Rannulf marched up to the bucket and towered over her. “Are you witless, woman?” he ground out. “Have you learned nothing?” Long fingers bit into her arms. She was hauled to her feet, and green eyes blazed into hers.
“I was rinsing the salt off,” she explained, refusing to quail before him.
“I can see that. Now get back inside,” he jerked on her arm.
Judith felt the anger rise within her. She dug in her heels. “Get your filthy hands off me! I haven’t finished.”
“You haven’t finished!” he exploded. “God’s Blood, woman! Don’t you realise the danger you are courting, roaming about like this? Would you wander about England in such a manner?”
“I…I…” Judith stuttered. She could not answer that.
“You know there are slavers in England,” Rannulf said. “There are worse here. There are people who would slit your throat just for the tunic you’re wearing. People who would…” he hesitated, and made a sound of exasperation. “Never mind. Think about it.” He glared at her. “I never asked to be saddled with getting you back home, but seeing that I have, I tell you this. You will damn well learn to do as you are told!”
Judith’s mouth set in a stubborn line.
He caught her by the chin. “And I am hereby commanding you—”
Judith made a choking sound.
“Yea, wench, you heard aright. I am commanding you, not to leave this house without Guy, Wilfred or myself as escort.”
Choked with impotent anger, Judith clenched her fists and met him glare for glare. She was dependent on him, and he knew it. But she’d never forgive him for this—Judith Coverdale, who had always prided herself on her independence, was forced to rely on a de Mandeville!
A mocking smile played across his mouth. “’Twill do you good to learn obedience,” he said. “Methinks your education has been sorely lacking in that direction.”
Judith gave a strangled oath worthy of the meanest foot-soldier, and saw Rannulf bite his lip.
“It’s not funny,” she shrieked, trembling with rage.
“I see I have not mastered your language as well as I thought. You’ve just uttered words I’ve never heard on a lady’s lips. What your education lacks in one area, it certainly makes up for in another. But whether what you have learnt has fitted you for your womanly role or not…” He shook his head.
“I could scratch your eyes out!” she cried.
“If I may counsel you,” Rannulf said coolly, “save your retribution for England. Else you will find yourself abandoned en route.”
“I’ve waited long enough,” she snapped. “A little while longer will be no hardship.”
His jaw tightened, and he tapped his sword against his legs. “Back to the cottage,” he repeated.
Judith looked longingly at the water in the bucket, and back to his implacable face. She shrugged and turned for the cottage. The morning mists had melted away already.
“Very wise, Judith,” Rannulf murmured softly. “Never start a war if you are unable to stomach defeat.”
Judith kept her tongue firmly between her teeth. His taunt rankled. For a moment she felt a pang of loss for Rannulf the huntsman. She suppressed it with an effort. Rannulf the huntsman had only ever existed in her mind. He had always been Rannulf de Mandeville, a Norman, a knight and her sworn enemy.
Chapter Five
“Where are they?” Judith worried, poking her head through the small window of the hut to stare up the path. A tight band of pain had wrapped itself round her head and was squeezing, squeezing.
“They’ll be back soon,” Sir Guy soothed, glancing up from a table littered with weapons. He was cleaning his sword, a half-empty wine-flask handy at his elbow.
Judith had forgotten yesterday’s temporary amity with this man. He looked every inch the Norman crusader, and she felt uneasy in his company.
“Stop worrying and have a drink,” he said.
“I’m not worrying,” Judith denied, too quickly. “’Tis merely that my head aches.”
Sir Guy gave an infuriating smile, and held out the bottle. “Sorry, no cup,” he apologised.
Judith grasped the neck of the flask. “My thanks,” she said, and drained it like a man.
There was a moment’s startled silence, and Judith realised she had blundered. She was not in the Chase with Eadwold’s men…
“Leave me some, wench,” Sir Guy said, mild amusement colouring his voice. “Are all Saxon maids such lusty drinkers?”
The wine was sweet and pleasant-tasting. It warmed her insides and eased the crushing band round her head. Sir Guy looked more human when his dark face was lit with laughter.
