He freed his mouth. His eyes mirrored some inner confusion. “Stay as you were? What do you mean?”
Judith felt the blood drain from her face. Again, she had almost betrayed her dark secret. For her brothers’ sakes, if not her own, she must guard her tongue.
She glared at him and took refuge in a torrent of angry words. “How would you like it if all you could do was sit around while others decided your fate?”
“Judith, you spoil your beauty by scowling. I am trying to help you.”
Judith relented. She gave a strained smile. “I know. And I thank you for it. But it is so very hard to have to wait, and not actually do anything for myself.”
“You will have to trust me,” he grinned.
“Aye.”
“Not as easy as you thought, Judith?” he taunted.
She met him stare for stare. “What other route is open to me?” She lifted her shoulders in what she hoped was a careless shrug. “I shall have to try and trust you, since there is nothing else I may do.”
“A gracious reply, lady,” Rannulf said with heavy irony.
Her cheeks burned. He was right. She was an ungracious wench.
The door rattled. Someone was trying to get in.
Rannulf swung his legs over the side of the couch. “Have faith in me.”
Judith bent her head. She grabbed for his hand, and clung like a limpet. Her throat felt tight and she could not see for the tears.
Rannulf looked down at her blonde head, at the small hand holding him fast, and sighed. When he tried to free himself, and walk to the door, she let out an inarticulate cry and clung all the harder. She would not look at him.
“Judith,” he said softly. He steeled himself, and moved to the door, towing her behind him. He drew back the iron bolt.
Judith knew she must let go, but her fingers would not obey her. They had surely frozen, and would crack like broken icicles if she moved them. She could see the dazzling white of his robe through a mist of tears. She wondered where her pride had gone. She swallowed. In this place, pride did not seem so great a treasure.
Rannulf was leaving. She must accept it. Then he had prised his hand free.
Judith dug her nails into her palms, thrust her arms firmly behind her back, and pinned a false smile on her face.
Rannulf had a lop-sided grin for her, but she knew he was not fooled.
“I’ll be back. I swear it,” he promised. He kissed her lightly on the forehead, and before she had time to lose face again, the door clanged behind him with awful finality.
Her eyes stung. The door blurred. Something hot ran down her face, and it was only then that she realised she was crying. She flung back her head, but the tears continued to stream down her cheeks. Eadwold’s sister did not cry. What was it about Rannulf that always reduced her to tears?
She groped blindly for the couch. She thumped down on it and dashed the scalding tears away. She must not give in to this weakness.
Never before had she felt quite like this—so hopeless, so utterly alone. Not even when she had been snatched from the Chase by the slavers. That was a riddle she could not understand. She racked her brains for its answer.
She caught her breath, dimly perceiving why she was so upset. Rannulf had given her hope. When the slavers had taken her, there had been no hope. They had filled her with drugs that had sapped her will. The lack of will had resigned her to her fate. But Rannulf was giving her a chance to snatch at her freedom. The relief was almost too much to take.
She dabbed at the wetness on her face. Her hand was trembling. She took a firm hold of herself. She’d weep no more. She would not let herself wallow in misery because Rannulf had given her hope.
It must be the enforced inactivity that was affecting her. The window beckoned and Judith jumped up and strode across to it. A seagull swooped high above a shining sea. Envying the bird its freedom, Judith curled up on the window-seat to watch the arcs and curves of its flight through the warming air. She would learn to wait. She must pretend to be a slave woman now.
Some minutes later she heard a movement behind her. She swung round.
It was Zoe. Behind her a young boy padded in holding a tray laden with fruit and stoppered glass bottles. Zoe waved him to the table.
The boy wore earrings—gold pendants which swung as he moved. He cleared the debris of the meal Judith had shared with Rannulf, and left the room as silently as a wraith.
Zoe’s smile was knowing. “You decided to be sensible, Judith. I am glad for your sake.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Your patron. He was very pleased with you. He wishes to be with you again tonight.”
