Leaves on the Wind

by Carol Townend

  Guy mumbled something inaudible, and moved away up the sun-bleached deck.

  Judith felt herself tense. “Where’s he going?” she demanded.

  Rannulf’s lips softened. “Hasn’t had his morning’s wine ration. He’ll need it if the pirates attack.”

  Judith backed till the wooden railing cut into the small of her back. “I…I think I’ll join him,” she got out. But Rannulf was blocking her way, and her legs did not seem to want to obey her. She gripped at the rail, hoping Rannulf would not see the effect he still had on her. It was shameful. Rannulf de Mandeville. He ignored her for days, and then he only had to walk up to her and her knees did not belong to her.

  Rannulf’s eyes gleamed with what could have been triumph. “Princess, there’s no need for you to fear the Saxon pirates,” he said.

  “I don’t.” Judith tossed her head. She’d not let him see he could melt her will with a single smile. “I was merely trying to escape you, but you don’t have the sensitivity to see it.”

  “Ah, so cruel!” Rannulf said, in exaggerated accents. He clapped a hand to his heart and staggered as though reeling from a death-blow. “I meant only to reassure you. Take care, my sweet, when you reject me so cruelly, lest you find you kill my affection for you.”

  His words struck a disturbing chord in Judith’s heart. Always he mocked her. She hunched a shoulder on him, leaned over the rail, and scowled at the waters flowing past them. No doubt he realised the power he had over her, and, typical of his breed, was making the most of it.

  The ropes creaked. Rannulf’s hands closed round her waist. She shut her eyes. It felt like Heaven. It felt like Hell.

  “Not so far over the rail,” he said, his deep voice full of concern. He pulled her close.

  “You would be rid of me if I fell,” she said, eyes scanning his tanned face. The water hissed behind her.

  His grip shifted. His thigh brushed hers, and a sudden warmth rushed along her veins all the way to her toes.

  “True,” he grinned. “But consider how tedious the voyage would be. How arrogant I would become. There would be no one on board to remind me what a despicable wretch I am. No one to glare at me, or run away from me as though I were the Devil Incarnate.”

  “But Rannulf, ’tis you who have been avoiding me,” Judith protested, and immediately wished she hadn’t, for this time she had no doubt it was triumph which flashed into his eyes.

  “Ignoring you? Have I?” he asked, wide-eyed. He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. “A thousand apologies,” he murmured. “I didn’t know you cared enough to notice.”

  Judith knew she was crimson. She was shaking as though she had caught an ague. He could not fail to feel her quivering through her gown.

  She stiffened her spine. “I? Care for you? Care for what Rannulf de Mandeville does?” She gave a mocking laugh. If derision could shield her, she must use it.

  A light died in Rannulf’s eyes. His lips compressed into a thin line. He released her and moved to one side, with his hands on the rail.

  Judith felt her heart contract. She wished she could snatch back her hasty words. But she did not know how. She felt as though she’d taken a wrong turning. Eadwold’s voice rang harshly in her head. “Never let an enemy know your weakness,” it said. The day she’d trotted after her brothers into Mandeville Chase, she’d stepped on to a path of hatred. No one had coerced her. She knew that. She had elected to share her brothers’ life in the greenwood.

  She stifled a groan and stared at Rannulf’s profile. He had been the one to speed her down that path. She had followed Eadwold purely to protect Rannulf, the young poacher, from Eadwold’s wrath. Ironic that her concern for him had set her warring against his kind. Judith rubbed her aching brow. Her mind had become a labyrinth of tortured, twisting paths. She no longer knew what she thought, or which way to turn.

  A sailor brushed past them, neatly coiling a tangle of rope. If only her mind could be so easily ordered…

  Wilfred was swaggering across from the hatchway. Judith groaned.

  Rannulf followed the direction of her gaze. “Loidis hasn’t been talking to you, has he?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “Has Wilfred been behaving himself?”

  Rannulf’s voice could be as cold as the north wind. It chilled her to the bone in much the same way.

  “Aye. He says strange things, though,” she admitted.

  Rannulf stared intently at her. “Such as?”

  “He says he won’t steal your property. He meant me, and when I told him I was free, he laughed.”

