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 Baron and his knights filled the clearing. War-horses stamped and shuffled by the fallen tree her father liked to sit on to catch the last warmth of the setting sun, and ease his stiff joints. But the sun had betrayed him. It was not warming Godric now. Silver-bright, it flashed instead from the mail coats and helmets of the Norman knights.
Something was winking at her through a shifting forest of horses’ legs. With a sudden feeling of detachment, as though she was looking through a veil, Judith saw the sun was bouncing off the polished steel blade of a spear—a spear that was rammed through Godric’s chest.
Judith’s vision blurred. She swayed, shook her head to clear it, clutched at the rough bark of the tree, and looked again.
Her eyes locked on her mother’s green robe. Edith was bending over Godric, and that unearthly sound was still issuing from her mouth.
One of the knights had wrenched the spear free. A rush of blood stained her father’s tunic, her mother’s green gown, and the leaf-littered grass. Edith was keening loud enough to be heard in London.
“Cease that wailing, woman.” A voice as hard as stone sounded through the rushing in Judith’s ears. The man’s accent was as foreign as his chain-mail coat. “And be warned. So die all traitors to the King!”
Judith was still numb with horror. Her lips moved, but no sound came out. Oddly, other senses were heightened, for she could feel the hard, deep ridges of the bark beneath her fingers and palms. She heard an animal rustling in the Chase behind her. A wood pigeon cooed.
One of the Baron’s men wheeled his horse round and the pigeon was forgotten. He drew back his arm and threw his torch. It described a flaming arch through the evening air and landed squarely on the cottage thatch. It was then that Judith realised why the smell of burning had set that tocsin pealing through her brain. It was not her mother’s cooking fire that she’d smelled. It was more than that. The cottage had been fired. That knight had not been the first to fling his torch. Blue smoke and yellow fire were already creeping up from under the eaves.
It had been a long, hot summer. Long enough and hot enough to ripen all the grain. Judith had helped Edith dry pounds of fruit for their winter store. The straw on the roof was dry too; a small spark would have been enough to fire it. Now the dry grasses crackled. Golden flames shot along the length of the roof; greedy tongues licked upwards. It would not take long.
“Burn! Burn out all traitors!” Another fiery brand was chucked with cruel carelessness on to the thatch. The man who’d flung it was grinning, pleased with his handiwork. Edith’s lament was loud enough to split the heavens apart. One of the riders laughed. Baron Hugo de Mandeville swayed like a sot in his saddle.
Judith could taste bile in her mouth. To think she’d not believed the stories…to think she’d wanted to see with her own eyes. She believed now. Eadwold was right. They were Devil’s spawn. Something snapped inside her. She felt a scream of outrage rise in her throat. It threatened to choke her. Murderers! Norman swine! She set her teeth and snatched out her dagger. She’d get one of them, or die trying…
Judith lurched forwards.
A hard arm clamped round her waist and jerked her back.
““I wouldn’t if I were you,” a male voice hissed urgently in her car. “A pretty girl like you is all they need to complete their day’s entertainment.”
“Let me go!” Judith twisted to try and confront the owner of that iron arm. “Let me go!”
The arm slackened enough for her to turn, and she found herself looking into the bronzed face of a young man she had not seen before. Judith caught a glimpse of unruly brown hair and vivid green eyes. Someone had slashed his face with a whip. A red weal cut across one cheek.
She remembered her dagger, but before she could even blink the young man moved, and conjured her knife into his hand.
Judith stared at it. Her mind was spinning thoughts so fast she couldn’t take them in. She did not believe any of this was happening.
Her mother’s keening stopped abruptly. Judith’s skin chilled. A horse blew through his nose. A harness jingled. And her mother? Judith moaned and struggled to see.
The house was burning furiously. It crackled and spat. Flames streamed from it like golden pennants fluttering in the breeze. The roof ridge sagged. There was a dull crash. The main beam had collapsed, and a shower of bright sparks went spiralling upwards in the twilight air. Her mother lifted a grief-ravaged face and stared blindly at the wreck of her home.
Desperate to reach her parent, Judith lashed out. Her captor held fast. She opened her mouth, but the wretch read her intention, threw her dagger aside, and clamped a firm hand round her mouth. A piece of burning thatch rolled off what was