“Waiting! Waiting!” Judith complained sourly. “Ever since I was brought here, all I’ve been able to do is wait.” She reached for one of the daggers on the table. “Here, I can help you with that. Please, let me. There’s no danger I’ll blunt the blade. I know what I’m doing.”
“So I see,” Sir Guy said thoughtfully, watching the easy competence with which she handled the weapon.
Judith’s stomach cramped as she remembered who she was, and who he was. She flung the dagger down with a clatter. “What am I doing?” she groaned.
“Helping me, in order to pass the time,” Sir Guy smiled.
“Nay. I should not be helping you to maintain your weapons.”
Sir Guy frowned. “Ah, I have it. I had forgot. I am of that despised race…”
“Aye. A Norman,” she said bitterly, hand propped on her chin.
Sir Guy dangled the dagger she had dropped from two large fingers. “You need not cavil at cleaning this,” he told her.
“Why?”
“’Tis Wilfred’s. He is Saxon.”
Judith’s jaw sagged. “But…but how can that be? His hair is cropped Norman fashion…”
Sir Guy gave a broad grin. “That signifies nothing,” he said. “’Tis too hot here for your flowing Saxon tresses. Not many Saxons sport that style now. It belongs to the days before Hastings. Don’t frown, wench. That’s all in the past, long forgotten—”
“Not by some it isn’t,” she said sourly.
Her companion held out the wine-flask. “Here, have another drink, your face has gone all pinched.”
“Sir Guy—”
“Guy,” he said, lifting a corner of his mouth. “Any maid who drinks with me like that must call me Guy.”
Judith stared at the large hand holding the bottle. He had a rough charm that made it very difficult to take against him. There was something oddly innocent about his willingness to accept her. It would be churlish to refuse him.
She reached for the flask. “My thanks, Guy,” she murmured.
For a few minutes there was harmonious silence in the cottage while they worked.
“I wish I had gone with the others,” Judith sighed, looking up from her task. “I would like to have seen Limassol.”
“It was for your own safety that you had to remain here,” Guy reminded her.
“Aye, but I would liked to have seen the market—”
“I should have thought you’d seen enough of that market!”
Judith shuddered. “That’s true, but it would not be the same with R—” she corrected herself “—with you all to escort me.”
“There’s not much to see,” Guy said. “A few houses, narrow streets, all festering in the sun like a midden in August! You’re not missing much. There’s a Byzantine fort, a church or two, and that’s about it.”
Judith was not mollified. “Aye, but you have seen it. You are a man and thus free to wander where you will. But I cannot. I must wait, wait, wait.”
“Had Rannulf not seen you in the market, you would be doing more than waiting now, little one,” Guy reminded her.
Judith shivered. “Aye, ’tis better to be here,” she admitted. “Oh, Guy, I wish I had been born a man! Then—”
Guy threw back his head and guffawed. “I would not wish that on yourself,” he said.
“Why not
? I would be able to do as I wish. You would not have prevented me from going into Limassol had I been a man.”
Guy’s brown eyes met hers. “’Tis not without dangers for them there,” he said soberly.
“I don’t understand.”
“Cyprus is a crossroads, a place where conflicting cultures meet. What would you give for Rannulf’s chances should he happen to meet a Jew or Moslem who knew someone in one of the cities sacked by the crusaders?”
“S…sacked by the crusaders?” Her eyes widened.
“Aye. A chastening thought isn’t it? Cities destroyed by the armies meant to free them. When Jerusalem fell, none of the inhabitants were left alive. It was a massacre. A bloody massacre. I shall never forget it.”
Guy’s eyes were directed at Judith, but she could tell he was not seeing her. He was focused on some inner vision so terrible that his eyes had gone dead. His voice had lost its rich tones. He upended the flagon, and downed the contents, grimacing as though the wine had soured.
“There was nothing we could do to prevent it,” he said. “The world went mad. Blood lust. Streets ran with gore. Children screamed in terror. Mothers with tiny babes…The Holy City was Hell itself.”
He rubbed his face. “We all bear scars from that day’s work.” His brown eyes focused again. “Do you think Rannulf and Wilfred will be looked on kindly by any Jew or Moslem they should meet?”
