‘Cille, wake up!’
Aediva shook her sister’s arm urgently, wondering how much she should tell her about what had happened. The truth was impossible. She didn’t want to frighten her. And, besides, there was so little time. How could she possibly tell her everything in a few minutes?
Nervously she glanced back over her shoulder. She’d no wish to be carried anywhere over any man’s shoulder, let alone a Norman’s, but she’d believed this warrior when he had threatened to drag her outside. Something in his face told her he wasn’t a man to make threats lightly.
‘Aediva?’ Cille’s voice was groggy with sleep. ‘What’s the matter? Is the baby all right?’
‘Yes, he’s here. But I have to go.’
‘Go?’ Cille sat up in alarm. ‘What do you mean?’
Aediva perched on the edge of the bed, trying to find words to reassure her. ‘I have to go with the Normans. Not for long, but it’s important. We’ll be together again soon, I promise.’
‘What do they want?’
‘Nothing to worry about. And some of the soldiers are staying to make sure you’re safe, so there’s no need to worry. Just get better.’
The baby stirred in her arms and she passed him carefully to Cille, smiling at the sight of his round pink face.
‘His hair is so dark,’ she mused aloud. ‘Darker than either Leofric’s or yours. Maybe he takes after someone else in the family...?’
She stopped mid-sentence, taken aback by the horrified expression on her sister’s face. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘I wanted to tell you...’ Cille’s eyes brimmed with tears. ‘I tried to, but I didn’t know how...’
‘What?’ Aediva felt a shiver of panic ripple down her spine and pool in her stomach, hardening there like a lump of ice. What was the matter? What could possibly be so bad?
‘You’ll hate me...’ Cille’s voice was almost inaudible.
‘No! You can tell me anything.’
‘She’s delirious.’ Eadgyth bustled between them suddenly, taking charge of the baby as she jerked her head towards the curtain. ‘You should be going.’
‘But—’
‘I’ll take care of her.’ The old woman gave her a pointed look. ‘You do your part. Before he gets suspicious.’
Aediva leapt up at once. Eadgyth was right—there was no time to talk. If she didn’t hurry Svend would be back. And this time he might pay closer attention to the resemblance between the two sisters. Whatever Cille wanted to tell her would have to wait. Right now she had to get Svend away from Etton before he guessed the truth.
‘I’ll be back soon.’ She forced a smile, already hastening towards the curtain. ‘You can tell me what it is then.’
‘Wait!’
She ignored the plea, scooping up a cloak and flinging it around her shoulders as she flew through the hall, trying to shake off a vague sense of unease. What had she said to upset Cille? She struggled to remember, but her memory felt as wrung out and weary as the rest of her body. Something about the baby’s hair...?
Clearly she was more exhausted than she’d realised. Her thoughts were in chaos. She’d have to think on it later, after she’d had some rest...
She stepped outside and the cold air hit her full in the face, sending her reeling backwards. The evening before had been mild and still, but this morning she could almost believe it was winter again. She clutched the cloak tightly beneath her chin, wishing she could turn around and go back inside.
‘Just in time.’
She frowned at the sound of Svend’s voice. He was standing to one side, arms folded as he leaned against a towering grey destrier. From a distance his posture looked relaxed, but close to, she could see there was nothing casual about him. He was watching her as a falcon might size up its prey, as if half expecting her to run, his whole body poised and ready for pursuit.
She caught her breath. The rest of the stockade was empty, so that for a moment it seemed as if they were completely alone—the only two people left in the world, facing each other across a deserted, windswept village.
‘Where are your men?’ She glanced around nervously. ‘Surely we’re not travelling alone?’
He grimaced. ‘Believe me, I find that idea as appealing as you do. My men are waiting outside the stockade.’ Blue eyes had frosted to ice, hard and unrelenting. ‘I take it that you’re finally ready?’