Le Blanc too was freed from his yoke. He stood, bemusedly rubbing his wrists, his eyes fixed on Judhael, who sprawled in the mud with Stigand’s sword at his throat. One hand over his nose, Judhael attempted to rise, but Stigand’s sword, a slim silver line in the firelight, held him down.
Pointedly, Edmund sheathed his seax. ‘I’ve travelled as far as I’m going with you, Judhael. You take roads that I’ll not walk on. Lufu…’ Wearily, he scrubbed at his face. ‘You should not have done that. Lufu is one of us.’
‘That trollop has a loose mouth. It needed closing.’
‘But to leave her unconscious and bleeding, out in this weather…! No, Judhael, that was ill done.’
Stigand allowed Judhael to struggle up on one elbow. Blood trickled from Judhael’s nose, his lip curled. ‘So, Edmund, you’re allying yourself with the new Lord of Fulford?’
‘I didn’t say that, but I’ve done travelling with you.’
‘And what about me? Do you hand me to the Frank, so he can dangle me from the nearest gibbet?’
Emma put her hand to her mouth and sucked in a breath. Leaving the shelter of Adam’s arm, Cecily started towards her. Faint hoofbeats could be heard in the thickets to the south of the clearing, from the direction of Seven Wells Hill.
‘Make your mind up,’ Judhael said, wiping the blood from his nose. ‘The Breton must have laid a trail for his cavalry—listen, they’ve tracked us down.’
‘Damn it, Judhael, you’re a brother to me. I can’t see you in your winding sheet.’ Edmund waved at Stigand, who sheathed his sword. ‘Go on—get out of here.’
The hoofbeats were getting louder. Scrambling to his feet, Judhael dived at a horse and threw himself into the saddle. Wheeling about, he offered Emma his hand. ‘Not the life I’d hoped for, love, but will you join me?’
Emma stumbled back. ‘I…I…no! I’m sorry, Judhael. I…I can’t.’ Blindly, she fled to the awning, cheeks glistening with tears.
Judhael’s jaw dropped and he seemed to age ten years. ‘Emma? Emma?’ He spurred after her, but Edmund snatched at his horse’s bridle.
‘Go, man, if you value your life. They’re almost on us!’
Judhael singled out one of the men by the fire with a look, and lifted an eyebrow. ‘Azor, are you with me?’
‘Aye.’ Slapping Gurth on the back in a gesture of farewell, the man grabbed a horse from its tether and vaulted up.
‘Eric?’
‘I’m with Edmund. When it comes to bludgeoning our womenfolk…’ Eric shook his head.
White about the mouth, Judhael directed a last frown after Emma, and clapped his heels to his horse’s sides. Mud flew. He and Azor thundered out of the clearing, heading north as the last rays of daylight gilded the tops of the trees.
A heartbeat later, Wilf and Brian Herfu cantered up to the campfire at the head of Adam’s troop.
Candles lent the loft room at Fulford a soft glow, and the braziers warmed Adam’s skin. Washed and stripped to the waist, he was standing on the rush matting, submitting resignedly to Maurice’s ministrations.
Naturally he would rather have had his hurts tended by his wife, but she was below, behind the curtain in the sleeping area of the Hall, caring for Lufu. He was only suffering from a black eye and a few cuts and bruises. True, his eye throbbed like the devil, and it had puffed up so much that seeing out of it had become impossible. However, he had had a black eye before, and in a few days it would be back to normal. He might yearn for his wife to take the place of his squire, but it would be churlish indeed to summon her when Lufu’s needs were greater.
‘Turn about, sir,’ Maurice said. Dipping his fingers into a pot of evil-smelling ointment, he smeared it onto Adam’s shoulder, where the yoke had left a colourful bruise.
‘I’m not a horse, man,’ Adam said, wincing as Maurice worked it in with rather more energy than was comfortable.
‘Sorry, sir.’
Adam wrinkled his nose, trying to see over his shoulder into the pot. ‘What in the name of all that’s holy is in that stuff?’
‘Your lady said it would reduce swelling and bruising. It’s got…’ Maurice paused. ‘Arnica in it—yes, I think that was what she said. Arnica.’
‘Arnica never smelt like that when my mother used it. What the devil’s mixed with it? Rancid fat?’
The door latch clicked and a draught whispered across his skin. Cecily. His mood instantly lifting, he smiled—or rather he hoped he did. The swelling on his face probably made it look more like a grimace.
‘It’s goose fat, along with a few other things, and it’s not rancid,’ she said, returning his smile. Advancing into the room, skirts rustling over the matting, she took the pot from Maurice. ‘My thanks, Maurice. I can do the rest.’
Taking Adam’s chin in gentle fingers, she examined his face, turning it this way and that in the candlelight. Maurice quietly let himself out.
‘I hope you’re not thinking I’ll let you smear that on my face,’ Adam said, watching her out of his good eye. Her skin was flawless, and her lips were an invitation to sin—especially when she was smiling at him like that.
‘No? You think it will mar your looks?’ she said. ‘Believe me, sir, you could hardly look worse.’
‘I dare say I’ll live.’
‘That you will, thank the Lord.’ She took one of his hands and traced her fingers over his bitten nails before applying the ointment to his wrist with swift, gentle strokes.
Adam looked down at the top of her veiled head, conscious of a tightness in his chest and the beginnings of that familiar stirring in his loins. She had no idea…She was no longer a virgin, but her innocence remained intact. She did not have the slightest idea that a look, a touch, and he was reduced to a quivering mass of wants and needs and…He sighed. He wanted her. He would always want her. But—he grimaced—he wanted more than her body, he wanted her heart; he wanted her soul. He had not intended that this should happen. He had thought to wed her and bed her, and that would be an end to it. No messy emotions. No pain.
But here, staring at her downbent head, with lust making him hard as iron, there was pain. He loved her, and he wanted her to love him back. This was just like Gwenn. This was worse than Gwenn. This was not meant to happen. She was here in their bedchamber, tending him in a loving manner that roused his every sense, and he knew she would not reject him, and yet the pain remained, inextricably entwined with lust, it would seem. He could not fathom it.
She might have rushed to his defence in the rebel encampment, but he had yet to win her complete trust. Was that at the root of it?
No one had confirmed it to his face, but Philip had to be her brother. If Cecily confessed as much to him, he would know he had won her heart and her trust. And, yes, her heart was what he ached for. He had fled Brittany for a new life, hoping to escape old memories. Not for one moment had he believed that he would find a new love in Wessex, one which burned every bit as brightly as his love for Gwenn had done. But it was too soon to burden Cecily with this. She would not welcome a declaration from him for awhile.
Eyes on that rebellious curl, gleaming gold in the candlelight, Adam cleared his throat. He could be patient. ‘How is Lufu?’
‘Like you, she is black and blue. I suspect she has cracked a rib, so I’ve strapped her up. She must have fallen and hit her head on a stone, which is why she was concussed, but it’s no worse than that.’
‘Thank God.’
‘Aye.