Judith swallowed.
“They will not know that Wilfred would have died to stop a Jewish child being killed,” he said. “They will not know how Rannulf ended up fighting fellow crusaders in a futile attempt to stop the carnage.” He gulped down more wine. “All it takes is a little knife in a dark alley when no one is looking, and they have their revenge. Nay, lass, you’re safer here.”
Judith looked at the glittering weapons. “They’ve not gone unarmed?” She had to ask.
“No.”
Judith had an empty feeling in her stomach. Her headache was back. She looked at the loaf which lay to one side of the table, knowing it would not satisfy her. It was not hunger that gnawed her insides. She was worried. Heaven help her, she was worrying about a Norman! And a Saxon. She must not forget Wilfred. She wondered what he was like. Whether his family had ever known hers. How he had come to be in the company of Norman crusaders…
Carefully, she replaced Wilfred’s newly sharpened blade on the wooden board and moved back to her post by the window.
Two men were walking slowly up the narrow sandy track that followed the coast from the town. “They’re back!” she cried. The ache dissolved. She wrenched open the door.
Rannulf was laughing. He looked young, and handsome and carefree. But the moment his eyes fell on Judith, his smile faded. She shrivelled up inside to see the effect the sight of her had on his face, and the words of welcome died on her lips.
“Couldn’t wait for your new clothing, I see.” He tossed a large bundle at her. “Go and put something decent on. You look like a tinker in my tunic. ’Tis too short on you. Guy! Over here.” He jerked his head in the direction of the upturned boat, and strode off without a backward glance.
Judith backed into the hut and threw the bundle on to the bed. She fumbled at the ties. Her mouth dropped open. She drew out a gown of rich azure. It was fashioned from the softest silk, fine quality, yet not so delicate that she would be afraid of wearing it. Her pulse quickened. There was an under-robe, with embroidery on the bodice, some sandals, and more…
Judith’s eyes misted. Confused, she looked towards the door. He had chosen colours which would suit her well. Such garments could not have been picked out at random, for all that he’d thrown them at her. Her throat closed up. How often in the Chase had she longed for just such attire? What irony that she should be forced to accept them now from the blood-stained hands of a de Mandeville…
She remembered how relieved she had been to see him walk safely up the path with the Saxon, Wilfred. She cared for him even though he was her enemy.
Judith sighed. She must repress her feelings. They could only lead to disaster, and the sooner she accepted that, the happier she would be. Another secret to keep to herself. She gave a sad little smile, remembering Rannulf’s scornful gaze when he had thrown the garments at her. It was going to be easier to keep her secret if he went on turning that cold, unresponsive face towards her.
She forced her attention back to her bundle. He had provided three gowns, all with under garments. The azure one, one of a deep sea-green, and another wine-coloured one. What was this? Judith picked up a veil and stared at it in dismay. She had never worn one. She did not even know how to secure it. A copper circlet rolled out on to the floor. With that?
Wilfred, the blond crusader, was first through the door. “You look fine, my lady,” he said.
“Thank you…Wilfred,” Judith smiled. She looked at Rannulf, but his face registered nothing at all.
“What about the veil?” Rannulf demanded.
“I…I need some help securing it,” she confessed.
“Can’t you manage it yourself?” He lifted a disparaging brow.
“I suppose you would say ’tis yet another aspect of my education that has been missed,” Judith answered, nettled.
“Rannulf,” Wilfred chided. “A lady should have maid to help her. Judith has none here. I will gladly act as lady’s maid for her—” Rannulf’s face darkened “—at least as far as her veil is concerned. She seems able to manage the rest herself, unfortunately.” Wilfred grinned. Judith smiled weakly back, noticing that Wilfred’s eyes were as blue as her own. They sparkled.
Rannulf began sorting the weapons on the table.
“Will you permit me, my lady?” Wilfred asked courteously, taking the veil.
“Th-thank you, Wilfred.” Judith stared at Rannulf’s back.
“How does that feel? The circlet is not too tight?” Wilfred stepped back to admire his handiwork.
