Leaves on the Wind

by Carol Townend

  “Afraid?” Hugo laughed, but his laugh turned into a choking cough.

  Rannulf thumped him on the back.

  “Afraid?” the Baron wheezed, still spluttering. “Don’t be. That man’s been the bane of our lives. You’ve done me a good turn, brother—”

  Spurs clattered in the doorway and the Baron broke off.

  “Good morning, Baron, Sir Rannulf,” drawled a lanky newcomer in an insolent tone which robbed his greeting of any courtesy.

  It was Sir John Beaufour. A tight knot formed in Rannulf’s stomach. The knight sauntered up to the board, hooked out a bench with his foot, and draped himself over the seat at Hugo’s other side. Beaufour had a high, intelligent forehead, widely spaced brown eyes, a narrow nose, and a mean mouth. He buffeted the Baron on the arm, shaped his thin lips into a grin that was more of a snarl, and looked across at Rannulf with hooded eyes.

  “Did I hear aright?” Beaufour asked, in a patronising voice. “Has your little brother been playing the hero, Hugo?”

  Rannulf felt his blood begin to boil.

  “Aye,” Hugo responded, eagerly. “He’s rid us of the rebels’ leader.”

  “Coverdale?” Beaufour snapped, and for a moment his grin slipped. He recovered quickly, but the eyes that stared at Rannulf were keen.

  “Aye. That’s good news, is it not?” Hugo said, happily oblivious to the seething undercurrents. He speared himself another slice of venison.

  “Congratulations,” Beaufour got out.

  Rannulf had never seen such an insincere smile plastered on any man’s face. Beaufour was furious, and Rannulf thought he knew why.

  Lowering his gaze to hide the gleam of triumph in his eyes, Rannulf picked up the ring and toyed with it. In a moment, if he and Guy had guessed right, Beaufour would have even more to be angry about. And Hugo? Was he in on this too? Rannulf glanced sideways at his brother, noting with a wrench the way Hugo’s once-strong features were now blurred and indistinct.

  “Eadwold Coverdale has certainly plagued us long enough,” Beaufour said, drumming his fingers on the edge of the trestle. A row of heavy rings ran across his knuckles, one on each finger.

  Hugo nodded. “Aye, and perhaps we can round up the rest of his rabble now they are leaderless.”

  Seeing his opening, Rannulf struck. “What would you say, brother, to granting them pardon?”

  “Eh?” Hugo said, blinking stupidly.

  “Would you grant the outlaws pardon?” Rannulf repeated.

  “P…pardon?” The Baron hesitated. His eyes slid across to Beaufour.

  The knot in Rannulf’s stomach twisted. That did not look good. Either his brother was in on the slaving or he had wrecked himself to such an extent that he deferred to Beaufour on everything.

  Beaufour pulled his head back, and was no longer tapping the table. His knuckles, Rannulf noticed, had gone white.

  “There could be no objection, surely?” Rannulf asked smoothly “Rid yourself of the blight on your land once and for all. They’ll bless you for it. Think about it, Hugo.”

  “No,” Beaufour growled. “We cannot treat with scum like that. They’re better dead. Let’s hound them down and slay them in the Chase.”

  “I think not,” Rannulf urged. “My brother has use for more men. Dead men cannot plough fields, dead men cannot join the ranks. Convert the outlaws to your use, Hugo. Don’t waste them.” He wished his brother would not slump in his chair. Had he no backbone left?

  “Rannulf has a point, John,” Hugo said, looking hesitantly at the other knight.

  “Baron—” Beaufour’s smile was forced “—if I might counsel you—”

  “What is it, Beaufour?” Rannulf asked. “Something not to your liking?”

  “Those Saxon outlaws are slavers!” Beaufour declared, glowering.

  Rannulf stiffened. At last they were coming to it…

  “Animals every last man!” Beaufour spat. “They should be hunted down as such.”

  “I agree all slavers are animals,” Rannulf said coolly. Beaufour had the grace to blench. “But as for hunting down the outlaws,” Rannulf went on, “you’ve tried that before, haven’t you? It strikes me ’tis a strange thing how they always elude you. You’ve only ever caught one or two at a time. For a good soldier that’s a pretty poor showing. I wouldn’t mind betting that you need those outlaws in the Chase, Beaufour.” He raised an eloquent brow. “Good cover, I should think, for some of your less savoury activities. What else do they take the blame for, I wonder?”

