening wolf would turn tail and run if you left it for him!”

  A log cracked and shifted in the heart of the fire.

  Judith laughed, “See, the fire agrees with me. It spits out your hare! I fear your efforts in snaring it were wasted, Saewulf—” she lowered her voice to a whisper “—I was fed better in the brothel.”

  Saewulf grinned. “The price of freedom, sister.”

  “Aye. Of course. I’d rather be free, only…” Judith stared moodily into the fire.

  Saewulf frowned thoughtfully at his sister’s profile.

  “What say you, Saewulf?” Eadwold asked, abruptly claiming Saewulf’s attention. “Will you do it? The success of our plan depends on you.”

  Eadwold’s grey eyes shone like bright lamps.

  “You may count on me to do what is right, Eadwold,” Saewulf said.

  Judith’s head came round.

  “Like you—” Saewulf went on smooth as silk “—I feel the time has come to put an end to the petty tyrannies which rule us.”

  Eadwold grunted. “Good. Good,” he nodded. “Prepare to leave at once. You go alone.”

  Judith stared hard at her younger brother. He rose to his feet, took up his pack, tested the blade of his knife…

  “Saewulf?” Judith left the warmth of the fire and followed him into the dusk. The hare sat like a stone in her stomach. “What are you going to do?” she asked.

  “Do? Why, I shall do as our brother asks. I shall don my minstrel’s garb and gain entry to the castle. They know me as a harper. It should not be too difficult to persuade them to admit me. And while there I shall keep my eyes and ears open as Eadwold has asked. Why? What else should I be doing?”

  Judith hesitated. “I…I don’t know,” she admitted, trying to see clearly through the dense blackness. But after sitting in the pool of light by the fire, she could see nothing. “I had the feeling that perhaps you—”

  “Shift yourself!” Eadwold’s cold command made them both start. “They’ll not break curfew to let you in, if you arrive too late to sing to them! And I want that information quickly. Remember Saewulf, two main points: check the weak spots in their defences, and sniff out where the Baron keeps his money chest. I am determined we shall have de Mandeville’s gold for our cause. Norman money will pay for the mercenaries we need to finish the job once and for all!”

  “It might take some time,” Saewulf warned.

  “I’m aware of that. But try and be back by midnight tomorrow.”

  “I’m ready now.” Saewulf hitched his harp on to his shoulder. “See you soon, sister.” Giving Judith a brief hug, he turned and started walking away.

  “I hope so. I do hope so,” Judith muttered. Saewulf’s bright head was one small flame in a huge expanse of darkness. Her eyes strained after it long after gloaming and trees between them had snuffed it out.

  The sky over Beckford next morning was blue, but thick white clouds drifted slowly across it, and Judith could smell damp in the air. The leaves hung limp from their trees, green still, but tired and faded. The end of the year was coming in.

  Judith hovered on the border between village and Chase, wondering where her courage had gone. The sentries up on the stone curtain around Mandeville Tower were clearly visible against the skyline. And, incongruously, she could see a twitter of swallows dotted along another section of the wall, sunning themselves and gathering strength for their autumn migration.

  She squared her shoulders. Her fingers clamped on the handle of her basket. She had doffed her blue gown and now wore the unremarkable woollen tunic and leggings of a Saxon peasant. It was impossible to live as an outlaw in a fine lady’s gown. She scratched her ribs. The tunic itched. It was in dire need of a stitch or two. It was filthy. It stank. It was identical to the clothes that she had worn these past four years and she hated it.

  She shoved her hair out of her face and attempted to saunter towards Aethelgyth’s hut. She’d not been able to bring herself to shear her hair. Later, she told herself, she’d tie it back with a leather thong, but while she was in the village her hair could be loose and unkempt. Many village lads wore theirs that way. Then why did she feel that she stood out like a well in a desert? She could not remember feeling this uneasy before. Her disguise seemed woefully inadequate. Surely everyone must know she was no stripling?

