Reeling with relief, she drank in the sight of him. No matter that he was Norman. No matter that he was Rannulf de Mandeville. She loved him, and his being alive was all that mattered.
She shook herself and looked about her. The brigand had forgotten her existence. Rannulf and the Saxon were circling each other, each watching the other for an opening. The pirate’s blue eyes gleamed. His sword flashed. Rannulf parried the thrust. The pirate grinned and pressed forward.
Rannulf was breathing hard, blood was trickling in his eyes, but he matched his opponent blow for blow. He dashed the blood from his face. The pirate’s eyes flickered. Judith gasped. Rannulf was being forced backwards At his back another blade glinted. Another raider waited. In her mind Judith saw Rannulf’s hauberk lying like a pile of silver coins in his hammock. Rannulf’s back was unprotected.
There was no time for a warning, no time for thought. Swift as lightning, she struck, wrenching the blade up and under the man’s ribs. Disbelief filled his eyes. She was so close she could see blond stubble on his chin. She stared at the shortsword jutting out from the man’s tunic. She had put it there. She could feel the man’s pain. She recoiled and gagged. Eadwold was wrong. It was nothing like killing a pig for the pot. True, pigs squealed like men, but a pig’s eyes could not accuse you. You did not find yourself wondering whether the pig’s mother, or sister or lover would miss him…
Bile rose in her throat. She must not vomit. She must free the blade. Something warm splashed on to her feet. She glanced down. No wonder the sky was blue again. That crimson sunrise had all dropped on to the ship’s boards. Blindly, she twisted round to Rannulf. His adversary lay at his feet, and more bright colour stained the deck.
Her head swam. A swirling fog filled her mind. She had killed a man. She had killed a man. She had…
Rannulf gripped her shoulders. He shook her. Her teeth rattled. His eyes were bloodshot. “What are you thinking of?” he demanded.
Rannulf’s voice was distorted, muddled. It came at her from a great distance. She tried to answer but only managed a croak. She’d lost her own voice completely.
“Get below,” Rannulf shouted, “before I throw you down myself—”
She saw movement behind him and found her tongue. “Rannulf! Behind you!”
Rannulf spun round, his guard already up.
The ship’s captain emerged briefly from amid a seething ball of thrashing limbs, to urge his crew to victory. “We have them on the run! Keep going! Sir Guy…to me! Forwards! Kill the vermin!” He dived back into the scrimmage.
The battle for the White Eagle was at its height. They needed every man—and woman. Judith took her stand at Rannulf’s side. It would be good to fight with him.
“Fifty bezants for the man that spears that wench!” someone bawled.
She must have misheard. Judith shot Rannulf a glance to mark his expression, but he was directing one of the sailors to the valiant captain’s aid, and could not have heard. A wild-eyed lad no older than herself took a stab at her, and her nausea had gone, submerged beneath the more powerful instinct for survival. Judith parried the thrust; the lad was sweating with fear. She pressed her advantage, took a couple of paces forwards. The blood surged in her veins. Another stroke, another pace forwards. Rannulf was beside her now, she saw him fling her a glance which was a peculiar blend of exasperation and admiration, and then his attention returned to the fight.
A fierce exhilaration took hold of her. She could dare anything. The lad was backed up against the ship’s rail. Another thrust like that, and she’d have him overboard…
They would win. This was one battle they would win, together. All powerful, confident of her ability to hold her place at his side, Judith realised, incredibly, she was smiling.
Then, suddenly, it was over. The White Eagle was theirs. The last of the raiders took to their heels and dived over the ship’s rail.
Judith’s chest heaved. She sucked in great gulps of air into lungs that burned. Her eyes sought Rannulf. He was leaning on his sword, watching her. Lines of weariness were carved into his face. His lips were moving. He was asking her something.
Her ears still rang with the clashing of swords. “What did you say?” she croaked. Her courage was evaporating as fast as it had come.
Rannulf walked towards her. “Did you see him?” he asked.
“Who?”
“Beaufour,” he replied shortly.