Judith shut her eyes to conceal her relief. “Aye,” she whispered. “Thank God.” She cleared her throat. She must sound more confident, she was unconvincing even to her own ears.
But Zoe had noticed nothing amiss. “Eat.” The bracelets jingled in the direction of the fruit. “You must be hungry after your…exercise.”
Judith gritted her teeth. She hated that sly smile. It made Zoe’s face ripe for slapping.
Zoe headed for the door. “When you’ve eaten, come to the bathhouse. There is more you must know.”
“More?”
Zoe smiled.
Judith’s palm itched.
“You don’t want a baby, do you, Judith?” Zoe asked softly.
Judith’s jaw dropped.
Zoe ignored her reaction. “I will explain how you can avoid it. And in return…”
“Aye?”
“In return you can tell me some of your secrets,” Zoe sniggered “They are obviously worth knowing.”
“Secrets? What do you mean?”
“Don’t be coy. What you know will be invaluable to this house. Balduk has often wondered how to attract the Frankish crusaders. They don’t normally patronise this house. But with you to teach us their…preferences, that could all change.”
Judith knew the disgust she felt must be plastered all over her face. But she must not arouse Zoe’s suspicions. She affected calmness and reached for some fruit. “What are those called again, Zoe?” she asked.
“Oranges.” Zoe lowered her voice. “With Jerusalem won, many Frankish knights will be travelling home via Cyprus. Balduk wishes to make the most of it. With your guidance we can all learn how to please men like your Norman knight.”
Judith’s hand froze over the fruit-bowl.
“N…Norman knight? What on earth do you mean?” Her ears must be deceiving her.
“Your recent…er…friend,” Zoe said, happily oblivious to the effect of her words. “He may have thought he was disguising himself by wearing those robes, but he didn’t convince Balduk. Balduk knows a Norman when he sees one.”
“But he’s not Norman! He’s Saxon, and he’s certainly no knight!” Judith exclaimed. “What does Balduk know about the differences between Saxon and Norman?”
“He knew you for a Saxon,” Zoe pointed out, unconcerned. She spread her hands. Her palms were richly decorated with henna. “Besides, the man spoke French. Judith, it matters little to Balduk whether he’s a Norman or a Saxon—they’re all Franks to us. And if you appeal to their barbaric tastes, that is good enough.” Zoe’s pretty face held an expression of boredom which she did not trouble to hide.
“But it matters to me! It matters very much!” Judith cried.
She spoke to an empty room.
Her mind reeled. She did not believe it, would not believe it…
She dragged in a breath. She could smell Zoe’s heavy, cloying perfume. She looked at the tray of food. Both proofs that Zoe had been there. Proof that Judith had not dreamed it.
Rannulf—a Norman? It was not possible. There was no trace of an accent in his voice. She brought the image of him to her mind, and examined it. It did not fit. It felt like a lie. Had Rannulf lied to her? He had always maintained he was Saxon. Or had he?
Judith rubbed her temples. Now she came to think, she could not recall him actually saying it.
Rannulf’s tale of bearding Baron Hugo had baffled her, but she’d not thought…
Rannulf had implied he was Saxon. He must have. He had made no attempt to prevent her ranting on about how she loathed the Norman race. She felt utterly sick.
Rannulf’s familiar image faded from her mind. It re-emerged almost at once. She hardly recognised him. But the coldness gathering in her heart told her it was a true image.
Rannulf had not lied. He had not claimed to be Saxon. Back in the Chase, she had assumed…Her father’s murder had closed her mind to anything else…And here, in this gilded prison, she’d allowed her old assumption to blind her to the truth.
Judith’s fingers closed round a plump bunch of grapes in a dish.
“He must be Saxon!” she screamed and hurled the fruit at the wall.
The grapes made a satisfying splat as they hit the painted plaster and dropped on to the tiles. Wine-dark juice dribbled down the walls and puddled on the cold marble.
