Leaves On The Wind. Carol Townend

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      “I won’t leave you. I know where you can stay the night, and tomorrow—”

      “Tomorrow?” Judith bit on her lips to stop them trembling. Her voice broke. “I never want tomorrow to come. My father is dead. And my mother…Oh, God! What has happened to my mother?”

      Rannulf grasped her chin and forced her to look at him. His eyes were as green as the Chase in high summer. “Listen,” he said. “We’ll get you safe, and then I’ll go back. I’ll see to your mother.”

      Judith clutched at his arm. “You will? Oh, Rannulf—”

      “Trust me?”

      Judith nodded and swallowed.

      “Come on, then,” Rannulf said briskly. “We’re wasting time.” He waved towards the thick of the Chase. “That way.” He offered his hand for the second time, and Judith put hers in his.

      Rannulf had been gone from the shelter a long time. Judith pulled the folds of the fur-lined cloak he had lent her more tightly about her body, and willed him to return.

      She could hear the night-time stirrings of the forest rise and fall outside the hunter’s hide. That was the sound of the wind in the dying dew-damp leaves, and that was the shriek of an owl baulked of its prey. It was black as pitch.

      Judith huddled further into the small bower, wondering what protection it would offer her should a wild boar or a wolf come across her scent and decide to investigate. She fumbled for the branches of her refuge, and shook them to test their strength. She was not reassured.

      Two large wattle hurdles were leaning against each other. Tied tightly at the top, they left an opening at either end. Two pieces of leather served as doors, and the outside was camouflaged with turves and leaves. It kept the wind off, but it was not designed to protect its occupant from other, more tangible enemies.

      A twig cracked outside the bower and Judith’s breath caught in her throat. Rannulf had returned her knife to her. She groped for it.

      The leather curtain was drawn inside. “Judith?”

      Rannulf’s voice. Judith dropped the dagger. “M…my mother?” she asked at once, moving to make room for him.

      He found her hand. “Judith, I’m sorry—”

      “She’s dead, isn’t she?”

      “Judith,” Rannulf hesitated. “Judith, I don’t know.”

      Hope flared. “What do you mean?”

      “I went back, as I promised. Your father was lying as we last saw him. Your house was no more than a smouldering pile of ashes, but your mother was not there. I looked everywhere. She has gone.”

      “My brothers!” Judith exclaimed. “My brothers must have got her away. They must.”

      “Brothers?”

      Judith nodded before she remembered the darkness hid her face. “Aye, I’ve two of them. They are both older than I. They will have her. I know they will.”

      “I pray you are right.”

      “Tomorrow I will find them,” Judith declared. “And tomorrow we will…we will bury my father.” She sniffed and dashed away a tear. She’d not cry before a stranger.

      “Judith?” Rannulf’s voice came softly through the blackness.

      “Aye?”

      “’Tis no shame to weep.”

      Judith sniffed again. A silence fell over them. She could hear the wind soughing in the branches above them.

      Rannulf shook her hand. “You must rest. You will need your strength tomorrow.”

      “I won’t sleep. How could I?” she asked, rousing herself with an effort to speak.

      “If you cannot sleep, at least you can be rested. Come. Lie you here. And my cloak, thus. There. I will stand guard over you. Goodnight.”

      “Goodnight, Rannulf. My thanks,” Judith whispered, and settled down into the softness of his ermine-lined cloak.

      The Normans had thrust a knife in her heart. They were twisting it. The pain was not to be borne.

      Judith screamed and woke. She did not know where she was. Memory flooded back. She groaned aloud.

      “Judith, Judith, hush.” Warm arms enfolded her, comforting arms. Childlike, she clung.

      “Rannulf?” She gave a dry sob.

      “You are not alone,” he said. “Cry. ’Tis better to grieve.” Rannulf stroked her hair from her face. The gesture was oddly reminiscent of her mother.

      The dam broke. Tears flooded, and streamed scalding down her cheeks. Judith did not hear Rannulf’s murmured words, did not notice the hand that caressed her. She burrowed closer into his arms. She needed comfort and here was its source.

      At length the sobbing eased. Rannulf’s arms fell away.

      Judith lifted her head “Hold me tight. It hurts less when you hold me.”

      “Judith.” Rannulf hesitated. “’Tis late. We should sleep now.”

      “Aye.” Judith made to pull him down beside her. She could feel his body stiffen, resisting her. “What’s the matter? Rannulf?” She was annoyed that he should hold back from her. She needed the comfort he gave her.

      “’Tis not seemly,” came his stiff rely.

      “Not seemly?” Judith was astounded. “Not seemly? But you are far older than I!”

      “I’m twenty-one—” amusement entered his voice “—is that such a great age? Those knights were older still, and that would not have saved you from them!” he pointed out, more soberly.

      “But they are monsters,” Judith said. “Invaders. Normans. I wish a thousand plagues on them. You are not like that. You are no Norman.”

      “Judith, I must tell you—”

      “Just hold me. Please, Rannulf. I hurt so.”

      Rannulf could not see Judith through the gloom, but his ears were those of a hunter. They were trained to be sensitive to the slightest of sounds. He heard the quaver in Judith’s voice and capitulated. “Very well,” he replied lightly. “If you’ll try to sleep. Give me some of that cloak; I’m freezing out here.”

      Light glimmered faintly from the east. A bird high in a tree cried out a note or two of his morning song.

      Judith surfaced slowly from a deep sleep. She was warm. Unconsciously, she shifted closer to the body next to hers, and hugged it to her.

      Deep in the Chase a dog barked. Another bird joined in the song.

      Judith lifted her head, СКАЧАТЬ