  Rannulf clenched his jaw. “You are free,” he said, roughly.

  “Aye.” Judith frowned, feeling confused.

  “At least as free as any of us ever are. So, princess, if you wish to go with Loidis when we reach England, I shall not stop you.”

  Wilfred was upon them. “Judith.” The Saxon bowed.

  Rannulf’s hand clamped on hers. He lifted it, and without so much as a glance in her direction declared, “Loidis, this woman is free.”

  Rannulf loosed his grip on her hand, and marched away, leaving Judith with a coldness in her belly, and feeling as though she had been abandoned.

  “I don’t understand,” she whispered, blinking hard.

  “I think I do,” Wilfred smirked. But he did not choose to enlighten her.

  Chapter Six

  Dawn. The sun perched on the eastern edge of the world, a glowing ball that rose slowly over the dark land mass that was Crete. The sky blushed, gently at first, then violently, until a canopy of flame hung like a threat over the restless sea.

  Crete had been the last port of call safe within the boundaries of the Eastern Empire. The White Eagle was entering dangerous waters.

  Alone in the stern of the vessel, Judith shivered, and strained her eyes to catch a last glimpse of the shrinking island. The breeze was not strong, but she shrugged herself deeper into her mantle, wondering why she felt so uneasy. The heavens were smeared with clouds the colour of blood…Her sense of uneasiness grew, but a smile of reminiscence stole across her lips. At home old Aethel would say they were in for a storm.

  She glanced over her shoulder. The crusaders were busy amidships. Guy was sharpening his sword, his shaggy thatch of hair flopping as ever into his eyes. If it were not for his dark colouring, he would look almost Saxon, but that long fringe of his was dangerous. It would impede his vision if he got into a fight. Wilfred and Rannulf were taking it in turns to shave each other. She heard Wilfred laugh, watched his blade scrape across Rannulf’s chin. Rannulf mumbled in reply. His dark head lifted, and Rannulf’s eyes held hers across the planked expanse of the deck. He did not smile. Judith’s heart did what it always seemed to do when Rannulf glanced her way—it missed a beat. Lest he should notice that the colour in her cheeks matched that in the firmament, Judith returned to her contemplation of the sea.

  Reassured by the everyday sight of her companions at their morning tasks, she was able to thrust her misgivings aside. The red in the sky was fading, the sun was climbing. It was just another day as all the others had been.

  She decided it would be best if she trimmed Guy’s hair.

  On the western horizon a distant speck of sail flashed the morning sun back at them.

  “Keep still, Guy,” Judith warned. “Unless you want your ears cropped too.”

  “I didn’t move a muscle,” Guy said. He was perched on a water-barrel. “’Twas the motion of the ship.”

  Judith shook her head reprovingly. “’Twas your hand groping for the wine, Guy. Now keep still. You’re worse than a child. I’ve almost finished.”

  The other ship was going against the wind. It was using the oars. All but one of its sails were furled. Judith bent her head over Guy’s and snipped away.

  “There!” she said, pleased with her work. “’Tis done.”

  Guy ran a large hand over his head. “Well, Rannulf?” he asked. “How do I look?”

  Rannulf was shaving Wi
lfred, long-fingered hands steady on the knife, brows drawn together in concentration. He flung the cloth over Wilfred’s head, and ran his eyes over Judith’s handiwork. “Shorn,” Rannulf answered. “But very Norman.” His eyes met Judith’s. “I didn’t know you numbered barbering among your talents, Judith,” he said.

  Judith shrugged and concentrated on keeping her features in order. Her breast ached.

  “Judith has many hidden talents,” Guy said.

  Rannulf grinned. His eyes wandered up and down her length. “Aye,” he murmured.

  “Why you…” Judith spluttered and turned to the guardrail in case he read too much from her eyes. She was not angry, though perhaps she should be. She knew he wanted her. And she must want him. That was the only explanation for the terrible ache that was tearing her apart.

  She sighed. It was no good. She could never forget that her father had been cut down by the Baron’s knight. That memory was ever a wall between them. It was not to be washed away, like writing on a sandy beach which vanished with the first wave breaking over it.

