‘I will.’
They emerged from the gloomy woodland into a bright expanse of sheep-grazed turf—the Downs. Here, the wind cut keen as a knife, and the sky was a large blue tapestry with grey clouds building up in the east. Clumps of gorse and broom broke up the broad sweep of green; heather frothed along the trackway.
Wat’s pony stumbled on an old anthill. ‘Gunni’s hut,’ he said, pointing.
The hut was nothing more than a roughly thrown together heap of stones with a roof of dried bracken. As a shelter, it was basic, but Cecily could see it would keep off the worst of the weather. There was no sign of Gunni, but then most of the sheep had just been put to slaughter. One or two had escaped their fate and were grazing their way over the downland. But no shepherd.
‘Not long to the Old Fort then, Wat?’
‘Halfway,’ Wat said, toying with the hilt of his dagger. ‘Halfway.’
They stumbled across the rebel encampment almost by accident. It lay hidden in a wooded hollow, just below Seven Wells Hill. One minute Cecily and Wat were staring up the chalky path that led up to the Old Fort, apparently the only souls for miles around, and the next half a dozen armed men had leapt out of nowhere.
A filthy figure dived at Cloud’s bridle. Wrenching on the reins, Cecily caught a glimpse of a drawn sword, of two deadly-looking daggers stuck into a broad belt, and a pair of savage blue eyes. The man’s features were obscured, partly by the nasal bar of his helm and partly by a beard that couldn’t have been trimmed in over a month. Every inch of exposed skin was streaked with grime, from his half-hidden face to the hand hauling on her pony’s bridle. His sheepskin jerkin was no cleaner.
Even though Cecily had known rebels were in the area, and had been expecting them to make a move, her breath came fast and she struggled not to panic. These men were fellow Saxons. She was safe. Wasn’t she?
Steel flashed in the winter sun.
Wat made a choking sound, his face white as bone. One man was hauling on the reins of Wat’s pony while another had his sword levelled at Wat’s throat.
‘No! Stop!’ Cecily cried. Appear calm. Lifting her chin, she met her countryman’s gaze square on. ‘My name is Cecily. I am Thane Edgar of Fulford’s youngest daughter, and I am searching for my father’s housecarls—Edmund and Judhael. Would you kindly direct us to them?’
She tightened her hands on her reins to hide their trembling. She was not more afraid than when she had first met Adam and Sir Richard. She couldn’t be. These men were Saxons…
She raised her chin another notch. ‘And would you do me the courtesy of unhanding my groom?’
They were led deeper into the trees that clustered at the base of Seven Wells Hill. It began to rain—a fine drizzle, more mist than rain, that caught in Cecily’s veil and dampened Cloud’s neck and mane. Woodsmoke, the smell of it faint but certain, caught in her nostrils.
A couple of hundred yards later they arrived at a natural clearing, with a fire in the middle. The fire was smoking and hissing, and more armed men were crouched round it, huddled in their cloaks. Her breath was still fast; her skin was like ice. Was this fear? Could she be afraid of her own people? Adam, oh, Adam, help me.
‘Judhael!’ The Saxon leading Cloud called out. ‘Edmund!’
Two men broke away from the group by the fire. Edmund was walking freely, with no sign of his crutches, his splint, or even a limp—as hale and hearty as could be. He had deceived her. A sickening realisation. The other man was tall, and he had long fair hair that was caught back at his nape with a sheepskin ribbon. His eyes were a cold, dead blue. Judhael. He took Cloud’s reins from Cecily’s escort.
‘I’ll take it from here, Gunni,’ he said.
‘Gunni?’ Cecily’s jaw dropped as the man in the sheepskin jerkin turned and walked towards the fire. Her father’s shepherd. She hadn’t recognised him.
‘Edmund, where’s Philip?’ she asked. ‘He is safe? And what about Emma?’
‘They’re both here. Both are quite safe,’ Judhael said, in a curt, clipped voice. Far from reassuring her, his words chilled her to the marrow—for they did not fit with the look in his eyes, which was dead and utterly detached. ‘What interests me is how you knew where to look for us.’
Involuntarily Cecily’s gaze focused on Gunni. Judhael’s eyes narrowed. ‘Lufu?’
The hairs rose on the back of Cecily’s neck. Never had she seen a man look so ruthless. ‘No. No!’
‘Lufu. Damn her for the leaky vessel she is. Here, Edmund.’ Judhael thrust Cloud’s reins at the other housecarl. ‘You take care of this one. I’ll not be long.’
Edmund watched him stalk from the clearing, an uneasy expression in his eyes.
‘Edmund, what will he do?’
‘Am I Judhael’s keeper?’
‘He wouldn’t hurt Lufu…would he?’
Shaking his head, Edmund led the ponies to a low branch and tethered them. ‘Cecily, you can’t save the world.’
A shelter had been set up under the trees—a tented affair, made out of canvas. Under the awning, several people were sheltering from the rain. Dour-faced warriors with swords at their hips were sitting on split log seats—about two dozen all told. It was hardly the vast rebel army that Cecily had been expecting. Their resources were pitiful: a few stacks of wood; a deer carcase slung between two poles. The bole of a tree was their conference table, and their shelter had no walls to keep out wind or rain. Or wolves. She shuddered.
‘You thought Philip would be safe in this place?’ Though fear had its grip on her, she was pleased her voice was steady. ‘I think not. He was born before his time, and needs more care than you can offer him here.’
Edmund’s face closed. ‘Your brother is where he belongs. With Saxons. We’ll look after him.’
Cecily recognised that set expression. Her father’s face had worn just such a look on the day he had announced that she was to go to St Anne’s. All her weeping, all her pleading had availed her nothing. She bit her lip. She knew immovable mule-like stubbornness when she saw it.
Briefly, she shifted her attention from Edmund towards the men under the awning, hoping against hope to find a chink in their armour. But the faces that gazed out were equally stony, equally without fellow-feeling. There was no sign of Emma—no one she could appeal to. She hid a sigh. Perhaps an oblique method might succeed where direct confrontation would fail…Perhaps if she adopted an approach she had been too young to try four years ago…
Fixing a light smile to her lips, she looked back at her father’s housecarl. ‘I suppose your mind is made up?’
‘It is.’
She kicked a foot free of its stirrup. ‘Then I had best help, hadn’t I? Edmund, help me down. I’ve Philip’s swaddling bands in my pack.’
‘I’m sorry you do not see eye to eye with us, my lady,’ Edmund muttered as he helped Cecily dismount. The silver bracelets that her father had given him jingled on his wrist. He waved at Wat to lift her pack down and, leading her through the rain towards the shelter, added, ‘Judhael was insistent Philip should be our figurehead, and you must see that our cause needs a focus.’
Cecily shot him a sharp glance and snorted her scorn before she could stop herself. ‘A babe? Your cause is so desperate you needed a baby?’
‘Aye.’ Edmund smiled, but his grey eyes remained sharp and hard as flints. ‘The men’s spirits were at a low ebb. Your brother—the legitimate heir to one of the largest holdings in Wessex—will act as a banner around which they can rally. More men will join us. We only want a fighting chance to overthrow the bastard before he gets fully entrenched.’
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