Rannulf shifted his weight and leaned heavily on his sword. It was still stained with Eadwold’s blood. Her brother’s blood. Judith’s mind emptied, and the shock hit her like a blow in the midriff. Wide-eyed with sudden revulsion, she dragged her hand free and backed away. What was she doing clinging to her brother’s murderer?
“You…you stabbed him in the dark!” she realised, and her voice cracked. “You coward! How could he save himself when he could not see you?”
Saewulf’s voice floated into the clearing. “Judith! Judith!”
“Over here! Saewulf, over here!” she called. She raced towards him, catapulting into his arms. The wrong arms, a treacherous little voice insisted.
“What’s happened?” Saewulf demanded. “I tried to explain to Eadwold. To give you time. But he knocked me into last month—” he touched the side of his head and flinched “—and I’ve a lump on me the size of an egg. There’s no reasoning with that man.”
Judith dragged in a lungful of air. “Saewulf—” she turned in his arms and pointed “—there will never be any reasoning with Eadwold now. Look.”
She felt the shock run right through Saewulf. His arms fell away, she was thrust to one side, and Saewulf was kneeling by their dead brother.
Eadwold’s eyes were open; they seemed to stare accusingly at Judith. Guilt stirred within her. Perhaps it was all her fault. If she had not run with Rannulf, if she had not…
Without the bloodlust firing those grey depths, Eadwold’s eyes were quite dull, cold in the moonlight. They were not really blaming her. How could a dead man blame anyone?
Saewulf closed Eadwold’s eyes, and Judith heard herself sigh. But the sense of unease did not dissipate.
“A good, clean thrust up under the ribs,” Saewulf commented, with a lack of emotion that bordered on callousness. He glanced up at Rannulf. “He died quickly?”
Judith frowned. Would no one weep for Eadwold?
“Aye, ’twas over in a moment,” Rannulf assured him.
“May he rest in peace,” Saewulf murmured piously, and made the sign of the cross. “He had little enough peace in his lifetime.” He tugged the Coverdale ring from his brother’s lifeless hand, rose and looked thoughtfully at Rannulf.
“You want revenge?” Rannulf asked, hand on his swordhilt.
Judith grabbed Saewulf’s arm, but there was no need. Saewulf gave a sad smile and shook his fair thatch of hair.
“Not I. I’ve had enough revenge to last me several life times, Sir Rannulf. I’ll find my own road now. There’s one favour I would ask…”
“Name it,” Rannulf answered promptly, slamming his sword firmly into his scabbard.
Saewulf held out the ring “Take this,” he said. “Take it to Baron Hugo. Tell him the Saxon wolf runs no more in the Chase.”
Rannulf’s slender fingers closed round the ring. “And his pack?” he asked, glancing at Judith. “What of the wolf’s pack?”
“I’ve a mind to sue to pardon,” Saewulf announced.
Judith stepped forwards. “Are you mad, Saewulf? The Baron will never forgive us—”
“Judith,” Saewulf cut in, “your tongue speaks the old rhymes. You speak from custom. Think. When we bury Eadwold, let’s bury more than his body. Let’s bury the past. Judith, we have to try.” He spread his hands and grinned. “What have we to lose? No great estate, no great riches, just a hard, cold bed under the stars. I’ll meet with our men; and if they agree, and if this Norman knight will intercede for us…” He paused.
“I will,” Rannulf said softly.
“Farewell, friend, for now.” Saewulf turned away.
A cold tremor ran right through Judith. She watched her younger brother walk slowly to the skirts of the clearing. Instinct told her he was right. She could feel Rannulf’s eyes on her, but avoided his gaze.
Thoughts flashed in quick succession through her mind. Peace was the only answer for the men—for all of them. The disillusionment and misery the men were living with had been more marked since she had returned. Perhaps it had been there all the time. They deserved better than a shallow grave under the leaves. She’d learnt for herself what a soul-destroying business killing was. Harden yourself to that and you would become little better than a beast.
They must take the chance. Rannulf had promised to speak for them. An opportunity like this might never come their way again. She suppressed a sigh. But Saewulf had little hope of convincing the men alone. They would need more proofs of Rannulf’s good intentions than her brother could supply. It would go against the grain for them to put their trust in the Baron’s brother, however Saewulf pleaded the case. But if she went with her brother, and added her word to his…?