  She blocked Rannulf from her mind, and focused her attention on the other ship. It was skating over the surface of the sea, like a water-boatman on the pond in the Chase. Only it had oars instead of legs. She wondered where that sleeker, smaller ship was bound at such a rate and her eyes grew wistful. If she had ship like that…a ship that could chart a course anywhere she chose.

  Where would she sail? Was there a place she could go where she could forget the legacy of bitterness and hate her ancestors had left her? An island perhaps—where it would not matter whose blood flowed in Rannulf’s veins. If such a place truly existed, she’d sail there today, even if it meant never seeing England again. Judith stared sadly at the other vessel. Rannulf barely acknowledged her existence any more. Ever since she’d told him about his mother, he’d steered clear of her. The past cast a long shadow. Even now, even here, they walked in its gloom.

  What would happen when they got back to Mandeville Chase? Judith’s mind went blank.

  A sharp cry wrenched her out of her thoughts. There was confusion amidships. The ship’s captain shouted. A sailor bawled back. Someone cursed.

  Icy fingers crawled over Judith’s skin. Half the crew of the White Eagle surged to the hand-rail. The other half snatched up their swords.

  The wind, the favourable wind, was pushing them towards the other, sleeker ship. It was much closer now. Its sail was furled. Its oars lifted skywards, like arrows aiming at heaven. Silver ribbons of water streamed from the wooden blades. The oars folded back. Cold steel gleamed in their steed.

  Rannulf sprinted across. “Judith! Get below!” He had her by the arm. All the blood had drained from his face. She’d never seen him so pale.

  “Sound the alarm! To quarters!” the captain bawled.

  “Move, Judith!” Rannulf shook her. “God’s Teeth! Don’t stand there staring. Move!”

  “’Tis a pirate!” Her lips felt stiff.

  “Aye! Get below! ’Twill be no place for a woman above decks when they board us.”

  Judith was hustled towards the hold. She stumbled clumsily on the step-ladder. Rannulf’s foot tapped. No sooner had she jumped down off the ladder than he swung away, groping for his sword.

  “Rannulf!” Judith called him back. She could not help herself. She bit her lip.

  “Aye. What is it?” he snapped. “Hurry wench, spit it out!”

  “I…I…You’re not wearing your hauberk!”

  He spread his hands. “No time.”

  “B…but you need it.”

  He gave one of his twisted grins. “Then my foes and I will be fighting on equal terms, will we not? Saxon pirates do not wear Norman mailcoats. If you pray hard enough, princess, they might even succeed in killing me.”

  “Rannulf,” Judith whispered, sick with despair. She looked down at her whitened knuckles. “I do not want you dead. B…be careful.”

  “I’m always careful.”

  He was standing at the top of the steps. She could still see his feet. Slowly Judith raised her eyes.

  Rannulf swore, thrust his sword back in his scabbard, and jumped down beside her. He took her hands in his.

  “Judith,” his voice was low and urgent. “If…I…that is…if I can’t get back to you…”

  He struggled visibly with the words, took a deep breath, and started again. “I hope it will not come to this, but should you need to defend yourself, you will find my other weapons in my hammock. Fare you well, princess.”

  And then he was gone. And Judith was alone, with only the swinging hammocks for company.

  The boarded ceiling reverberated with thumps, and crashes, and scurrying footsteps. The ship’s company were readying themselves for attack, and the wooden deck rang with sound like the skin of a drum. Something heavy was dragged along the planks. The White Eagle heeled wildly to one side. Judith staggered, and caught hold of one of the hammocks.

  The helmsman must have changed course, trying to evade their attackers. Judith frowned, remembering the pirate ship’s clean, smooth lines, and smaller size. It had been built for speed, and was less heavily laden. The pirate’s curves were the curves of a slender dolphin. It would be easier to manoeuvre, surely? What if there were no escaping it?

  She’d never seen Rannulf look so strained. Her heart weighed heavy in her breast. Rannulf did not expect the White Eagle to outrun the pirates. He knew it was only a matter of time before their ship was boarded and…

  Judith looked at the solid oak above her head, and wished she could see through it. It had grown ominously quiet. She could imagine their crew all staring helplessly as the pirate ship drew closer, ever closer…

  Waiting would be terrible. What if Rannulf…

  Waiting was terrible. She could not bear it.