Judith felt her eyes stretch wide. “B…Beaufour?” she stammered, shaking her head. “What—?”
“Never mind.” Rannulf touched the front of her tunic, his fingers unsteady. There was blood on them. “Does the wound pain you?”
Judith shook her head. She was dazed. She could hardly bring herself to scan the crimson decks. Was she dreaming? Had she really killed a man? And what had Beaufour to do with this?
“Judith!”
She found what she was seeking, and pointed her shortsword at the man she’d sent to the other world. The blade was stained. She could not even remember snatching it up again from the man’s dead body.
“There!” she said. “’Tis his gore that stains this tunic, Rannulf, not mine.”
Rannulf’s face cleared. His hand came up and stroked her cheek, but Judith was so numb she hardly felt it.
The dead Saxon lay on his back, and his blue eyes were no longer hard. They gazed vacantly into the heaven, as though following the course his soul had taken. Queer, she felt she knew him. Then she remembered. The dead man had sailed with Beaufour—she’d seen him on the slave ship…
Her insides rebelled. “I’m going to be sick,” she announced, and lurched at the rail. Her stomach emptied itself into the sea. Her hair flopped forwards. Her hands wouldn’t hold it clear. They had become disconnected, unresponsive. They were no longer her hands.
Other, gentle hands held her steady, and stroked the sweat-streaked skeins from her face. She was beyond humiliation. When she was sure she could be ill no more, she slumped on to the deck, leant her head in her hands and groaned.
“My brave warrior maid,” Rannulf whispered.
Judith lifted her head, bracing herself to meet mockery in his eyes. She found none.
“Sorry,” she mumbled.
Rannulf sat down at her side, and leaned back against the rail. “That is no matter,” he said. “But when I first saw you facing that swordsman—”
“I know how to fight.”
“Aye. I know that now. The more I know you, the more of a mystery you become…”
“I never killed a man before,” Judith said. “It’s terrible. There’s no glory in it at all.”
“No,” Rannulf agreed. He met her eyes. “Judith, I owe you my life.”
“Remember, no talk of debts…” She made a brave attempt at a smile.
Rannulf took her hand and held it hard. He did not seem inclined to move.
“Guy…Wilfred?” she asked. “Are they…?”
“Over there.” Rannulf jerked his head in the direction of the prow. “Both unscathed. Guy’ll be blessing you for trimming his hair.” The beginnings of a grin tugged at the corners of his mouth.
Judith felt the tension ease a little. They’d all won through. She wriggled her fingers. Rannulf’s hold was so hard he was crushing her bones. Her spirits rose. Ever since he’d learnt about his mother he’d ignored her—but now, surely now, it would be all right. She glanced at their linked hands. Who was clinging to whom, she wondered. She no longer minded who or what he was. This gruesome skirmish had forged a bond between them. Surely now…
“Where did you learn to fight like that?” Rannulf demanded without warning.
Judith stiffened. “I…I…” she stuttered, conscious that she must not betray her brothers. The ancient feud reared up solid as a wall between them. Her dream shattered into a thousand pieces.
“Let me see your head, Rannulf,” she said, evasively. “You are hurt.” She thought he sighed.
“’Tis nought. A small scalp wound.” He b
rushed her hand away and gestured down the deck. “If you have healing skills, there is a greater need elsewhere.”
Their captain had cleared a space, and was setting up a makeshift hospital. Four bodies were laid out, shrouded in their cloaks. Eight of the crew were in serious need of attention, and several others were nursing minor wounds.
Judith dragged in a breath. If only she were not fatigued. There were four men dead. How many more would die before the sun set?
It was difficult to believe it was not yet noon.
Ragged shafts of yellow light shone through the gaps in the material screening Judith’s sleeping quarters from those of the men. The lamp clunked softly against one of the beams as it swung with every roll of the ship. Ropes creaked. But these were peaceful sounds. The White Eagle slept, and Judith, too, should have been asleep.
Lying in a hammock made her neck ache, but it was not that which kept her wakeful, any more than did the gentle night-time noises of the ship.