  She quickened her pace. She could trust her countrymen. She was in no doubt as to that. Most of the villagers had known her family for years. They had always known the real identity of the young lady who ran with Eadwold’s pack. She would not dream of questioning their loyalty. She kept her eyes down, and prayed she would not chance upon a Norman from the castle. She no longer felt confident her disguise would hold out under close scrutiny.

  Don’t look guilty, she told herself. Act naturally. She’d managed it before, so why not now?

  By the time she gained the entrance to old Aethel’s hovel, the hand clutching the willow handle of her basket had lost all feeling. Every nerve jangled, waiting for a yell from the high walls above that would tell her she had been discovered.

  Aethel was propped by the entrance on her three legged stool. Judith peered into the gloomy interior and let her breath out in a rush. Thank God! The old woman was alone—apart from the pig and two scrawny chickens nesting in a corner. Aethel had always known her real identity. Judith could trust her. The sun went behind a cloud. Judith ducked her head beneath the lintel, and the unpleasant odour of rancid fat hit her in the face.

  “So,” Aethel mumbled through her remaining teeth, “you came back. On t’same day an’ all. Strange.”

  For all that her eyes were old and red, they were very penetrating.

  “Aye, I’m home again.” Judith shot Aethel a curious glance. “I’ve come for healing herbs. They ran low while I was away.”

  “Aye?” Aethel was very still.

  “You have plenty?” Judith asked.

  “Oh, aye. Enough. There’s always much needs healing.” Aethel waved a hand which had twisted and gnarled like an old tree root. “Take what you need. I trust you to keep an honest reckoning. My old bones feel the damp more this year. I’d rather not move.”

  “Have you no liniment to rub into your joints, Aethel? Something to ease the stiffness?”

  “Too old, too old,” the old woman muttered.

  “Nonsense!” Judith said briskly, wondering how Aethel could breathe in this stink, let alone move.

  Outside the sun must have come out again, for a thin shaft of light squeezed past the sheep-skin flap on the window. It warmed a dirt door that could not have been swept for weeks. Judith’s eyes sharpened as they adjusted to the mean light. An icy chill ran all along her veins. Aethel’s gown was filthy, her hair was snarled and greasy. Something was very wrong. This was not the Aethel she knew. The village herbalist had never been able to afford fine clothes, but she had always been clean and tidy. Not like this ancient crone who sat before her.

  “Where’s Leofric?” Judith demanded bluntly. “What can he be thinking of letting you get into such a state?”

  Aethel’s face collapsed. “He’s been gone,” she moaned.

  “Leofric would not leave you.”

  Aethel rocked back on her stool, and tipped her head up at Judith. “’E were taken,” she said. “Baron de Mandeville’s steward stole ’im. Said a growing lad were wasted ’ere. Took ’im to serve in t’castle cookhouse.”

  “When?”

  “Midsummer’s Day, it would ’ave been. And there’s been no one to tend me strip of land. Crop’s ready. No one to help with the harvest. Herbs ready for drying. And none to pick ’em. Many’s past picking. And me too old to care. I’ve missed that lad.�
�� A tear rolled down her withered cheek, and the old woman wiped her nose inelegantly with one skeleton of a hand.

  The rheumy gaze was suddenly as sharp as a bodkin. “Baron’s brother is back’ Aethel said.

  Judith’s heart missed a beat. She felt her colour rise. Thank heaven it was dark in here. She hooked a bundle of herbs down from the rafters, and carefully put them in her basket.

  “His b…brother?” she managed, and stretched up for more herbs.

  “You ’eard. He’s been here,” Aethel said in a sly voice.

  Judith’s hand faltered midway to the next bundle.

  “Aye. Sir Rannulf came here,” Aethel mumbled.

  Another bunch of dried flowers landed in the basket. Judith kept her lips clamped together. She’d always thought Aethel was too wily for her own good.

  “Now what would a Norman knight be doing visiting poor old Aethel?” Aethel cackled. “I had no cure for him though. What would I be doing healing a Norman?”

  “What hurt has he?” Judith demanded, despite herself.

  Aethel shook her head. “None that I can cure. And him so lately returned from crusade.” Her voice changed, became teasing. “Why Judith, whatever are you doing? You will not need seven lots of dill, surely? Your food must be bad indeed that you have to treat so much indigestion.”