Would Rannulf understand? He had to. And later—if all went well and he still wanted her, then she could go to him with a clear conscience. Perhaps, all round, it would be better this way.
“Saewulf,” Judith ran and caught at his tunic. “You’ll need me.”
Saewulf sent her a long look over his shoulder, and shook his head. “Go you with this man, Judith. ’Tis safer.” He shoved her towards Rannulf.
Judith dug in her heels. Her heart sat heavy in her breast. “No,” she said, bluntly.
“Lost your trust in me again, princess?” Rannulf asked drily.
An owl screeched.
“’Tis not that, Rannulf,” Judith said, praying he would understand. “But I do not think Saewulf will find it easy to convince the men that you will speak for us. It will not be easy for them to turn their back on years of hatred. My word will add weight to his. On his own, I doubt that he’d succeed, but both of us might convince them.”
Rannulf’s face was haggard in the moonlight. “So you’ll not come with me?”
“I…I must go with Saewulf,” Judith said, gently.
Rannulf rubbed his face and heaved a sigh. “So,” he said. “We are back where we started.”
“N…not quite. For you see Rannulf, I do trust you,” she admitted. “But someone must mourn Eadwold.”
“You didn’t love him,” Rannulf said, perceptively.
“I am his sister.” She lifted her chin. “And Saewulf needs me.”
“Aye,” Rannulf whispered and brought his head close. “And what of Rannulf’s needs? Come with me,” he urged.
Judith clamped her teeth together.
Rannulf’s face hardened. “I’ll not ask again,” he warned.
Something cracked inside her. He did not understand. She could see it in the set of his shoulders. Judith unclenched her teeth, and forced herself to speak lightly. “’Tis your turn to trust me, Rannulf. I go with my brother. If you would truly speak for us, I’ll meet with you later. Farewell.” A lump rose up in her throat, threatening to choke her. Judith twisted her body round, grabbed her brother’s arm, and marched stiffly with him to the edge of the clearing.
“Farewell, Sir Rannulf,” Saewulf said.
“Farewell.” Rannulf’s voice came back, curt and tight with anger.
It sounded very final.
There should have been lights flickering in the wall sconces of the spiral stairwell, but they had gone out. Rannulf was forced to grope for the rope hand-hold and make his way, hand over hand, towards his chamber in the top of the tower. His left arm hurt like the Devil.
He hesitated on the broad step outside the tower room that had been his for years, and frowned. Only a couple of chambers in the castle had solid doors to them. His was one, his brother’s the other. Rannulf usually let the door swing wide when he was not there. In the communal life of the castle, the desire for privacy was often misconstrued as a desire to hide a secret. His door was shut now, and there was light in his chamber, he could see it spilling out through the chinks at the sides. A spasm crossed his face; he hoped it was not Beaufour, for the time was not ripe, not yet. He’d to work on his brother first.
“Rannulf?”
Rannulf felt himself relax, and lifted the latch. “Guy,” he said, smiling warmly as he entered the sm
all chamber.
His friend was sprawled out on his bed. A flask of wine stood within arm’s reach on a plain oak coffer nearby. A single candle was the only light, and the flame jumped and danced in the stream of air flowing in from two slim windows set high in the wall. Carved into the thickness of the outside curved wall, below the windows, were a couple of seats, padded with thick tapestry cushions. A heap of grey ash sat in the hearth of the fireplace opposite the windows. The fireplace was small but, as tower rooms did not usually have them at all, Rannulf’s chamber was counted luxurious.
“I thought you’d be in your own quarters,” Rannulf said.
Guy stretched and sat up. “I wanted to keep watch for you. After all, not many of us can venture into that lion’s den in the forest and come out unscathed.” He waved vaguely in the direction of the door. “I doused the lights on the stairs, hoping Beaufour should think you long abed. I didn’t think you’d want him sending out scouts for you.”
“No. My thanks.”
“Where’s the wench?” Guy looked past Rannulf to the door.
“Not here,” Rannulf’s answer came out curtly.
“Oh? Did you not see her?”
“I saw her.”
