“And your mouth is bleeding,” Rannulf noticed irritably.
Judith could not meet his gaze. “I…I hit the wall of the building,” she said.
Sir Guy snorted.
To Judith’s intense relief, Rannulf loosed her, and shifted his attention to his compatriot.
“My thanks, Guy. I will not forget this, I swear it,” he said warmly.
Judith hunched her shoulders. Why should she care that a Norman should smile on his friend, and only have a scowl for her?
“We’ve no time to spare.” Guy had switched to French.
Judith strained to make out the words. She understood a little of the tongue; she’d made it her business to learn. Her elder brother, Eadwold, had derided her for her efforts, but she and Saewulf had ignored Eadwold’s taunts and had learned as much as they could, believing that one day their knowledge would be useful to their cause. And so it had proved, for Saewulf’s skill with a harp and knowledge of Norman French had brought them valuable information.
“We must make haste—” Sir Guy was urging them to the sea “—for if we are caught, our crusader’s crosses will not grant us immunity from justice. Come, the boat waits here.”
Judith sat in the stern of the small craft, and nursed her cut feet. Her hands were in no better case, for they were stiff and swollen. The two men had an oar each and they rowed steadily. Judith could no longer see Balduk’s House, or the promontory—already they must have crossed the bay. Rubbing her injured feet, Judith observed her companions.
She had seen that Guy Lambert was taller than Rannulf. He was stockily built. His thick, black hair kept blowing in his eyes. The waxing moon did not give enough light for her to see his features in great detail, but she could see those dark eyes were watching her with as much attention as she was giving him. Rannulf too had his eyes on her. Judith looked at her feet.
Sir Guy muttered something to Rannulf and laughed.
Judith stiffened, for Sir Guy had spoken so softly, she’d not been able to make him out.
“Alas, Guy!” Rannulf responded clearly, in English. Slackening his hold on the oar, he placed a hand over his heart and hung his head in an attitude of dejection. “I am rejected.”
Judith stiffened. If he wanted to mock her, she’d not give him the satisfaction of seeing that she minded…
Rannulf resumed rowing. “We must converse in English, Guy—” he added “—for she does not speak our vile language.”
“She knows everything?” Sir Guy’s voice was sharp. “You have told her?”
Judith frowned. Unlike Rannulf, Sir Guy’s accent was very marked. It was obviously as difficult for him to speak English as it was for her to understand him. She found it easier when he spoke in French. Intending to spare them both the trouble, Judith opened her mouth to admit that she spoke French.
But Rannulf was there before her. “She knows that I am Norman,” he said, placing such unusual stress on the last word, that Judith’s suspicions were aroused. She clamped her teeth together, as it dawned on her that it might be to her advantage to keep her fluency in French a secret.
But Rannulf had seen she had something to say, and was waiting for it. She blurted the first thing that came into her head. “What else should I know? Is there more you haven’t told me? More lies? More deceit?”
Guy Lambert let out a slow whistle and fixed his gaze on a distant point on the horizon.
Rannulf’s laugh sounded forced. “What else could there be? What could be worse than you being forced to accept help from Normans?”
Rannulf’s friend was shaking his head. Judith saw Rannulf dig him sharply in the ribs. There was something else. She was sure of it. Something terrible. She lifted her head. She did not want to know. She had had enough. Let them keep their sordid secrets.
“I care nothing for your stupid riddles,” she declared. “God has seen fit to provide me with you as my means of escape, and I must bow to His will. But I do not wish to know any more about you. I will repay you somehow, you need not be concerned about that.”
“I’m not,” Rannulf said tersely.
“God, Rannulf, the things you drag me into!” Sir Guy muttered.
Rannulf shot his friend a venomous glance. Judith’s frown deepened.
Unexpectedly, Guy Lambert laughed. “Oh, have it your own way, Rannulf. I’ll let you untangle your own affairs.”
“For that mercy, I thank you,” Rannulf said drily. He noticed Judith’s feet. “Judith? What are you doing?”
“Nothing.” Hastily Judith tucked her feet back under her gown.