  Beaufour shot to his feet as though stung. His face was working with fury. “What are you saying, Rannulf? Speak plainly, damn you!”

  “Work it out for yourself,” Rannulf said coldly. “You’ve brains enough. Try pitting them against an equal for once!”

  Beaufour’s narrow face went white and then red in quick succession. “Equal?” he shrieked, his voice high and shaking with rage. “You dare name yourself my equal! Why, you arrogant young pup…Who do you think you are?”

  “You’ve ruled the roost long enough, Beaufour,” Rannulf cut in. He jerked his head at Hugo, whose confusion was obvious, for he sat wide-eyed and silent in the face of his two knights’ fury. Rannulf laid a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “’Tis my brother who’s lord here,” he finished.

  “That’s true, that’s true,” Baron Hugo roused himself from his stupor, and straightened his shoulders.

  Beaufour’s brown eyes swivelled pointedly to the pale scar marking Rannulf’s cheek. “I thrashed you four years ago,” he ground out through gritted teeth, “and I’ll thrash you again!”

  “Be careful, Sir John,” Rannulf warned. “My lady mother is not here to stay my hand this time…”

  The tall knight took a hasty step round the board, and his voice rose. “Do you dare to imply that I’d hide behind a woman’s skirts?”

  “Aye. If you thought there was a profit in it. You’d stoop to murder your own mother,” Rannulf added, throwing caution to the winds. If that doesn’t force him to show his hand, Rannulf thought, nothing will.

  The clever brown eyes flashed with angry fire. The thin lips shrank almost to nothing. “You challenge me?” Beaufour demanded shrilly.

  A small smile played across Rannulf’s lips, he could see the knight saw him dead already, but he refused to be drawn, not yet.

  A guard hovered uncertainly at Hugo’s elbow. “Your pardon, Baron.”

  “Aye? What is it, man?”

  The guard bowed. His round face looked blank, as though he were stunned.

  “Get on with it, then,” Beaufour snapped, testily.

  “Aye, s…sorry, sir.” he stammered. “There…there’s a messenger at the gateway!”

  Rannulf noticed he addressed his remark to Beaufour and not to his brother.

  The knight waved a mail clad arm. “So? Let him in. What are you waiting for?”

  “But…but, sir…” The man shifted uneasily from one foot to the other.

  Rannulf’s smile widened He knew what had thrown the man. Judith and Saewulf must have convinced their companions…He felt his spirits lift. He waited.

  “’Tis the outlaws, sir,” the guard blurted, disbelief colouring his voice. “The messenger claims to speak for the rebels in the Chase! Apparently, sir, they want a meeting.”

  At this, Beaufour blundered to the door, seeming blind with rage. His beringed hand dragged his sword out. “Dregs! Scum!” he cried, and the veins bulged on his neck. “Make them eat steel! I’ll show them justice! We don’t treat with outlaws!”

  Rannulf sighed. He had roused the Devil in Beaufour and, unable to take it out on him, Beaufour was venting his spleen elsewhere. He looked as though he might explode.

  Baron Hugo lifted himself ponderously to his feet. “John!” he called after his knight.

  Startled, Beaufour swung round.

  “Hold, I say.” The Baron drew himself to his full height, and set his jaw in a stubborn line that Rannulf recognised from their youth.

 
; “Hold, Baron?” the knight said, incredulously.

  Rannulf kept his tongue firmly between his teeth. He would not interfere now. Not when his brother seemed to be making a decision of his own. Everything was beginning to go as he had planned…

  “Aye,” the Baron was saying. “My brother is in the right. I am lord here. And you will heed me, Beaufour. We’ll do it.”

  Beaufour scowled, eyes darting from one brother to the other. His sword scraped back into his scabbard.

  “Do what, Hugo?” Rannulf stepped forwards, keeping his eagerness in check. “Meet with the outlaws?”

  “Aye. We’ll treat with them. And you, brother, shall be our mediator.”

  Rannulf took his brother’s hand in a firm grip. “My thanks, Hugo. I’ll arrange it.”

  As he brushed past Beaufour to the door which led to the gatehouse, Rannulf intercepted a glance that was pure venom. Rannulf kept his face impassive. He’d done a good morning’s work, but he’d made a mortal enemy into the bargain.