“She’s stayed, then?” Guy asked, his blunt features registering both dismay and puzzlement. “I thought she had some sense.”
“So did I,” Rannulf said, careful to keep his tone dry. “We were both wrong, it seems.” He flexed his injured arm. Fire scorched down shoulder and upper arm, and he winced.
“God, Rannulf! You are hurt.”
“Aye.” Rannulf gave a lopsided smile. “I did not escape unscathed.”
His friend was on his feet. “Here, man,” Guy said. “Let me take a look at that. Best remove your tunic.” He had his dagger out. “Can you manage, or shall I cut it?”
“I’ll manage.” It burned like Hell-fire, but Rannulf gritted his teeth and unbuckled his belt. Belt and tunic were tossed on to the bed and only a grunt betrayed his discomfort.
“Sit.” Guy pushed him to the bed.
Rannulf groped with his good arm in the pouch that hung from his belt, and gasped as the pain ripped down his wounded side.
“Hold still, man,” Guy admonished him with the familiarity of an old friend. “You do yourself no service.” He lifted the candle to peer at the wound. “’Tis a jagged cut. Always the most painful. But it’s clean. Who did it?”
Rannulf lifted a clenched hand and held it under Guy’s nose. His fingers uncurled. In his palm was Eadwold’s ring.
Guy’s dark eyes widened “Her brother’s? Did you kill him?”
White about the lips, Rannulf nodded. “Had to. We were slashing about in the dark. He inflicted this on me, I struck out…A reflex action.” He breathed a sigh. “I’d rather have wounded him, but when the moon came out the deed was done.”
“And that, I suppose—” Guy hesitated “—is why she’s not with you now.”
“Aye.” Rannulf felt Guy fix him with a keen stare, and bent his head to examine the wound. “Wash this for me, will, you Guy?” he asked, changing the subject. “There’s some linen in the chest that will serve as a bandage.”
Rannulf leaned back on his pillow and submitted silently to Guy’s ministrations. Every soldier worth his salt soon learnt how to cope somehow with the most gruesome of wounds. Self-interest motivated most of them, for each man hoped that when his turn came his comrades would be able to help him. Standards of skill varied greatly. Rannulf knew his hurt was not bad. He tried to relax and shut his mind off from the pain. Guy was more competent than most, he was in as good hands as any, but Rannulf had to clench his teeth to hold down a groan. For all his goodwill, his friend’s fingers were large and clumsy. Judith’s face flashed into his mind. Her slender fingers would have treated him more tenderly. Rannulf drew his brows together. But she’d elected to go with her brother. He’d best put her out of his mind.
“There!” Guy tied the ends of the bandage together. “You’re all strapped up now.”
Carefully, Rannulf eased his shoulder. The pain had lessened to a dull throb. He forced a smile. “My thanks, Guy.” He closed his eyes.
“What will you do now?” Guy asked.
“What, when you’ve removed my boots?” Rannulf lifted an eyelid and made his smile wider. “Go to sleep, what else?” He shut his eye, felt Guy heave his boots off, and heard them thud to the floor.
“Nay, you lazy dog,” Guy said. “That’s not what I meant, and well you know it. What do you mean to do? About her? About Beaufour? About your brother?”
Rannulf rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Take things one at a time,” he said, tiredly. “Her other brother is of a peaceable disposition. He would sue for pardons for them all.”
“Beaufour will not like to lose his scapegoats so easy,” Guy commented.
Rannulf’s gaze sharpened. “You think as I do, Guy.”
Guy lifted his broad shoulders. “It’s obvious, I’d say. Why else should the outlaws still be here? If Beaufour had wanted he could have used your brother’s men to run them off the land years ago. He’s using them as a cover for the slaving.”
“Aye,” Rannulf agreed. “And the way he’s rotted my brother’s brain with drink, there’s no way of telling how much Hugo knows. It must have broken my mother’s heart to see Hugo so.”
Sympathetic brown eyes met his. “I’ve had my ear to the ground, Rannulf. Your brother was not as bad as this when your lady mother was alive. He’s degenerated since her death. Oh, he drank before, there’s no denying that. But the captain of the guard says Lady de Mandeville held things together. She stopped Beaufour having too much influence over him. But when she died, your brother ran wild. Put so much shame on his wife that she fled. And now Beaufour runs the place as though it were his own holding.”
