middle of the road, blue eyes burning, cheeks flushed, hands clenched tight at her sides.
Already the Norman knights were clattering across the drawbridge. Each rider had his place in the troop. They were carrying burning torches. To a man, they wheeled their mounts round on to the worn track, and galloped straight at the village. Feet scurried. Doors slammed.
Judith’s heart missed a beat. It was beginning to look as though Eadwold’s stories were true.
By the time the riders reached the cottages, their route was clear. Even brainless chickens knew better than to peck in the path of the lord and his men, for they had scuttled to safety. The knights could have been riding through a plague village. It was still as death.
Judith’s blue gown fluttered in the warm, evening breeze. Ten pairs of hard eyes, concealed beneath steel helmets, noticed the movement. They saw a slender wand of a girl standing before one of the meanest huts, watching them with open curiosity. A strand of wavy fair hair floated free from her braids and shone in the waning rays of the sun.
“Here’s sport!” one of the riders bawled. He hauled on his reins and broke line. The lack of fear in the girl’s eyes was a challenge he could not resist.
Judith felt a small hand slip into hers. It gripped hard and tugged. “Judith!” a child’s voice piped up at her. “Grandma wants you!”
“Leofric,” Judith did not need to look at the boy to know his identity. It was Aethel’s young grandson. “Run along, now. I’ll be in in a minute.” She ignored the insistent pull on her arm.
The rider had pointed his mount at Judith. His destrier came forwards slowly, huge feet stamping the dry earth. Fine clouds of powdered soil curled like mist round the stallion’s hocks. The knight’s shield hung from his saddlebow, blue with a silver device—a crescent moon? Judith found herself looking up into a face that was all steel. She could see nothing human beneath the mail and helmet. His torch flickered 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
