Leaves On The Wind. Carol Townend
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and muttered.
“John!” a commanding voice shouted, loud but slurred with drink.
The knight checked, reluctantly, and glanced over his shoulder. He was the only one who’d left his place. “My lord?” There was insolence in his tone.
“Curb your lusts for once, will you?” Baron Hugo, their Norman lord, was in command. Wine made his words run together. “I thought we’d other fish to fry. That one’ll keep.”
“My lord.” The knight’s helmet dipped in reluctant acknowledgement. The eyes behind the steel turned once more to Judith and gleamed. The man saluted. She could see his teeth. She knew he’d be back.
Spurs flashed, dust rose, and then the riders were gone, riding like demons from Hell.
Judith stared after them. “They’re crossing the ford,” she announced, puzzled. “The water’s splashing up; I can see the spray. Where can they be going?”
Aethel shuffled to her door, and propped herself on her stick. Her face was haggard. “They’ll be taking t’shortcut through t’Chase,” she said heavily.
Judith frowned.
“Why are Baron Hugo’s men carrying torches?” Leofric demanded.
Judith stiffened. She felt the hair rise on the back of her neck.
“Baron de Mandeville to you, young Leo,” Aethel corrected her grandson.
Leofric released Judith’s hand and picked up a stick. He swished it through the dead leaves that had blown in from the Chase. “Aye, Grandmother,” he muttered sulkily. “Baron de Mandeville. But why are they carrying torches? “Tis light still, and I’ve not heard the Vespers bell.”
Judith had gone cold all over. She looked sharply at Aethel.
Suddenly severe, the old woman snatched the stick from her grandson and frowned at him. “Why don’t you occupy yourself with something useful—like helping me to tie up those bundles of herbs.” She waved her stick in the direction of her hut.
“Oh, Grandma!” Leo wailed his complaint, painfully aware that this was work for girls.
“Cease your moaning. Inside with you.” Not unkindly, the old woman pushed the boy through the door and made as if to follow.
Judith opened her mouth. “Aethel…”
Aethel froze.
“You…you don’t think they’re headed for our cottage, do you, Aethel?” Judith blurted at Aethel’s back.
Stiffly Aethel turned her head. She did not speak. Her old, tired eyes were sad.
Judith stepped backwards. Her blue eyes widened “No! No!’ Her voice rose. “Not my mother! Not my father! No!”
Aethel sighed. “The miracle is, me dear, that it did not happen sooner.”
“No! I won’t let them!” Judith cried. She took hold of Aethel by the upper arms. “I need a horse,” she got out. “Quick, a horse, tell me…where can I find one?”
“But Judith, you can’t—”
“I can, and I will.” Judith shook the old woman mercilessly. “Now, for God’s sake, Aethel, tell me. I must find a horse!”
“Smithy…he’ll be shoeing—”
“My thanks, Aethel.” Judith whirled and began to run.
Aethel sighed, and shook her head. She sagged against the door-frame and her eyes were sadder than ever. There were days when she thought it was a curse to have lived so long.
The dust had settled, the village square had come alive again, but Judith did not notice. Hens scratched in the road. Two pigs guzzled, snuffling with delight, on a tumble of apples spilled from a basket. A girl stalked up to the swine, stick in hand, and, shrieking, beat them back; but Judith did not hear her any more than she heard the rising chatter of peasant voices or the rhythmic swishing of flails.
Her ears were tuned to the dull clanging of hammer on iron. It matched the pounding of her heart. She raced towards it. The saints were with her. The smith was in his forge. Outside, unattended and tethered to the rail, a dainty bay mare waited, begging to be taken.
Judith snatched at the reins, hitched up her skirts, and launched herself on to the animal’s bare back. The mare sprang forwards. Judith turned her towards the ford, thanking God that her skill made the lack of a saddle unimportant. Cold water splashed on her bare legs. Behind her someone loosed a string of curses. Judith ignored them.
She leaned forwards over her mount’s neck. “Come on, my beauty,” she addressed the mare. “Show me your paces. Show me how you can fly.”
She dug in her heels and thought of her mother. Edith, whose beauty still shone through the deep furrows that pain and loss had scored across her face. Edith, who had not let bitterness sour her sweet nature. She dug in her heels and thought of her father. Godric Coverdale. A proud Saxon thegn in that other lifetime, before she’d been born. He was a cripple now, he needed a stick to help him hobble about. He’d lost more than his health at Hastings. The howling winds of change had blown her mother and father down from their rightful place, and now it seemed that fate had not finished with them. Sweet heaven, her parents were unprotected—Eadwold and Saewulf had gone to Tanfield! Surely God would not desert them?
The bay plunged into the Chase. Blackthorn twigs plucked at the skirts bundled about Judith’s hips. They scratched her arms and knees, and left long, red trails along her thighs.
“Faster, beauty, faster!” Judith urged. She must get there in time, she must. She would warn them. They could hide in the wood, until the Baron had gone, until her brothers returned. Then they’d go to the Abbey. They could hide there, claim sanctuary. What had they done wrong? Their only sin was that they were of the old nobility. They were Saxons, and it seemed their Norman lord had sworn to be rid of them.
Horse and girl streaked past a clump of hazels. The bay stumbled. Judith held her together by sheer will-power. She gulped in some air. She should not be riding the woodland path at such a speed. She knew that. If the mare fell, and broke her leg, she’d have to be destroyed. Judith set her jaw and ruthlessly wrung another spurt of speed from the beast.
Judith had never ridden so fast. The air rushed past her face and tugged her hair free from her braids. It was like flying. But a sinking feeling in her stomach warned her that it was not fast enough. They’d reached the tall oaks that grew in the heart of the Chase. A pheasant started up with a clatter of wings from a browning patch of bracken. The mare shied. Grim-faced, Judith clung like a leech, and pressed on.
She could smell burning.
On the fringe of Mandeville Chase, Judith reined in, and flung herself to the ground. Panic had not driven prudence entirely from her mind. She was now only a spear-throw from the cottage. Quiet as a mouse, she crawled forwards. A sturdy tree trunk blocked her view.
The burning smell was stronger now. She wrinkled her nose, a pretty nose, slightly uptilted, with a scatter of freckles left by the summer sun. Judith swallowed. She felt sick. She dared not look. She told herself it was the time of year for bonfires. She’d left her mother preparing food stores for the winter. Perhaps she was smoking the fish herself this year, perhaps…
The mare snickered behind her. An answering whinny floated back on the warm, evening air along with the smell of the woodsmoke. Judith’s heart slammed. Her parents had no horse, and the mule had gone to Tanfield…
Then the screaming began.
It was an ungodly sound, barely human, more like a wolf howling. It was her mother. Judith braced herself to peer round the tree. How could that raw, animal lament be her soft-voiced mother? She prayed her instincts were wrong and stuck her head out.
A gasp stole the breath from her lungs. Wide-eyed, Judith stared at a scene straight from the mouth of Hell.
The