“Hugo’s weak-minded,” Rannulf said. “I’d admit that to none but you, Guy.”
“Aye,” Guy said softly. “You were ever the loyal brother. ’Tis a pity you were not the firstborn.”
Rannulf made a dismissive gesture.
“I’m sorry, Rannulf, but I know I’m not the only one to think that. Perhaps—”
“I’ll not steal my brother’s birthright,” Rannulf said sharply.
Guy sighed and murmured, “More’s the pity.”
“I didn’t hear that, friend,” Rannulf declared, dragging the covers over himself. “Now I’m for sleeping. We can do nothing at this late hour, and we’ll need our wits about us in the morning. If Judith’s brother does make contact, I shall help them.”
Guy was at the door. “Count me your man, as ever, Rannulf.”
Rannulf yawned. “My thanks. Now go and get some rest. Goodnight.”
“God be with you, Rannulf.”
The door shut softly behind Guy, and Rannulf heard his footsteps receding down the stairs. He reached his good arm out of the covers, dropped the ring on to the chest and inched out the candle.
That Saxon ring might be of some use in the morning. He’d use it to test the waters. There was much that was wrong in Mandeville Castle, and, if God was with him, he aimed to put it right. Rannulf’s hand closed over his pendant reliquary, and he smiled into the darkness. He found himself thinking of Judith as he’d first seen her four years ago, with that glorious hair, long and wild about her face. What would she look like now, he wondered, with her hair grown long as it should be? His muscles relaxed. And moments later, despite the throbbing in his arm, Rannulf was asleep.
Baron Hugo de Mandeville grabbed at the platter of cold venison before him on the board, and dragged it towards him. He broke his fast not with a crust of bread and ale, as did most of his household, but with wine, and cold meats, too. His tunic was of a rich, deep red, and warned any that might not know of his high status.
Rannulf shouldered his way past the door-curtain into the hall that served both as refectory and living-room for the occupants of the castle, and as court for those under his brother’s jurisdiction. He had
eaten earlier, while his brother was still sleeping off the worst of last night’s excesses. He glanced towards the fireplace. At least someone had seen fit to light this fire; earlier it had been as cold and cheerless as his own. He noticed it was smoking badly.
Hugo was the only one at table. He was cramming a wedge of venison into his mouth. Rannulf saw him swallow it down without seeming even to chew. He struggled to keep the revulsion he felt from showing on his face. Other lords, he knew, saved their expensive scarlet finery for best. Not so Hugo. His brother, he mused bitterly, needed a bright standard to mark his estate. If one were to judge by manners alone, you’d think he was lord of a dungheap.
As Rannulf came nearer he saw slop-marks from last night stained his brother’s finery. He held down a sigh. Like everything in this place, it didn’t hold up to close scrutiny.
“Why the long face, brother?” Hugo mumbled through a mouthful of game. He put a hand to his belly and belched.
Rannulf managed not to wince. Hugo’s wide girth proclaimed that his indulgences were many and of a long-standing nature. He was a big man, with dark hair beginning to thin on top. A keen eye might perceive that the Baron’s nose had once been straight like Rannulf’s. But now Baron Hugo’s nose was red, blown up like his cheeks with broken veins brought on by a surfeit of strong wine.
Rannulf took his place at his brother’s side. He was going to try and appeal to Hugo’s better nature. He wondered if Hugo had any better nature left.
“Here, eat.” Hugo shoved the platter clumsily towards Rannulf. The trestle rocked.
“No thanks, I beat you to it this morning,” Rannulf smiled easily at his brother, still wondering, and tried to hold his gaze.
Hugo’s brown eyes met his for a moment, he gave a slight shrug, and transferred his attention to his wine-cup.
Rannulf frowned. He reached for the Saxon ring in his pouch, found it, and slapped it on the table.
Hugo started. “What’s that?” he asked, picking it up.
“Eadwold Coverdale’s ring. He’s dead.”
Hugo lifted bloodshot eyes to Rannulf’s. “How?”
“Me, I’m afraid. I killed him,” Rannulf answered.
Leaves on the Wind Page 20
