LITMIR.BIZ

      As the grey and the roan climbed towards the summit of Seven Wells Hill, the rain began to ease and the breeze strengthened. High up, a red kite coasted into view. Uncertain of what he was looking for, but praying they would stumble across something, anything, that might lead them to Cecily, Adam found himself envying the big bird its vantagepoint. Perhaps it could see Cecily. Not that the vista was bad from up here, with what must be the whole of Wessex spread out below them on all sides. At the peak, it must be like standing in the middle of a map.

      Shivering, grateful for the thick padding in his gambeson, Adam urged the gelding to the summit, and took a moment or two to get his bearings in the hope of seeing something that would tell him what to do next. He was almost at a complete loss, riding on pure instinct—something he never liked to do. At bottom, he was a planner, a strategist who disliked taking unnecessary risks, but today his instincts were screaming at him, telling him that all the planning in the world might not be enough to lead him to Cecily.

      Below lay the wooded valley they had ridden through—the one that led to Fulford. Behind him, to the north, lay Winchester, with its acres of cultivated fields. The peasants’ strips were clearly visible, brown stripes marked off by ancient hedgerows, by the twisted trunk of a leafless crab-apple or a lichened medlar. To the south the land rose and fell in soft curves as it disappeared into the distant reaches of the South Downs. Today they were blurred by low-lying cloud and dark with the last of the rain, but on a clear day one might see the sea he had crossed.

      ‘Take a look at this, sir!’

      Adam wrenched his gaze from the undulating waves of downland that he had been scouring in the vain hope of seeing a diminutive figure in a blue cloak and wheeled his horse round.

      ‘A beacon!’ Le Blanc had pulled up in the centre of a flat, grassy area at the top of the hill. Leaning to one side, he drew his sword and flicked at several turves of grass that formed a mound in the middle. As the turves flipped over, Adam saw they were camouflaging an oilcloth, which in its turn had been flung over a squat metal brazier. Clinging to his pommel, Le Blanc lifted the oilcloth with the point of his sword. The brazier was brimful with wood and ready to fire, assuming that the oilcloth had kept off the worst of the weather.

      The brazier had probably last seen use when Duke William’s fleet had been sighted to the east of the Narrow Sea. It would have called out the fyrd, the local militia. With its commanding position, the Seven Wells beacon would be visible in most of Wessex…

      ‘Do you think it’s still in use?’ Adam said, his pulse quickening as inspiration struck. ‘Le Blanc?’

      ‘Sir?’

      ‘Fire it. Fling damp vegetation on it so it smokes like hell, and then gallop back to Fulford. Fetch Herfu and as many men as you can muster.’

      Le Blanc blinked. ‘But, sir, Saxon scouts are bound to see the smoke, and every rebel within spitting distance will be on you in a heartbeat.’

      ‘Exactly.’ Adam waved an arm to encompass the vast landscape spread out below. ‘Look about you, Le Blanc. If we don’t fire it we could be searching for their camp till the last trumpet sounds. This will draw them out in no time.’

      ‘I’ll fire it, sir, but I’ll not leave you. Maurice is bound to see the smoke. He can raise the alarm.’

      ‘They’ll outnumber us.’

      Le Blanc shrugged. ‘Nevertheless, I’ll not be leaving you.’

       Chapter Nineteen

      Cecily pushed back the flap of the awning. Edmund was outside, arguing with Judhael.

      ‘It’s impossible, I tell you,’ Edmund was saying in exasperated tones. ‘So many are dead! And those that are left have fled or have no authority.’

      ‘What about old Morcar of Lewes, and Siward Edwardson—?’

      ‘You’ve just hit the nail on the head there, Judhael. They’re old. Both of them doddering, grieving for sons lost in battle. You’re mad if you think they carry any authority…’He caught sight of Cecily and lowered his voice, and Cecily could not catch the rest.

      Sighing, she wrapped her arms about her middle and went to peer in Philip’s basket. The baby was awake, on the point of dozing, a dribble of milk at the corner of his mouth for the wet nurse had just set him down.

      ‘Thank God you found Joan,’ Cecily muttered to Emma, who was still watching the men by the campfire. ‘Otherwise we’d be in for a sleepless night. I only hope we can keep him out of the draughts.’ Impulsively, Cecily gave her sister a hug. ‘I love you.’

      Emma turned, her eyes awash with tears. ‘It was not meant to be like this,’ she whispered, in a choked voice. ‘I—’

      ‘Judhael!’ A lookout cried out. ‘Prisoners!’

      Cecily was on her feet in an instant, the hairs lifting on the back of her neck. No…no!

      Four horses were being ridden into the encampment. Thank God, Cecily thought, on registering the riders’ flowing hair and beards, Saxons. No sign of Flame. For a moment she was giddy with relief. It was only Judhael’s scouts, coming home to roost for the night. There were no prisoners; the lookout had been mistaken…

      As the cavalcade rode slowly through the thickening dusk towards the campfire it was possible to make out that two of the horses did in fact bear high-backed chevaliers’ saddles, with pommels at the front. Cecily froze. Her countrymen thought horses too valuable to risk in fighting; they only used them for transport. And since Saxons fought on foot they had no use for such saddles…

      And then she saw him. Adam. Her heart lurched.

      Adam and another man were bringing up the rear. They had rope halters around their necks, but that was not the worst of it. Thick branches had been lashed across their arms and shoulders like yokes. With their arms forcibly outstretched, and the weight of their burdens unbalancing them, they were slipping and skidding in the mire. George. The man staggering alongside Adam was George Le Blanc. Their clothes were plastered with mud kicked up by the horses; their heads were bowed; their faces hidden.

      With a sob, Cecily gripped Emma’s arm and dragged her from the shelter. Gunni followed, close and silent as her shadow. The trees loomed up around the clearing, their trunks tall and dark in the twilight; the fire sputtered; torches flared.

      One of the scouts unwound the leash tying Adam and Le Blanc to his pommel and tossed it to Judhael. ‘Found a couple of strays by the beacon,’ he said, jumping down from his horse with a grin. ‘Thought you’d like to put them out of their misery.’

      Cecily stumbled nearer, but Emma hung on her arm like an anchor, and when their eyes met Emma gave her head a quick shake. Ignoring her, Cecily broke free and edged closer. She was not mad enough to think she was a match for Judhael and these men, but she had to get near Adam—she had to. There was room for no other thought.

      The torchlight flickered on his dark, rain-slicked hair. Adam, Adam, look at me, she pleaded

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