  “Baron, consider.” Beaufour was back at the Baron’s side. He lowered his voice to a confidential whisper and as Rannulf walked out into the cool corridor, was already pouring new and subtle poisons into Hugo’s ear.

  Rannulf sighed. He’d done his best. He prayed that his instincts were right, and that his brother wanted to break free of Beaufour’s influence. For if he did not…Hastily, Rannulf abandoned that line of thought. He did not like to think what he might have to do, if Hugo remained in Beaufour’s thrall.

  Chapter Ten

  The noon light filtered down through a tracery of gilded leaves which hung, suspended, over the four people sprawled in various lazy attitudes on their cloaks in a patch of sun. It was peaceful in the glade. The four people, three men and one woman dressed like a man, were unarmed.

  A beetle crawled past one of Judith’s boots and forced its way under a leaf. Judith watched the fallen leaf with half of her mind as it wiggled and shifted as though it had been brought to life. Out of the forest it would be a bright, golden autumn day. Here it was warm, but the light was muted. It was quiet. Even the wood pigeons were dumb. She cast her eyes down one of the cool, dark pathways which ran out of the clearing. Which way would he come? she wondered. As her blue eyes came to rest on the disused hunter’s hide, a slight smile tugged at the edge of her mouth.

  She’d recommended this place for a rendezvous, and Saewulf had not hesitated to agree. Her smile dimmed. She’d not liked Rannulf’s tone when she’d left with Saewulf. She prayed that God would grant him understanding. She loved Rannulf, but it had been her duty to do her best for her people. Perhaps, when Rannulf realised what place they were meeting in, he would understand what she was trying to say.

  Today would be a new beginning for them all. For Saewulf, Alfred—all of the men. And a new beginning for Judith and Rannulf, too. It must be as though they were meeting for the first time, and nothing: no hatreds, no feuds, nothing must stand between them. The two woven hurdles were warped and rotten now. The turves had fallen through the ancient wood, the hide was hardly more than a mound of earth. New grasses had taken root in it. A new beginning. She felt strangely uplifted.

  Judith craned her neck to peer up at the sun, but veiled as it was by the trees, she could not judge the time. Surely he should be here now?

  “Saewulf?” she asked.

  “Aye?”

  “What hour is it?”

  “I’ve not heard the Angelus bell, Judith. Rest easy, he’ll be here.”

  And then, as though the angels had been listening, the clear notes of the bell drifted into the clearing.

  “Midday,” Alfred pointed out, unnecessarily. He sat up, straight as a spear, no longer relaxed. “’Tis time.”

  Four pairs of eyes sharpened. Four sets of ears listened, counting, as the Angelus rang itself out. There was a slight rustle in the foliage and a pheasant screech. Judith started, and strove for calm. She must be more tense than she had realised. That everyday summons to prayer had jangled along every nerve in her body. She heard the chinking of bit and bridle; the soft, muffled thud of hoofs plodding over soft earth. Judith scrambled to her feet. It was time.

  Out of the tail of her eye she saw Alfred make a hasty sign of the cross. She stared.

  “My apologies,” he said, slightly shamefaced. “But I’ve not your faith in this man. ’Tis no easy thing to face one of them unarmed.”

  “You can trust Rannulf,” Judith smiled, touching his arm with an assurance that astounded even her. She could feel the tension in Alfred’s arm, and his face was drawn and unusually pale.

  “It’s your judgement I’m trusting, my lady,” Alfred said frankly.

  “You won’t be disappointed. But, Alfred—”

  “My lady?”

  Since she’d come back to the Chase, the Saxon warriors had taken to calling her by her title. The old honour that would have been her due had her parents lived. “I’ve no title. Please, just Judith—nothing more.”

  “Judith,” Saewulf broke in sharply. “He’s here.”

  At the sight of him her heart missed a beat. Rannulf was riding slowly into the clearing. He was no longer mounted on the dubious nag he’d bought in London. He was astride a fine black gelding whose flanks shone like polished jet. Sir Guy rode with him. They were using the path that led directly from the Castle.

  “Not creeping up on us, then. Not trying to catch us out. I like an honest approach,” Wulfric commented, but none the less he stood on the balls of his feet on the verge of flight.

  “Not wearing their armour, either,” Alfred muttered, and the strain in his face eased.

