Pencil Him In. Molly O'Keefe
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