A crack of thunder made the decision for them.
‘Too late!’
He grabbed her reins and pulled her headlong towards the shelter of the trees, heavy pellets of rain battering their faces as if the storm itself were chasing them.
She felt as though night had suddenly fallen. Heavy branches blocked out the darkening sky, enveloping them in an eerie, overcast gloom. Svend dismounted at once, issuing orders as she peered through the trees for any sign of rebels. But there was nothing, no one, no sign that anyone had ever been there. It must have been a coincidence after all, she thought with relief. Her imagination playing tricks on her.
No sooner had the thought entered her head than two dozen men burst from the undergrowth, swords and axes raised, their bloodcurdling cries and bearded faces immediately identifying them as Saxon rebels.
The Normans drew their weapons at once, grouping around her defensively as the palfrey snorted and whirled, spooked by its sudden entrapment.
‘Cille, get down!’
She heard Svend shout, but she couldn’t see him. Almost at once his voice was lost in a deafening, seething morass of metal and blood. Desperately, she sought him out, craning her neck to catch a glimpse of pale blond hair in the very midst of the fiercest fighting. He wasn’t wearing armour, but it hardly seemed to matter. None of his opponents’ blows even came close to touching him. He wielded his sword as if it were a mere extension of his arm, every strike measured and terrifying.
She heard a loud battle cry as one of the Saxons suddenly charged through the throng, hurling himself against the boy with the swollen eye and knocking him to the ground, swinging his axe back as if preparing to bring it down on his head.
‘No!’ She looked around frantically, searching for a weapon—any weapon. The boy was sprawled on the ground, looking stunned, unable to fight back even to defend himself. Norman or not, she couldn’t let him be struck down in cold blood...
The Saxon’s axe swung down and she froze, holding her breath, willing the boy to escape—before Svend appeared out of nowhere, barrelling into the man’s side so violently that he sent them both rolling into the dirt.
A scream was torn from her lungs. Svend was already scrambling back to his feet, but so was the Saxon warrior, and this time there was no mistaking her feelings. She was frightened—no, terrified—of Svend being hurt. She hardly knew whose side she was on any more, but she couldn’t just sit there and watch. What if he were injured? What if he were killed? She had to do something.
Impulsively she charged the palfrey into the throng, determined to cause a break in the fighting.
‘Hold!’
She heard restraining cries in both Saxon and French as the palfrey wheeled about, nostrils flaring, panicking as it scented blood. In a blur, she saw men jump out of the way, then felt herself flung backwards and abruptly forwards again as the terrified beast reared on its haunches, legs kicking in mid-air, before bolting headlong into the trees.
She clung to the horse’s mane for dear life, pressing her face into its neck as twigs and branches tore at her clothes and skin, ripping away her headdress and scratching her neck with long, pointed talons. She heaved at the reins but the horse resisted, dodging and weaving between the trees, running wild as it tried to escape.
At last they burst into a clearing—a small, secluded meadow in the midst of the woodland—and she lifted her head into the sleeting rain. Blasts of icy wind whistled in her ears and coils of hair whipped across her face, half blinding her. Though not enough to obscure the view of another clump of woodland looming directly ahead. And the palfrey was heading straight towards it, galloping at full speed towards trees that looked closer together and even more dangerous. If they didn’t stop she’d be crushed against them for certain.
Then she heard another set of hooves—a heavy drumming that was slowly but steadily gaining on her. Heart in her mouth, she turned her head, knowing the identity of the rider even before she saw him.
‘Jump!’
Svend was almost alongside, reaching an arm out to catch her as she stared at him in shock. Surely he didn’t mean it? She risked a glance at the ground hurtling by and then wished that she hadn’t. If she fell beneath the hooves she’d be trampled instantly. There had to be another way.
‘Cille, you have to jump! Trust me!’
There were only a few seconds left. She was almost at the trees and he was her only chance. She wanted to let go, wanted to trust him, but how could she? She’d already betrayed her people. If she let him rescue her too she might as well side with the Normans completely.
‘I can’t!’
His destrier twisted sideways abruptly, its grey head butting fearlessly against her palfrey’s flanks, knocking it off course. Bellowing in shock, her horse reared up and she found herself hurtling backwards, the reins slipping through her fingers. She closed her eyes and braced herself, knowing there was nothing between her and the rock-strewn ground.
Then an arm grabbed her waist, catching her as she tumbled through the air, and her eyes flew open with a jolt, to look up into those of the angriest-looking man she’d ever seen.
‘Have you gone mad?’ Svend’s face was like thunder.
Aediva blinked at him, scarcely able to breathe. Her heart was pounding violently against her ribcage and his arm was tight around her waist, crushing her against him. He was half out of his saddle, bearing her entire weight apparently without effort, in the crook of one arm. She looked down, feeling like a tiny twig on a massive oak tree.
‘You could have been killed! Can’t you just trust me for once?’
Her temper flared to meet his. He was her enemy. How dared he ask for her trust? And why was he berating her anyway? She was the one who’d almost been killed!
‘Let me go!’ She twisted in his grip and he released her at once, letting her sprawl inelegantly on the wet ground.