  The two Normans drew level with the hide, dismounted, and tossed their reins over a handy branch. They turned and drew near, halting when they were a lance-length away from the four Saxons.

  “Good day, Sir Rannulf,” Saewulf said, calmly. He looked curiously at Guy.

  “Good day, Coverdale,” Rannulf responded. He indicated his companion. “This is Sir Guy Lambert. My good friend, and witness to our meeting.”

  Guy had a bow for Saewulf and a smile for Judith.

  Judith returned Guy’s smile, and shifted her attention to Rannulf. He bore himself stiffly; there were new lines about his mouth, and his left arm looked as though…

  “You were hurt!” she burst out. “I can see the padding under your tunic. Why did you not tell me?”

  Rannulf’s green eyes met hers. It was the first time he had looked at her, she realised, since he had ridden up.

  “It is of no consequence,” he said, eyes quite cold. “Your brother’s death filled my mind.”

  Judith’s mouth sagged, and she felt the hope that she had been nurturing begin to shrivel up and die. So much for new beginnings. Did Rannulf really not understand the significance of the meeting place she had picked? Or had she lost him now for good? Surely he could see that she’d had to make one last attempt to secure her people’s future? She snapped her mouth shut.

  “I wanted to say—” Rannulf had turned from her and was speaking to Saewulf again “—how much I regret your brother’s death. He stabbed me in the dark, and I reacted automatically. It was only when I could see again that I realised I had struck a mortal blow. I’m sorry for it. I’ve asked the village priest to attend the funeral. You’ll be burying him at the Abbey, I take it? There’s no plot of hallowed ground at the chapel.”

  Guy Lambert was watching her. Judith strove to keep her features in order. She felt about as wanted as a leper at a banquet. In a daze she heard Saewulf’s murmured acceptance of Rannulf’s apology, and heard him inform Rannulf that the arrangements for Eadwold’s funeral were already in hand.

  Rannulf raised a brow. “Already?”

  “Aye, Judith went at dawn.”

  She felt Rannulf’s gaze light on her. She smiled shyly at him, but met with no obvious response. She bit her lip, and looked down at the ground. She shivered.

  “Judith,” Guy said gently in her ear.

  She for
ced her head up. “Aye?”

  “Will you walk a little apart with me, so they can speak freely?” He offered her his arm.

  “My thanks.” Judith rested her fingers on the Norman’s arm and walked with a heavy heart to the edge of the glade.

  “I’m surprised at you, Judith,” Guy said, with a grin.

  “Oh?”

  “I would have expected you to insist that you take part in the discussions.”

  “They can do what they like,” Judith said in a dull voice. “I care not what the terms are. Just as long as there’s peace between us. That’s all that matters, isn’t it?”

  “Is it?” Guy asked, softly.

  Suddenly, irrationally irritated, Judith flung a scowl at Rannulf’s friend. Guy Lambert knew how she felt. He always had known, even back in Cyprus. The amusement on his dark face stung her. “I’m glad you’ve cause to laugh, Sir Guy,” she said stiffly. Her eyes crept across the space to where Alfred and Wulfric stood. Probably everyone knew. Were they all laughing at her expense?

  “Listen! Did you hear that?” Guy grabbed at her arm, his face had sobered in an instant.

  “That was Rannulf’s horse; he stamped—”

  “No, not that,” Guy hissed. “Listen…”

  She felt the blood drain from her face. She could hear more horses. A whole troop by the sound of it, and hurtling this way from the heart of the Chase. The others could hear them too, and by the look on their faces they thought as she did. Alfred’s face was the colour of tallow, his head was tipped to one side. Wulfric made a lurch for the trees. Rannulf and Saewulf whipped round as one man, and stared towards the spot where she and Guy were standing. He’s managed to look surprised, Judith thought, in the part of her mind that was not numb with shock. And he must have known, he must be in on this. So much for trust. Not moving, for she felt as though she’d never move again, Judith watched him rush towards her.

  “Run, Judith, run!” Rannulf had reached her, his fingers bruised her shoulders. He wheeled her about and shoved her roughly towards one of the narrower trackways that led, circuitously, to the Castle.

  “Betrayed!” Wulfric’s snarl came from the other side of the clearing. His voice held all the fury of a cornered animal. “The bastards have cut off our retreat!”