‘It has rained a lot this summer,’ she conceded, drawing rein to look out over the gently undulating hills to the south.
The vale sloped downwards here, widening out and flattening as it reached the Great Ouse River. If she followed its winding contours she could just make out the faint white outline of the sea in the distance.
‘But look at the view.’
‘A land worth conquering.’
Svend’s deep voice made her swing round in surprise. After the events of the night, they’d been studiously avoiding each other, but now he looked different somehow, his pale hair falling carelessly across one eye, even more rugged and handsome than she remembered.
‘We were just resting,’ Renard hastened to explain. ‘Lady Cille looked tired.’
Svend’s gaze swept her features appraisingly. ‘You look pale, my lady. Are you unwell?’
‘No. I can keep up, if that’s what you mean.’
‘It’s not.’ He frowned at the darkening clouds. ‘But we need to stop anyway—take shelter in the woods.’
‘Those woods?’ She glanced uneasily down the hillside towards the thicket of fir trees that rimmed the valley. They looked dark and impenetrable.
‘We’ve no choice. There’s a storm coming and we’re too exposed up here.’
As if to reinforce his words there was a low rumble of thunder, followed by a fine spattering of rain. The horses shifted uneasily, unsettled by the change in atmosphere.
‘Come!’ He set off down the hillside at once, gesturing for his soldiers to follow.
Aediva didn’t move.
It wasn’t that she hadn’t heard him, just that she’d heard something else as well. Against the backdrop of thunder a bittern’s booming call—twice in quick succession, brief but unmistakable. She knew about the rebels’ use of such signals. Was there an ambush waiting in the woods? Was she about to be rescued? Did she want to be?
The latter question brought her up short.
Of course she wanted to be rescued! If she reached Redbourn and her deception were uncovered, who knew what the Normans might do to her? What Svend himself might do? So why did she feel this strange reluctance to be parted from him? She should grasp at any chance of escape...shouldn’t she?
‘Lady Cille?’ Svend had stopped halfway down the slope and was looking back at her, the heavy drizzle casting a murky veil between them. ‘What’s the matter?’
She should move, she told herself. The drizzle was fast becoming a downpour and her hair was sticking to her face in dark tendrils. She’d only provoke his suspicions if she stayed there.
‘We should try to cross the river first!’ she shouted, surprising herself.
‘We can’t outride the storm!’
‘No, but if the rain’s heavy, the ford might be too high to pass later.’ That made sense, even if her motives for saying so didn’t.
‘There isn’t time!’
He started back towards her and she held his gaze with an effort, schooling her expression into innocence. Why was she hesitating? She should go with him, should lead him into the rebels’ trap before he guessed something was wrong. He was her enemy.
‘We should try the river!’ she said again.
‘Why?’ His voice was hard, urgent, demanding an answer.
She shook her head, speechless with uncertainty. She was soaked through, but her skin felt red-hot under his penetrating stare. She couldn’t lead him into a trap, but nor could she betray the rebels to him.
Suddenly she knew with utter, terrifying certainty that if it came to a fight, this man would win.
And she didn’t want any more bloodshed. Not if she could prevent it.
‘The river...’ she whispered, her voice cracking under the strain. Who was she betraying?