“Here, Guy, take both oars.” Their vessel rocked and Rannulf was at Judith’s side.
He was too close. She could smell the fragrance of rosemary above the briny tang of the sea. She fixed her eyes on a fire someone had lit on the shore.
Rannulf yanked at her skirts.
“Rannulf!” She shifted on her seat and the skiff keeled wildly to one side. “You’ll have us over!” she cried.
“’Twas you who moved, my maid,” Rannulf said calmly. “Now show me your feet.”
“Only if you’ll leave my gown alone.”
He grinned. He had hold of one of her ankles. He pulled, gently.
Judith let him draw her feet from their hiding place. He ran his hands over them. Judith winced. She watched his lowered head. Her throat felt tight. She heard him swear. The wind blew a lock of hair across his eyes. He shook it away and looked directly into her face. Judith noticed his hands were dark and wet. She braced herself for more mockery.
“Where are your shoes?” he demanded, dipping his hands into the sea to wash them.
“I haven’t any. They gave me some in that…that prison, but I wouldn’t wear them. They were too flimsy to have been of any use—”
“Why would you not wear them? Surely even flimsy shoes would have been better than no shoes at all?”
Judith opened her mouth, but Rannulf placed his hand over her lips. It was cool and tasted of salt from the sea.
“Nay,” Rannulf sighed. “Pray don’t tell me. I don’t wish to hear any more of your convoluted female reasoning. We’ll get you new sandals tomorrow.”
“And some clothes,” Sir Guy put in. “She can’t walk about in those, they’d be bad enough even if they weren’t torn to shreds.”
“Shreds?” Aghast, Judith stared down at her dress.
The all but transparent silk was ripped at the waist. The rope must have torn it during her hasty descent from Balduk’s House. Hot with embarrassment, Judith put her hands over the tear, and clutched the edges together.
“Guy, did you bring my cloak?” Rannulf asked.
“Under the transom.” Sir Guy was intent on the shoreline, and a frown had gathered on his face.
Rannulf retrieved his cloak and wrapped it about Judith’s shoulders.
“My thanks,” she forced the words out.
“Lady, ’tis my pleasure.” Rannulf ran a long finger gently down her cheek. The boat tipped, and he was back in his place.
Sir Guy muttered something in that rapid French that Judith could not make out. Rannulf’s head jerked round. They were staring at the lights wavering up and down along the edge of the sea.
“What is it?” Judith asked. “It looks like a procession.”
Rannulf’s friend replied. “Torches. But that is no procession. Could Judith’s absence have been established so soon, Rannulf?”
“Aye. It could,” Rannulf answered curtly.
Judith broke in. “There was another man, a Greek merchant. He wanted…that is…” Judith floundered, suddenly unable to finish her explanation, or meet the dark eyes of the Norman knight. She gazed miserably at the bottom of the boat.
“My God, Rannulf!” Sir Guy exclaimed. “I see now why you were in such haste to buy her out. From what you told me I gathered that she had become a slave—but the truth is they were making her into a wh…”
“Quiet!” Rannulf hissed, head turned towards the torches on the shore.
“They’ve not seen us yet. Do you want them to hear us?”
“But, Rannulf,” Guy Lambert protested. “’Tis only W—”
“Guy—” Rannulf’s voice held an unmistakable note of warning “—be silent.”
Sir Guy shrugged, but he shut his mouth.
Rannulf’s teeth shone like pearls in the moonlight. Judith could see his eyes gleaming. He looked as though he was enjoying himself. How could he? She glanced at his companion. Sir Guy did not look unduly perturbed either. The two Normans were handling the oars as calmly and steadily as the ferryman on the river at home.
A small, hard, ball of fear formed in Judith’s stomach. She sat still as stone. She was not like them. She was afraid.
The oars dipped. Water splashed. The boat surged forward. Judith gripped the side of the skiff. Rannulf and Sir Guy exchanged smiles. Perhaps the years they had spent on crusade had given them immunity from fear…
Wishing she had a tenth of their courage, Judith shrank down into her seat. She was not afraid for her life. It was not that that was turning her stomach. A veil suddenly lifted in Judith’s mind. Her freedom was at stake, her independence. She could not live without her freedom. And God had sent two Normans to give it back to her. God had done a strange thing, sending her deliverance in the form of these two men, when it was their race who oppressed her people.