  Judith looked blindly at the contents of her basket. “Oh, aye.” She forced a laugh. “I had not noticed. You’re right, Aethel. The food is bad, but I have only a small need for dill. ’Tis rosemary I must have in quantity.” She reached for the rosemary, and as its clean fragrance cut through her smells in the hovel, her vision blurred. Her hand started to shake.

  Aethel was humming. Her face was lit by a knowing smile.

  “Aethel.” Judith could stand it no longer. “What did he want with you?”

  The unmelodious humming stopped. “Who?”

  The old woman was being deliberately vague. Judith clenched her fists. “R…Sir Rannulf.” Her tongue tripped over his title. He was plain Rannulf to her.

  “I think he was searching for someone,” Aethel offered, and went back to her humming.

  “Who? Who was he looking for?” Judith persisted.

  “A pretty boy,” Aethel crooned. “He wants a pretty boy. Now the other one, the one with black eyes to match his heart, he takes the girls. But this one wants a pretty boy. He thought I would know of one.” She grinned. “I did not know you had returned.”

  Aethel could have told him nothing. Relief and disappointment warred within her.

  “You did come back yesterday, didn’t you?” Aethel probed.

  Judith pursed her lips. The less Aethel knew, the better for her. It was possible Rannulf might return with more questions. What the herbalist didn’t know, she couldn’t tell. She dug a coin from her pouch, and pressed it into Aethel’s dry palm. “Here,” Judith said. “This is for the medicines. And there should be some over to buy extra provisions. I’ll find someone to come and help you.”

  “No need to worry yourself about help,” Aethel said.

  “Aethel—” Judith’s eyes swept the squalid hut “—there is every need.”

  “Nay, lass. Leofric is to be allowed to return. He said so.”

  Judith stared blankly at the herbalist.

  “Baron’s brother,” Aethel enlightened her. “I wouldn’t mind if he were our lord, would you?” Aethel sniggered. “Pretty boys indeed! Ha!”

  Blushing crimson, Judith scooped up her basket and fled. Mocking skirls of laughter followed her down the street all the way to the edge of the forest. Not much escaped old Aethel, she thought.

  In the cool under the trees, Judith slowed to a walk, and pressed the back of her hand against her cheeks. She hoped she’d have better success deceiving Eadwold. She had to. For that was no mere laughing matter. It could mean life and death. Whose life and whose death, she could not bear to think about.

  The chime of the Compline bell had reached the outlaws in their encampment hours ago. Night was a damp, black cloak that had dropped over the forest. In her lumpy bed of bracken, Judith fought to keep her thoughts fixed on her younger brother. Saewulf had not returned. She prayed he had not been caught out. She wondered if he had seen Rannulf. She wondered what Rannulf had been doing, where he slept…

  A woody stalk was gouging holes in her shoulder. She pummelled it to a pulp. Her thoughts were arrows fixed on one target. Always they returned to Rannulf. She tried to train them back on to her brother. The coarse fibres of her cloak scratched her face. A voice inside her told her she would have to reacclimatise herself to the discomforts of living wild, and her mind settled on Rannulf once more.

  She sighed. The bracken rustled and pricked her legs. Despite everything, Rannulf had cared for her. He’d kept her safe. He’d seen that she was well fed. She missed him, and it was not just for the comforts he had provided. Did he miss her? she wondered.

  He had been asking after her in the village. But for what purpose? She rubbed her forehead. He had been asking the whereabouts of a young lad. He must know she was an outlaw. Was that why he had commanded her to go with him to the castle? She recalled the heart-warming glow in his eyes, before she’d fled. For all that he was the Baron’s brother, she could no longer believe he intended to harm her. He must have known her secret since Beaufour’s ruffians had raided the White Eagle.

  Another stalk stabbed her in the back. Viciously, she beat it down.

  Miraculously, she must have slept. For the next thing she knew her brother Saewulf was shaking her awake.

  “Judith! Shhh!” Saewulf hissed in her ear. “Say nothing. I would speak with you apart from these.” He indicated the sleeping bodies ranged about the lumpy ground.

