Leaves On The Wind. Carol Townend
away a tear. She’d not cry before a stranger.
“Judith?” Rannulf’s voice came softly through the blackness.
“Aye?”
“’Tis no shame to weep.”
Judith sniffed again. A silence fell over them. She could hear the wind soughing in the branches above them.
Rannulf shook her hand. “You must rest. You will need your strength tomorrow.”
“I won’t sleep. How could I?” she asked, rousing herself with an effort to speak.
“If you cannot sleep, at least you can be rested. Come. Lie you here. And my cloak, thus. There. I will stand guard over you. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Rannulf. My thanks,” Judith whispered, and settled down into the softness of his ermine-lined cloak.
The Normans had thrust a knife in her heart. They were twisting it. The pain was not to be borne.
Judith screamed and woke. She did not know where she was. Memory flooded back. She groaned aloud.
“Judith, Judith, hush.” Warm arms enfolded her, comforting arms. Childlike, she clung.
“Rannulf?” She gave a dry sob.
“You are not alone,” he said. “Cry. ’Tis better to grieve.” Rannulf stroked her hair from her face. The gesture was oddly reminiscent of her mother.
The dam broke. Tears flooded, and streamed scalding down her cheeks. Judith did not hear Rannulf’s murmured words, did not notice the hand that caressed her. She burrowed closer into his arms. She needed comfort and here was its source.
At length the sobbing eased. Rannulf’s arms fell away.
Judith lifted her head “Hold me tight. It hurts less when you hold me.”
“Judith.” Rannulf hesitated. “’Tis late. We should sleep now.”
“Aye.” Judith made to pull him down beside her. She could feel his body stiffen, resisting her. “What’s the matter? Rannulf?” She was annoyed that he should hold back from her. She needed the comfort he gave her.
“’Tis not seemly,” came his stiff rely.
“Not seemly?” Judith was astounded. “Not seemly? 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. Normans. I wish a thousand plagues on them. You are not like that. You are no Norman.”
“Judith, I must tell you—”
“Just hold me. Please, Rannulf. I hurt so.”
Rannulf could not see Judith through the gloom, but his ears were those of a hunter. They were trained to be sensitive to the slightest of sounds. He heard the quaver in Judith’s voice and capitulated. “Very well,” he replied lightly. “If you’ll try to sleep. Give me some of that cloak; I’m freezing out here.”
Light glimmered faintly from the east. A bird high in a tree cried out a note or two of his morning song.
Judith surfaced slowly from a deep sleep. She was warm. Unconsciously, she shifted closer to the body next to hers, and hugged it to her.
Deep in the Chase a dog barked. Another bird joined in the song.
Judith lifted her head, and turned curious eyes on the reassuring presence in whose arms she lay. Rannulf was still asleep. One strong arm fitted neatly around her waist. She discovered she was holding his other hand. She had no desire to move.
A grey light seeped round the edges of the leather curtain, and Judith studied Rannulf’s features. His brown hair was wavy and tousled. He wore it shorter than either of her brothers, but longer than was favoured by the Normans. A shadow of overnight stubble marked jaw and chin. His nose was straight, lips well shaped, and slightly parted to reveal strong, white teeth. He had the tanned skin of one who had spent most of the summer out of doors. To Judith’s uncritical eyes, he looked as handsome as a prince in a harper’s tale.
Only the red mark disfigured him. Judith slipped her hand free of his. Curious, she ran her finger the length of the weal, from cheekbone to dark stubble on his chin. Though her touch had been as light as the kiss of a butterfly’s wing, his eyes opened. He smiled. Judith’s cheeks burned.
“You’ve managed to appropriate all of the cloak,” Rannulf grumbled drowsily.
His eyes were startling at close range. Fringed with long, charcoal lashes they were not pure green, but were flecked with tints of brown and gold. Judith’s stomach tightened.
“I’m sorry.” She fumbled at the heavy folds of the cloak.
“’Tis early yet,” Rannulf yawned, and reached for her. He pulled her back into his arms, as casually as though he woke every day of the week with a strange girl in his arms. “Sleep awhile longer,” he murmured lazily. “I’ll go and catch us something to eat later.”
Judith was jerked into full consciousness by a rough hand shaking her shoulder.
“Judith!” a familiar voice called. “Judith! My God, Eadwold, she’s alive!”
“Saewulf!”
Judith looked into the clean-shaven face of her nineteen-year-old brother, smiled at the relief she saw written in his blue eyes, and threw herself into his arms. The resemblance between them was very marked.
Another voice, rougher than Saewulf’s, bawled through the opening.
“Out you come, sister. Have you no greeting for your eldest brother?”
Judith scrambled out of the hide, wondering where Rannulf had gone. He must be checking his snares—he’d said he’d go and find food. She hoped the Baron would not catch him poaching.
A dazzling shaft of morning sunlight pierced through the leafy canopy and fell on her face. She blinked up into the stern features of Eadwold. She made no effort to embrace him as she had her younger, best-loved brother.
“You’re unharmed, sister?” Eadwold demanded, hands on hips. “They didn’t…hurt you, did they?”
“Nay. They didn’t even see me. I was in the Chase. Have you seen Mother? Is she safe?”
“Safe enough. We took her to the Abbey.”
“Thank God,” Judith breathed, and the black misery that had her in its grip eased a little.
Eadwold’s face darkened.
Judith’s spirits plummeted again. Her giant of a brother was gazing past her, eyes narrowed in the way she recognised meant growing anger. She turned to see the cause of his wrath.
Saewulf emerged from the shelter, Rannulf’s cloak in hand. It was on this garment that Eadwold’s eyes were fixed.
Judith could see Eadwold assessing the worth of the cloak, hazarding a guess as to the identity of its owner. It did not look like the cloak of a Saxon…
Eadwold rounded on his sister. He was scratching his beard, face like thunder. Judith’s stomach began to churn—Eadwold was best avoided when he was in one of his rages.
“So…you were not harmed, sweet sister?” Eadwold ground out. His grey eyes chilled her to the marrow. “Found yourself a protector, did you?”
“Eadwold, I—”
“What fee did he claim, this protector of yours? What was the price of your safety?”
“Eadwold, Judith is but a child,” Saewulf protested, his face echoing the dawning horror on Judith’s.
“She’s