Every time she closed her eyes she saw the face of the Saxon she had killed. She could feel her hand pushing the blade deep into his chest. She could still hear the paralysing sounds a man made when his soul was rent untimely from his body.
She rubbed at her neck, wondering if she’d ever been so weary, both in mind and body. Her brain was running round in circles. Every bone ached. So why could she not rest? No one else was awake. No one else was staring up at the ceiling through the lonely watches of the night. Apart from the nocturnal creakings of the ship, nothing stirred beyond the confines of her swaying curtain.
Judith shifted her position for what she hoped would be the last time. She would sleep now. She must. She forced her eyelids to close. She must be able to keep that ghastly image from haunting her. The man she had killed was a pirate. Or was he? Her eyes snapped open. Rannulf had said he’d seen Beaufour. Had the Saxon been in Beaufour’s pay? Perhaps their attackers had not been pirates at all. Perhaps…? Her mind began to whirl, and with difficulty she steadied it. It did not matter. That Saxon would have killed Rannulf as easily as he would have stunned a fish for a meal. He would have stabbed Rannulf in the back. In the back, a coward’s blow, while Rannulf was distracted by one of his comrades.
Judith covered her face with her hands and swallowed. Her throat was tight with unshed tears. The empty void inside her was but a shadow of the pain she would be feeling if Rannulf had been killed. It did not bear thinking about. She had had to kill that Saxon. But knowing that did not make it any easier. She did not think she was made to be a warrior.
Judith sniffed, too loudly, and swallowed again. She must not disturb others. Something warm was trickling down her cheeks. She tasted salt. Tears. She wiped them away, and more overflowed. But no matter if her tears would not remain dammed up. Tears were at least soundless.
Bunched up in her hammock, with her hands tightly covering her face, Judith wept silently, and without restraint. She was so immersed in her grief that she did not notice the screen being lifted, nor that someone had entered her private domain.
At the light touch of a hand on hers, Judith froze. Someone prised her rigid fingers from her face and held her wrists fast. A man’s head was bent towards her.
“N…no, Rannulf.” The protest slid from her lips, and Judith struggled to hide her tear-damp face. She felt no alarm, only a sense of mortification that it was always he who witnessed her weakness. She turned her head, and shut her eyes fast. But the fingers on her wrists were merciless and she was forced to submit while his free hand found her wet cheeks, and wiped her tears.
“Don’t, Rannulf,” she whimpered, choked. “Leave me alone.”
Rannulf made no answer, but one hand continued to stroke her tears away, and his other held her immobile.
There was something comforting about his silence. Judith sighed. Already her misery felt less acute. Her eyes made no more tears. The hand soothing her cheeks slid down and rested lightly on her shoulder.
“Put your arms about my neck,” Rannulf whispered.
Off guard, she obeyed him without question. But when she was lifted she caught her breath and protested. “Rannulf! I’m wearing my thinnest shift!”
Rannulf strode with her to the ladder and set her on her feet.
“Up you go,” he breathed into her ear. “I’ll follow with your cloak.”
Judith climbed up to the deck, and brushed past the watchman, blushing as she saw his head turn to follow her progress. The man had dropped his jaw at the sight of her scantily clad body, and his interested gaze burned into her back all the way to the bow of the ship. Then Rannulf was at her side, her cloak in his hands. Relieved, she dived into its voluminous folds, and when she glanced up, Rannulf’s dark face was lit by the moon. A light breeze ruffled his hair. He was staring at her, unmoving.
“Rannulf, are you become a statue?” she whispered.
He stirred and reached for the thick anchor rope. He pulled at it, frowning. It did not budge. The pale light gave strange emphasis to the lines and angles of his features, he looked unlike the Rannulf Judith knew.
“Rannulf, what ails you?” she asked.
He sent her a look which she could not interpret, and continued tugging at the cable.
“If you dislodge the anchor, we’ll float off the end of the world,” she said, lightly.
Rannulf drew his brows together. He released the rope, and rounded on her so suddenly that she started. “Where did you learn to fight like that?” he demanded. His eyes were narrowed with suspicion.