Judith began to pray. She’d not done that in years. Not since the day her father…
She prayed for their safety. She prayed for her freedom. She prayed that Rannulf…that they should all…be safe. She prayed that the moon should go out, so that the dark, velvety night might cloak them from sight.
The lights on the shore danced up and down. They were keeping abreast with the boat. Rannulf saw them and gave a grim smile. The oars splashed in and out, with relentless regularity. They were going as fast as they could, but the flickering lights kept level.
“I think they’ve seen us,” Judith hissed.
“Not far now,” Sir Guy told her.
“But look!” Judith pointed. “They’re only a slingshot away! If we disembark so near, they’ll be bound to find us.”
Rannulf gave her a long, considering look.
Their craft was nearing a rocky outcrop.
“This is the place,” Sir Guy announced.
“Nay! Not here! We’ll be seen!” Judith craned her neck anxiously in the direction of the torches. “We need more cover!” Deaf to all but her pounding heart, her eyes measured the distance between their skiff and the torches.
Sir Guy turned a sombre face on his comrade-in-arms. He cleared his throat. “Rannulf, this does not seem right to me,” he mumbled. “You should not do this. The poor maid has suffered enough.”
Rannulf gave a short laugh. “You said you would leave it to me to untangle my affairs, Guy,” he said.
“Aye, so I did. But this is downright cruel. You should—”
“What—?” Judith began.
There was a dull thud as the rope-bound side of the skiff hit the rock. Two oars clanged on to the boards.
“No, not here!” she whispered wildly.
She should have saved her breath. Rannulf was out and standing on firm ground before the words were out of her mouth. He put a steadying hand on the side of the skiff. “Come on, Judith. Out you come,” he said. His white robe flapped in the breeze.
Guy Lambert heaved a sigh and shook his thatch of hair. His dark eyes found Judith’s. “You are safe now,” the Norman said kindly. He proffered an arm to assist her ashore. A mailed arm.
Judith stared wide-eyed at the Norman knight. She sensed Sir Guy was angry, but not with her. To her astonishment, she discovered she felt no hate towards him. On the contrary, there was something intensely reassuring about him. She put her hand in his.
Sir Guy tossed a scowl at Rannulf, and made as if to speak.
“Guy! My affair,” Rannulf said, tightly. He snatched Judith’s hand from Sir Guy’s. “Not one word, if you value our friendship.”
Judith flinched at the violence in his tone. Rannulf hauled on her arm. Judith’s foot caught on the side of the skiff and she sprawled full-length at his feet, gasping like a beached fish.
“Judith? I’m sorry.” Rannulf touched her shoulder. His voice softened. “But we must hurry.”
Judith nodded and struggled to stand. A thousand tiny blades stabbed at her feet. She bit back a groan, and tried to stand firm.
“Would you permit a Norman to assist you?” Rannulf asked.
“I…I thank you. My feet are cut.”
“Aye, I know.”
She saw him smile down at her. Her heart gave a little flutter, and she had almost smiled back before she had herself in hand again.
“I realise you would not dream of accepting my help if you could possibly avoid it,” Rannulf said conversationally. He reached for her. “Put your arms round my neck. Aye, that’s it.”
Judith felt a warm tide of colour flood her cheeks. She angled her head away from his gaze, and prayed he would not notice.
Rannulf swung her up, and began picking his way across the rocks. Judith could feel his mail shirt beneath his robe; she could smell rosemary again, could feel his breath on the side of her face. She gritted her teeth.
Rannulf’s athletic body bore her effortlessly along, and soon they had reached the sand beyond the stony outcrop. They were in tiny, natural harbour. The shore sloped gently upwards, and strung out along it were a handful of lime-washed huts. A couple of small craft similar in size and design to their own skiff, floated empty in the bay.
Where had those flickering lights gone? Judith could not see any sign of the torchbearers who had followed their progress from the distant point.