Judith shook her head, and felt the unaccustomed weight of the veil trailing behind her. Wilfred’s gaze was too bold, it made her flush.
“You are beautiful, my lady,” the Saxon told her.
A weapon thudded into the dirt. Rannulf swore. His head was averted and he did not appear to have been watching them. But he had been—Judith knew it.
“Don’t you think she looks as fine as your lady mother, Rannulf?” Wilfred asked.
Judith’s heart missed a beat.
“Aye,” Rannulf said softly. “She does.”
Guilt seized her. She found she could not meet Rannulf’s eyes, and bent her head. Rannulf did not know that his mother was dead. She could not keep it from him, she realised that now. He must be told. But it would not be easy. She saw Guy reach for a wine-flask, and slump back on to his bench. Wilfred’s bright blue eyes had not moved from her face. She darted a glance at Rannulf, and saw that closed, unreachable look had settled on his face. He turned back to the weapons.
She could not tell him here in front of everyone. But how to get him on his own? He looked bent on ignoring her.
Giving Rannulf one last considering glance, Judith favoured Wilfred with a dazzling smile. “’Tis very pleasant to be with a fellow Saxon again,” she said. “Please tell me how you came to be here. I’m interested in learning more about you.”
Out of the tail of her eye she saw Guy throw her an unmistakable glance of disapproval. She lifted her nose.
“Sweet lady.” Wilfred bowed. “If you would walk with me outside, I shall tell you all you wish to know.”
So far so good, Judith thought. With her head held high, she strode to the door. Her feet, unused to the restrictions of a skirt, tangled in the folds of her gown. She clutched at the nearest thing for support. It was Wilfred’s arm.
“S…sorry,” she mumbled, cheeks flaming.
“I’ve got you,” Wilfred grinned, and opened the door. His eyes were very warm.
The last thing she noticed before the sunlight warmed her skin was that Rannulf’s hand was white on the hilt of his
sword.
With her hand still resting on Wilfred’s arm, Judith pretended to listen as Wilfred began to talk. Her ploy had succeeded in getting one of Rannulf’s friends away from him. While Wilfred’s words floated over her head, she considered how to get Guy out of the hut. Perhaps it would be easiest if she simply asked Wilfred to call Guy out to the beach. Then Rannulf would be on his own. And then…and then she could go in and break the news to him.
Suddenly Wilfred swung round, and his bright eyes stared right into hers.
Judith frowned. He was too close.
“You haven’t heard any of that, have you, Judith?” Wilfred asked.
“I am sorry, Wilfred,” Judith smiled. “I did hear you are known as Wilfred of Loidis. But Wilfred…there is something I have to ask you. ’Tis important—”
“My family hails from the North,” Wilfred cut in.
Judith stifled a sigh. “Aye,” she said. “Our fathers probably fought together at Hastings. But Wilfred—”
“Nay, Judith,” he interrupted again. “’Twas my grandfather who was at Hastings. He died there. My father was but a boy of ten, and my grandmother had to lock him up to keep him from following his father. As for the rest, ’tis a common enough tale, and very like your own.”
“Except that you abdicated the rights you were born with,” Judith said, without thinking. “Wilfred—”
“Lady, I was born with no title,” Wilfred was on the defensive. “No estate. ’Twas an unequal battle between land-hungry warriors, and a small boy of ten. My father never had a chance. By the time of my birth my father was yet another dispossessed Saxon harper. I count myself lucky to have befriended the young son of a Norman lord in one of the halls we played in.”
Judith’s interest quickened. She’d ask him to call Guy in a minute. “Rannulf?” She kicked at a shell with the sole of her sandal.
“Aye.”
“So that’s why he speaks English so well! You taught him!”
Wilfred nodded. “’Twas no betrayal for me to befriend him. When my father grew to manhood, his lands were already gone. If it had not been for Rannulf’s friendship and support, I would have remained a travelling minstrel. Now I am become a knight—” he lowered his voice and put a hand on her arm “—and until now I have never felt the slightest inclination to cross swords with Rannulf.”
Leaves on the Wind Page 12