A furious storm raged round Judith’s head. “Zoe’s wrong! Balduk has made a mistake. I learned to speak French, and that does not make me Norman. Rannulf is not Norman either. He couldn’t be, he couldn’t…”
Chapter Three
“Judith, for the sake of whichever saint you Saxons pray to, do stop prowling! You make me dizzy. You’re like one of the lions in the Emperor’s menagerie,” Zoe murmured.
Even when complaining, Zoe’s voice still held a soft, musical quality. “I’m in a cage,” Judith snapped churlishly. “What else can I do, but prowl?” She took another restless turn about the chamber.
“You’ll wear out your slippers,” Zoe warned, and popped a date into her mouth.
Judith pulled up, and glared down at her footwear as if they were the cause of all her ills. They were heavily embroidered with gold thread. Tiny seed pearls had been stitched in floral patterns, against a rich garnet-coloured backing. “Slippers!” she exclaimed wildly. “You seriously think I give a damn about slippers!” The boiling turmoil inside her head made basic civility impossible.
Zoe sighed and raised her plump body with languid grace from its place among the heaped cushions. “They are lovely, Judith, and you know it,” she said. “You should not belittle the work of others so easily. Someone will have spent many hours straining their eyes to fashion them.”
Judith looked at the slippers with new eyes. “I suppose whoever fashioned these was a slave…”
“’Tis possible.”
“And you think knowing they are proofs of another woman’s slavery might make them acceptable to me?” Judith flared.
Zoe glided serenely towards the door.
Judith’s lips pursed. The complacency of the woman! “They could be the most beautiful shoes in all your Emperor’s realm, and I’d still hate them!” She kicked off the offending items as though they’d been steeped in acid. “You could clothe me in the costliest silks, and feed me on the richest meats, but if I am a slave, what good will it do me? Far better to be a ragged beggar with an empty belly, if it meant I was free!”
“If you had known real hunger and real privation you would never—”
Judith clenched her fists. “I know more about hunger and privation than you ever could, living in this pampered paradise!”
“I thought you would welcome some feminine company, Judith—” Zoe looked over her shoulder from her place by the door “—but it seems I was wrong. I pray your temper improves by the time your Norman knight returns. I cannot imagine what he sees in you. You’re an ill-tempered, sharp-tongued wench, and if I were he, I should choose another…” Zoe went out, and locked the door behind her.
Judith was indeed in a cage, in solitary confinement now. Perhaps it was better thus, she thought. Perhaps now she could try and unravel her tangled thoughts and confront the demon lurking deep in their midst.
“Norman? Norman?” she muttered. “Rannulf is Saxon. He has to be.” But however defiantly she said it, she could no longer convince herself. The seeds of doubt had been sown.
Judith wondered where her clear-thinking, decisive self had gone. She let out a bitter laugh. Perhaps she’d left it behind in Mandeville Chase. Life had not been easy in the Chase, but it had been simple. Family loyalty was all.
For her brothers’ sake she’d become an outlaw.
She’d given up all hopes of leading a normal life, and willingly, for that was the only way she could stay with her family. She’d all but forgotten she was a woman. She’d had to, living wild in the Chase. She’d not the right to inflict that life on an innocent babe. So Judith had turned her back on love. And when one or other of her brothers’ warriors had expressed an interest, she’d made it clear she’d have none of him. She couldn’t afford not to.
Judith had learnt to fight. She’d learnt to heal wounds. She’d embraced Eadwold’s cause as her own. And it had not been difficult. Had she not seen her father murdered? Had her mother not died soon after, grieving for him? It was up to her to keep what was left of their family together, to prevent them being scattered on the four winds. She’d pay any price to achieve that.
But now Judith felt uncomfortably like a travelling singer who has not learned the newest ballad. She was standing on an alien stage, the harpist had struck up, and she did not know what to do.
For a moment, with Rannulf, Judith had glimpsed…She sighed. It was not to be. Zoe’s careless words had wrecked all that.
Rannulf, a Norman knight? A member of that race she and her brothers had been fighting to destroy for four years? She might wish it otherwise, but the chill in her breast told her the truth. Zoe had not lied, and she felt as though her heart had broken.