Something brushed Judith’s ear. Something which made her ear tingle. She shook her head as though brushing off a fly. “Put me down, Rannulf,” she said.
“Still alive, then, my Saxon princess?” Rannulf’s murmur went right through her. He did not put her down.
“Wh…what?”
“I thought you would surely be dead by now.” He used his teasing voice.
“Dead?”
“Aye. Did you not know? A Norman is so poisonous a creature, the slightest contact with one will kill you. And you have been in my arms, fair damsel, for so long that you should be well and truly slain.” He grinned.
She bit back a smile. She was hard put not to respond. “Put me down, you wretch,” she repeated. She must remember she ought to hate him, must remember she owed her loyalty to her brother Eadwold and his cause.
“One moment.” Rannulf’s arms tightened around her. He marched to the door of one of the white houses. Guy was before them, holding wide the door.
“What about those lights? Won’t they search here?” Judith asked.
Sir Guy pressed his lips together. Rannulf’s face darkened. He looked meaningfully at his fellow crusader and pushed past him. “We are safe from pursuit now,” Rannulf said. “These billets are protected. Believe me.”
Judith found herself on a rickety wood-framed bed in a corner of the hut. A sputtering tallow candle gave a mean light, but it was enough to show that they were in a simple one-roomed cottage. It was sparsely furnished. There was a large well-scrubbed table, and two rough benches. The blackened hearth was set to one side, and a large cauldron dangled over it from a metal hook. Judith had been set down on the only bed. Its coverlet scratched her skin.
A sudden rush of tears closed Judith’s throat This humble cottage put her in mind of another one-roomed house. That one had been made of wood. It had burnt faster than a forest fire. She could not tell what this house was made from, for the walls were entirely covered in plaster and grimy lime-wash.
“’Tis not as luxurious as the scented splendour you have become used to,” Rannulf said, casting a critical eye around the chamber.
Sir Guy had a flagon of wine and was pouring the contents down his throat.
“It looks beautiful to me,” Judith assured him. Her vo
ice came out all husky. “I’m not a slave here.”
“No. You’re no slave,” Rannulf agreed.
Guy Lambert made a strangled, coughing sound.
A muscle clenched in Rannulf’s jaw “Guy, do you have to drink like a hog after a drought?”
Sir Guy grinned, unrepentant, and winked.
Judith was puzzled. Why was Rannulf so angry with his friend? It made no sense that she could see. Sir Guy had helped him. Judith was conscious of a sudden chill. Rannulf was keeping something from her. She stared at him, but his green eyes were guarded. Sir Guy obviously thought she should be told, and Rannulf was having none of it.
“Pray excuse our rough soldiers’ manners,” Rannulf said, stiffly. “When we chose our lodgings, we did not think we would be sharing them with a woman. But they are cleaner than most. We poor knights have learnt to live without luxuries.”
“This is luxury compared to what I have at home—” Judith could have bitten her tongue out. She did not want to give her brother away, not to a Norman.
“At home,” Rannulf murmured, looking thoughtful. He walked back to the bed. It sagged and creaked in protest as he sat beside her. “Now we have time, Judith, you could tell me how you have been living since I last saw you in the Chase. Where is your home? In another village?” Idly, he picked up her hand. “And tell me about these brothers of yours. I recall you have two of them.”
Judith took back her hand, gathered Rannulf’s cloak more tightly about her, and stared stolidly at her feet. She longed to tell him everything. She’d never felt like that about anyone, except perhaps her younger brother. But how could she ever confide in Rannulf? How could she possibly relate to him everything she had seen and done since that autumn day four years ago?
She thought of all the raids she had witnessed. Of all the Normans robbed. Of all the Normans killed—for Eadwold did not shrink to murder now. Judith had never killed, but the saints had been on her side. She had often wondered whether she could actually kill anyone. Saewulf had ensured that Judith always remained in the rear of any attack they made. She knew how to use a sling, and a bow. But any fighting she had done had been purely defensive, and always, when she had been hard pressed, Saewulf had appeared. So she had not killed.
Leaves on the Wind Page 9