  Silently Judith rose and followed him. The moon was up. Saewulf stopped out of earshot of the encampment.

  “I’m glad you’re safe,” Judith whispered.

  “So am I,” Saewulf admitted. “Though for a while in there, I had my doubts.”

  “How so?”

  “Your Rannulf—”

  “He is not my Rannulf!” Judith said, fiercely.

  Saewulf laid a finger on her lips. “Hush, Judith. You’ll bring Eadwold down on us. I knew Rannulf at once,” he went on. “Rannulf de Mandeville does not bear himself in his brother’s manner. He asked me to sing a ballad, and I’ll swear on the bones of our mother that he knew who I was.”

  “But how could he know?” Judith breathed. “He’s not seen you before.”

  “I’ve no idea. I didn’t think we looked that much alike, not any more. But he knew. He sat there at the top table, while I sang. And his eyes never left me for a moment. I was sweating, I don’t mind telling you. I thought he was about to denounce me. Every time he moved I thought my last moment had come. When he spoke to his brother, I told myself that the end was near. I even prayed that it would be quick.” Saewulf ran an unsteady hand through moon-bleached hair.

  “But…but…” Judith stuttered, “he did not denounce you. You would not be here if he had.”

  “No. He did not. But I cannot fathom it. He had every chance.”

  “Perhaps you were wrong. Perhaps he did not know—”

  “He knew.” Saewulf hesitated. “I can tell you one thing though. There seems to be no love lost between your Rannulf—”

  Judith made a strangled sound.

  Saewulf’s teeth flashed white when he grinned. “Sorry, sister. No love lost between Rannulf and the Baron. There’s trouble brewing in Mandeville Tower, that’s none of Eadwold’s doing. But you wouldn’t be interested in hearing about that, would you?”

  “Why not?” Judith invested her tone with a lightness she did not feel. She should not be interested, but she was. She wanted to know everything Saewulf could tell her. “Tell me.”

  Saewulf draped a heavy arm round her shoulders. “Very well. The Baron, it seems, has a weakness for wine.”

  “I knew that,” Judith said. “The day our father was murdered he could scarce keep his
seat.”

  “He has other weaknesses…”

  “Aye?”

  “Women. The Baron cannot keep away from them. His dalliance with wenches has at last driven his poor wife away.”

  “Oh?” Judith did not see how this should concern Rannulf. “Was his wife ill-favoured?”

  “Nay. I saw her once, riding through the Chase. She is as comely as you would be if…She is as pretty as you. A mite older, perhaps, but very pretty. Her name is Christina. She failed to give the Baron the heir he craves, and he’s turned to others. But it would appear that our Baron cannot father a bastard either. And ’tis not for the lack of trying—”

  “Spare me the tally of the Baron’s conquests,” Judith got in. “Tell me—”

  A twig cracked.

  Saewulf clutched at his sword. “Eadwold? Is that you?”

  “Nay, ’Tis not Eadwold.” A dark shape detached itself from the shadows of a tree. Moonlight glinted on cold steel. Judith’s own seax was fast in her hand. Her heart raced. The shape drew nearer. She’d know the set of those shoulders anywhere.

  The point of Judith’s blade wavered, and dropped. “Rannulf?” she whispered, disarmed by the mere sight of the man before her.

  “Aye. Rannulf.” His voice was clipped, and angry, but his guard was down, too. He was staring at Judith.

  Saewulf had not lowered his sword. He stepped in front of Rannulf, and raised the steel point to touch the Norman’s throat. Rannulf was not wearing his hauberk.

  “Are we betrayed?” Saewulf hissed.

  “Not by me,” Rannulf said. There was a soft thud as, deliberately, he dropped his sword. His eyes went back to Judith. “I knew him for your brother the moment he came into the hall,” he explained.

  “H…how?” she stuttered, wishing she could tear herself free of that compelling gaze. But her eyes seemed to have a will of their own, for they remained locked on him as though he were her salvation. She was unable to move. It was so good to look on him again. It felt as though it had been years rather than a day or two since she had last seen him.