  Judith whirled. She needed a weapon. She could not simply stand there. She dived at Rannulf’s hammock, and thrust his mail coat to one side. It chinked and rattled. Her fingers lingered briefly on the cold, heavy links. If a warrior wearing one of these fell into the water, he’d drop like an anchor…Perhaps it was just as well Rannulf had not had time to don it.

  She sifted, frantic, through Rannulf’s possessions. Her heartbeat quickened. Spare tunic, undershirt, trousers, they flew through the air. He’d said his weapons were here…

  Yellow sunbeams tumbled down the stairwell. They flashed on a shortsword with a well-honed blade. Judith pounced on it.

  The White Eagle shuddered as though a giant battering ram had smashed into its side. There was an unearthly groaning noise—a scraping and splintering of wood.

  Judith wiped sticky palms on her dress. Cold sweat prickled on her brow. But she felt better armed. This was a fear she recognised. This was a fear she could control.

  Feet thundered overhead. Someone screamed. Battle was joined. She heard another yell, edged with panic. It ripped right through her, the sort of sound that would make a coward of the bravest hero. Someone should clout that sailor, Judith thought, before he freezes the wits of all of the ship’s company. A firm strong, voice rapped out a command. The yelling stopped. Rannulf was issuing orders.

  Unaccountably tears pricked behind her eyes. Rannulf meant her to stay in the hold and wait. But that she could not do. Action was the best way to fight fear. She could not cower helpless below decks while he…while they…battled out there in the sun. She’d fight at their side as she’d been taught.

  She stripped off her clothes, dragged Rannulf’s short tunic over her head, and belted the curved, heathen dagger at her waist. Snatching up the shortsword, she weighed it in her hands. The hilt was large for her, but the weapon was similar to the seax that Saewulf had taught her to use. She had no qualms about handling it.

  A howl of pain jerked her head round. It was time. Fear was a hard knot in her belly. She ignored it, and went for the ladder.

  It was a nightmare up on deck. She could not see him. There was no order now, only a thrashing, seething, bloody mass of arms and
legs. There was so much din that Judith heard nothing.

  Even the helmsman had left his post to fight, a sure sign that the White Eagle was hard-pressed. She glimpsed him, swinging his sword like a reaper, scything through assailants as though they were stalks of over-ripe corn.

  Shaking, a hand flew to her head. The raiders’ corn-coloured hair proved them Saxon. Rannulf had been right. She would be fighting her own kind. Where was Rannulf? She could not see him anywhere. Worry pierced her like a dart.

  Someone leapt out of the mêlée and landed in front of her. He bared his lips and grinned. His hard pirate’s eyes were as blue as the sky. His hair, like Wilfred’s, was bleached white by wind and sun. She feinted. Catlike, the man blocked her passage. Judith heard someone give a bitter laugh, and realised it was herself. Her mind was racing.

  She was confronting a Saxon. This man, like her brothers, had been dispossessed, only he’d turned pirate instead of outlaw. Truly God mocked her. Did He want her to choose? Between the dispossessed and the conquerors? She felt almost as though this man was kin. She did not want to fight him.

  The pirate’s eyes flickered over her, narrowing briefly when he saw the dagger and shortsword. His grin expanded and filled his face. Judith’s heart sank. If the pirate was confident enough to look at her in such a way, her case was worse than bad.

  “This is not your fight, pretty lady,” the pirate said, in English. “No need for you to be hurt. Throw down your weapons. Surrender. I’ll take care of you.”

  Judith felt a shudder run down her spine. The man had such cold eyes. He’d slit her throat as soon as breathe. He would take her and…

  “I’m not sure I’d appreciate the ‘care’ you have to offer,” she said, and gripped the hilt of Rannulf’s shortsword.

  The pirate’s grin faded. She knew that look. In a moment he’d strike. She steadied herself.

  “Judith!” Rannulf’s voice rose hoarsely over the clamour. “Get back!” He hurled himself out of the chaos. His tunic was torn. Blood trickled down his arm. His face was an ugly mask of blood. But he was alive, and he was to Judith the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.