His hand remained outstretched towards her. Judith hesitated, wanting, but not daring, to trust him. She took refuge in scorn. “You think to reassure me by such words?”

“Aye.”

“Well you do not. If you are not in the pay of de Mandeville, you must be an outlaw.”

“Must I?” Rannulf smiled.

“Why else be hunting in the Chase? “Tis reserved for that nest of Norman vipers. Anyone else caught hunting here is hanged as a thief, and if you don’t mind taking that risk you must be desperate indeed. A man with a price on your head. What would an outlaw want with me?”

Rannulf’s lips curved. “What indeed?” he murmured, eyeing her. Then, seeing her worried look, he relented. “Don’t look so worried, I’ll not harm you. I give you my word.”

“The word of an outlaw is meant to reassure me?”

“I begin to think I have rescued a shrew,” he sighed. “Perhaps I should have left you to Hugo’s men. They’re hot blooded enough to knock some sense into you, though I doubt that you would benefit from the lesson.” Rannulf rose to his feet and swung away.

It seemed to have gone very dark in the wood. The trees loomed in on them, like twisted bars in a prison cell. Judith shivered. She did not want to be abandoned here.

She scrambled to her feet, ran to Rannulf, and touched his sleeve. “I’m sorry, R…Rannulf. Don’t leave me. P…please, take me with you.”

Rannulf’s hand closed over hers. It felt warm.

“I won’t leave you. I know where you can stay the night, and tomorrow—”

“Tomorrow?” Judith bit on her lips to stop them trembling. Her voice broke. “I never want tomorrow to come. My father is dead. And my mother…Oh, God! What has happened to my mother?”

Rannulf grasped her chin and forced her to look at him. His eyes were as green as the Chase in high summer. “Listen,” he said. “We’ll get you safe, and then I’ll go back. I’ll see to your mother.”

Judith clutched at his arm. “You will? Oh, Rannulf—”

“Trust me?”

Judith nodded and swallowed.

“Come on, then,” Rannulf said briskly. “We’re wasting time.” He waved towards the thick of the Chase. “That way.” He offered his hand for the second time, and Judith put hers in his.

Rannulf had been gone from the shelter a long time. Judith pulled the folds of the fur-lined cloak he had lent her more tightly about her body, and willed him to return.

She could hear the night-time stirrings of the forest rise and fall outside the hunter’s hide. That was the sound of the wind in the dying dew-damp leaves, and that was the shriek of an owl baulked of its prey. It was black as pitch.

Judith huddled further into the small bower, wondering what protection it would offer her should a wild boar or a wolf come across her scent and decide to investigate. She fumbled for the branches of her refuge, and shook them to test their strength. She was not reassured.

Two large wattle hurdles were leaning against each other. Tied tightly at the top, they left an opening at either end. Two pieces of leather served as doors, and the outside was camouflaged with turves and leaves. It kept the wind off, but it was not designed to protect its occupant from other, more tangible enemies.

A twig cracked outside the bower and Judith’s breath caught in her throat. Rannulf had returned her knife to her. She groped for it.

The leather curtain was drawn inside. “Judith?”

Rannulf’s voice. Judith dropped the dagger. “M…my mother?” she asked at once, moving to make room for him.

He found her hand. “Judith, I’m sorry—”

“She’s dead, isn’t she?”

“Judith,” Rannulf hesitated. “Judith, I don’t know.”

Hope flared. “What do you mean?”

“I went back, as I promised. Your father was lying as we last saw him. Your house was no more than a smouldering pile of ashes, but your mother was not there. I looked everywhere. She has gone.”

“My brothers!” Judith exclaimed. “My brothers must have got her away. They must.”

“Brothers?”

Judith nodded before she remembered the darkness hid her face. “Aye, I’ve two of them. They are both older than I. They will have her. I know they will.”

“I pray you are right.”

“Tomorrow I will find them,” Judith declared. “And tomorrow we will…we will bury my father.” She sniffed and dashed away a tear. She’d not cry before a stranger.

“Judith?” Rannulf’s voice came softly through the blackness.

“Aye?”

“’Tis no shame to weep.”

Judith sniffed again. A silence fell over them. She could hear the wind soughing in the branches above them.

Rannulf shook her hand. “You must rest. You will need your strength tomorrow.”

“I won’t sleep. How could I?” she asked, rousing herself with an effort to speak.

“If you cannot sleep, at least you can be rested. Come. Lie you here. And my cloak, thus. There. I will stand guard over you. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Rannulf. My thanks,” Judith whispered, and settled down into the softness of his ermine-lined cloak.