Cecily shrugged lightly, and kept the panic out of her voice. ‘Do? What can I do save wait for my lord to return from Winchester?’ And keep everyone so busy that their heads will spin and they will have no energy left to wonder what I am really about.
The stack of fuel by the fire had already dwindled since yesterday. Luckily. She looked pointedly at it. ‘Lord knows there’s enough to do to keep the Hall running without me interfering in the men’s affairs. To begin with, the log store by the stables is almost empty. Harold and Carl can help me replenish it, else this winter will be miserable indeed. And then…’ Cecily slanted a sidelong glance at Lufu to make sure she was listening ‘The slaughtering is almost done, so you can make a start with the smoking and salting. Matty and Sigrida will lend you a hand. Matty’s mother too, if the miller can spare her. I’ll ask Evie if she’ll help. It might take her mind off her woes. And if that work’s too heavy for her, you can set her to packing the apples in straw. And when Brian has finished in the practice field he can set the men to work digging latrines.’
‘New ones?’
‘Yes. They should have been moved a couple of months since. We must get them dug before the ground gets too hard.’
Waving an airy hand, Cecily picked up her skirts and sailed out of the cookhouse to tell Gudrun—the only person here she could trust—that Philip was with her sister. That done, she would set everyone to work before riding to Seven Wells Hill. She would fetch Philip back herself. She had no choice. Wat would accompany her, as her groom. He might be simple, but he would know the way.
Inside, she was in knots.
The trail wound on through a thicket of yew. Cecily turned in her saddle, but already Fulford was lost to view. She kicked Cloud on, and shot a glance at Wat. Wat smiled happily across at her, blissfully ignorant of the urgency of their mission.
The way got steeper; the path narrowed. Brambles and briars snatched at the ponies’ legs. Spiders’ webs sparkled in the bushes, dewdrops trembling on their filaments.
‘Wat, you are sure this is the right way?’ Cecily asked, drawing her cloak—Adam’s cloak—more securely about her. Without rousing suspicion, she had not been able to bring much in the way of provisions. Philip’s blanket was currently stowed beneath Cloud’s saddle, and she’d sneaked a frugal lunch of bread and cheese and a flask of ale into her pack. A couple of russet apples. But that was all. They could not afford to get lost. They could not afford to spend the night in the open.
Wat nodded vigorously. ‘Right way. Up hill. Then no wood. Then Gunni’s hut. And…and…’
Cecily remembered. Gunni the shepherd was Lufu’s sweetheart. His hut on the edge of the Downs marked the halfway point to Seven Wells Hill. Or so Cenwulf had told her, in that other life, before Duke William had brought his army to England. ‘And after the hut,’ Cecily said, finishing Wat’s sentence for him, ‘Seven Wells?’
‘Aye, Seven Wells.’ Wat’s expression clouded, and he fingered the dagger at his belt, perhaps not as carefree as Cecily had assumed. ‘Cec take care at Seven Wells.’
‘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.