Judith caught her breath and resisted the urge to retreat. She did not like that black look…He must know it all. She had betrayed herself by fighting. Conscious that she must tread warily, Judith hesitated. She must guard against betraying her brothers too. She must hold in her mind the fact that the man standing before her was one of the new nobility. Kin to Baron de Mandeville. And bound to serve in that cause—for where else did his interests lie?
Although Judith now knew she loved the man standing before her, she also knew she must not allow sentiment to endanger her brothers’ lives. No man was ever ruled by sentiment, not Eadwold, nor Rannulf’s brother…Neither would she be ruled by it. Eadwold and his men must be protected.
That day she had put Rannulf’s life above the life of a Saxon. She had thrust aside years of hatred and saved him. She knew something would have withered inside her if she had allowed that Saxon blade to slice into Rannulf’s back.
But it was one thing to hold Rannulf’s life dearer than a stranger’s, and quite another to give him the loyalty due to her family. She did not think the blade had been forged which would cut its way through the bonds tying her to her brothers.
“Well?” Rannulf pressed.
“I…I…” She lifted her shoulders and gazed up at him, her mind unhelpfully blank. There was no answer that she could give him. Except perhaps…
Judith stepped towards him and raised her hands to his shoulders. “Does it matter?” she whispered, huskily, and sliding her hands round his neck, urged his head down. Shamelessly she let her fingers burrow into his wind-tousled hair.
He gave a muffled groan and his arms went round her at once. Judith knew a fleeting moment of triumph that she had managed to distract him so easily.
“No,” he muttered. “If you think it does not matter, then it does not matter. Only this matters, princess.” He kissed her cheek. “This and this and this…” He covered her upturned face with hungry kisses that set her cheeks alight and warmed the blood in her veins. “This is all that matters,” he repeated, his lips warm against her neck.
Judith pressed her body against Rannulf’s, and wished she could believe him. His kisses were like a healing balm. Her cloak slid to land in a little heap on the deck. Neither of them noticed.
Judith tilted her head back and smiled into his eyes. Searching fingers traced the line of her cheek.
“No tears there now,” he said, smiling.
She shook her head, and put her lips to his, silently
begging for another kiss. His hand slid down her back and held her tight against him. She could feel all the long length of his body through her thin shift. She had no will to resist him. She loved him, and when he kissed her she could believe anything he said. Nothing did matter, but that they were together.
She felt a sudden stab of longing, so poignant she moaned. Her love could never be fulfilled, not properly. The thin gown which covered her, Rannulf’s tunic, the presence of the watchman at the other end of the deck; all these things conspired to keep them apart, just as hate and shame kept them apart. Judith wanted to be as close to him as only a lover could, with no hate, no shame, and certainly no curious sailor to keep them separate.
She hid her face from Rannulf’s searching eyes, knowing she was unable to influence the way her body responded to him. She was tingling from her lips to her toes, every nerve seemed to sing. It was as though he’d brought her body to life, and it was terrifying. It hinted that Rannulf could, if he chose, exercise such power over her that she would lose herself. She would be a puppet dancing to his tune.
“Judith?” he whispered, lips on her ear.
Her hands were clinging to him. She must not let him sense the power that he wielded. She must remain in control…
“Judith?”
She forced her gaze to his. The moon was full on his face, accentuating the clean lines of his features. His mouth was curving in a tender smile, all trace of brooding anger gone. Before she could check herself, Judith lifted her hand and traced the shape of his mouth. Her fingers trembled. They felt warm and were sensitive to every contour of his lips. Suddenly self-conscious, she blushed and snatched her hand away.
“Don’t stop,” Rannulf murmured, catching her hand in his.
“I must,” she said.
“Why?” He took her hand back to his mouth and gently nibbled her fingertips. “I have not liked this silence between us,” he said.
Judith closed her eyes and felt herself sway. Little darts of pleasure were shooting up her hand, tiny ripples of delight which were growing and growing and could so easily engulf her—if she were weak enough to let them. Schooling her features, she opened her eyes and looked straight at Rannulf.
Leaves on the Wind Page 15