Someone scratched on the door.
Judith started up from the couch. “Aye?” She stared with bated breath at the door. Night had flown in, blanketing all in darkness, and she’d been so lost in her thoughts that she’d not noticed. Was Rannulf here already?
But it was only the boy who had accompanied Zoe that morning. Judith sank back on to the bed. The lad held a smoking taper to the lamp. It flared into life. Strange that the boy should bother to knock. He must have had to unlock the door. They observed the formalities here, even with a slave. The youth lit the wall sconces, bowed and went out again. And all without a word. Judith shivered. There was something unnerving about a lad who never spoke.
Her ears picked up a sound from the passage. Her stomach knotted. Rannulf? Judith ran to put her ear to the door. Someone was moving down the passage towards her chamber.
She leaped back, and watched the latch move. Her skin shrank.
It was Balduk—and he was not alone. A tall, fleshy man with an eastern cast to his features made a dwarf of Balduk. The newcomer’s eyes were black as olives.
“Excellence, this is the new Saxon girl, Judith,” Balduk announced, in French. “If you want her to understand you, she speaks the Frankish tongue.” He rubbed his hands together and bowed obsequiously.
Judith saw, with startling clarity, that the stranger must be of some importance. He was wearing a magnificent cloth-of-gold tunic, weighty rings flashed on his fingers, and oily black hair was crimped into regular waves. A Greek merchant, and very rich. His dagger had a gold hilt. Judith had seen others of his ilk at the harbour, haggling over the cost of shipping out their cargoes. They’d fight like dogs over the meanest coin, and yet denied themselves nothing. He had thick lips.
Judith backed till her calves hit the table. “What do you want?” she glowered. She’d make herself as unattractive as she could. The merchant reeked of a heavy perfume, whose only virtue was that it obscured Balduk’s sickly stench.
“She has spirit,” the Greek said, doubtfully.
The man was eyeing her as though she were a rabid dog that might strike at any moment. As far as he was concerned, Judith was not a fellow human being. She was merely a commodity. Her insides dissolved. The merchant must never know how afraid she was. She curled her lips, and kept the scowl on her face. Thank Heaven they had not drugged
her again. Her hand groped behind her back.
“Aye. She does,” Balduk agreed. “A pinch too much for some to take. But I’m sure someone with as discerning a palate as you, my friend, will appreciate the spice of such a girl.”
Judith’s fingers closed round the neck of a glass bottle. Damn! Balduk had recognised the doubt in his patron’s manner, and was too clever to alienate the trader by denying his suspicions outright.
“Now just look at her colouring, Excellence,” Balduk was saying. “Most seductive. And, believe me, she is not completely unbiddable, for last night she pleased one of the Frankish crusaders.”
“Aye?” The black eyes brightened.
The trader was not using the wits he was born with. He responded too easily to Balduk’s clumsy flattery. Judith tightened her grip on the bottle. Glass was new to her, but she’d seen a girl drop a glass bottle in the bathhouse that morning. It might make some sort of a weapon…
The Greek merchant spread his fat lips across his face. “I shall sample her.” He reached for Judith’s arm.
“I wouldn’t, if I were you!” Judith warned. The blood began to pound in her head.
The two men smiled at each other. One tall, one short, and both of them larger than she was…
“You have no rights,” Balduk reminded her coldly. “I own you, every inch. Enjoy her, Giorgos.”
Giorgos smiled, and his hand closed over Judith’s arm. His nails were immensely long, a sign no doubt of his great wealth, and proof that he never had to do any manual labour himself—symbols of his status. They were yellowy-brown and she could even see little ridges on them, like furrows in a field. Judith shuddered. The nails bit deep.
“No!” Judith cried. Her head would surely burst. “What about your word? You made an agreement with the crusader! Have you no honour?”
“The Frank is late,” Balduk sneered. “Our agreement is void. You can entertain him later—if he appears.”
Leaves on the Wind Page 7
