Relief washed through her. “Oh.”

“You are displeased by this?” Rannulf asked lightly. “I thought to save you from unwelcome…er…attentions.”

“Displeased? Nay, I’m not displeased,” Judith assured him hastily.

“You might express it a little more fervently,” Rannulf complained. “Try saying, ‘My thanks, Rannulf, for spending nearly all your money on coming to me in Balduk’s House.’ ’Tis not a place I usually haunt, whatever you may care to say.”

“Rannulf, I…” Judith said earnestly. Then she saw that light in his eyes. “Oh, you wretch!” She took aim, and a chunk of bread flew across the table. Rannulf ducked, and the missile sailed into the shadows.

Judith found herself smiling, and realised Rannulf’s teasing was making this easier for her. She warmed to him. “Tell me what it was you found in the Chase that made you think I’d been murdered,” she said.

“With pleasure. As I just told you, I followed your tracks, and eventually stumbled across a little bundle of clothing stuffed into the roots of a tree. It was your blue robe, I recognised it at once. There was blood on the bodice—”

“Eadwold cut me.”

“Eadwold? A friend? Surely a friend would not do such a thing?”

“My brother,” Judith told him shortly. She could not talk about him. “I understand now—” she drew Rannulf’s attention back to her gown “—you thought I’d been killed because of the bloodstains.”

“Aye. But the gown was not all I found. While I was examining the marks on your gown, something fell out among the tree-roots—your hair. Long strands of beautiful blonde hair lying like golden rope on the forest floor.”

Judith giggled. “You sound like a troubadour.”

“I have at least made you smile. You should do it more often. It suits you. To continue.” He put his hand over his heart and grinned. “What could I think but that my fair Saxon damsel had been foully done to death, and there in my hands was the evidence? I was heart-broken.” Rannulf heaved an exaggerated sigh. “But there was worse to come.”

“Yet more?” Judith laughed, and refilled his goblet with wine.

“Aye. For it was then that I realised the full extent of the bitter blow that Fate had dealt me,” he said dramatically. “I had lost my cloak. My finest and best—the warmest cloak I had ever possessed—gone forever. Not only had those evil churls killed the young maiden whom I’d taken into my charge, but they’d also purloined my cloak!”

“What did you do next?” she asked.

“What, after weeping over my mantle?”

“Aye. After the wailing and gnashing of teeth. What then?”

“I took the evidence—your gown and shorn locks—with me and confronted Hugo.”

“What, you went to the Baron?” Judith exclaimed, her eyes opening wide.

“The same. I wanted to know if he knew anything about your death,” Rannulf explained, as if confronting the Baron was a perfectly natural thing to do.

“Nay. He’d have killed you! What did you really do?”

Rannulf met her disbelieving gaze squarely. “As I said. I confronted Baron Hugo with what I thought was the evidence…”

“You expect me to believe that you accused Baron Hugo of killing me, and lived to tell the tale?” Judith demanded incredulously.

“Of course.” He gave her an impenetrable look. “We both saw him at your cottage. He seemed the most likely suspect. I wondered if perhaps he’d decided to eliminate the whole family. I had to find out.”

“What did he do to you?”

“Do? Why nothing. Except he managed to produce a witness to testify that he couldn’t have had anything to do with your death.” Rannulf raised his goblet to her. “As you see, I live to drink to your beautiful eyes.”

His drinking vessel was fashioned from beaten copper. It glowed in the flickering light.

Rannulf drank deep. His face changed, he lowered the cup and frowned into it.

“Don’t you like the wine?” Judith asked.

“The wine’s good enough.”

“What’s the matter then? You look—”

“Judith, who do you think I am?”

She grimaced at his curt tone. “A Saxon poacher who, like many of his countrymen, has had to flee the country and take refuge abroad,” she answered confidently. “You’re a poacher from the Chase.”

Rannulf swore under his breath. “And who am I fleeing from? The Normans?” he sounded bitter.

“Aye. Who else?”

“Who else indeed? Do you still nurse a hatred against all their race?” he enquired, staring intently at his sandals.

“I do. I shall never forget that a Norman murdered my father. Never forgive it. And my mother died too.”

Rannulf’s head came up.

“The Baron did not actually use a sword on her—though he might as well have done. My mother was granted sanctuary by the Abbot. She did not see the month out. She had been ill, but it was the Baron who caused her death. She died of a broken heart.”