Leaves On The Wind. Carol Townend
“Hold me tight. It hurts less when you hold me.”
Judith made to pull him down beside her. She could feel his body stiffen, resisting her. “What’s the matter? Rannulf?”
“’Tis not seemly,” came his stiff reply.
“Not seemly?” Judith was astounded. “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. You are not like that.”
“Judith, I must tell you—”
“Just hold me. Please, Rannulf. I hurt so.” He heard the quaver in Judith’s voice and capitulated.
Leaves on the Wind
Carol Townend
MILLS & BOON
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CAROL TOWNEND
is a Yorkshire woman whose nineteenth-century fore-bears were friendly with the Brontë sisters. Perhaps this fact had something to do with the passion for the past that led her to a history degree at London University, and on, eventually, to writing historical novels.
Widely traveled, Carol Townend has explored places as diverse as North America and Sri Lanka, Mexico and the Mediterranean. When not taking refuge from the modern world by reading historical novels or writing her own, she loves to escape to the deep countryside.
Carol Townend lives with her copywriter husband and young daughter near Kew Gardens.
Contents
Prologue
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