Medieval Brides

A skirt swished, and something dark moved at the back of the workshop, by the door that led to the private family chamber. A white face appeared. ‘Evie!’ Cecily cried, almost choking as Leofwine pressed the point of his blade into her throat. ‘Come out! Please, speak for me!’

Skirts rustled. Leofwine slackened his grip and scowled over his shoulder. ‘Well, Evie? Is this yet another Fulford woman come to put us in peril?’

Cecily looked an appeal at Evie. There were tight lines around the girl’s eyes, and she clutched protectively at her belly, her large belly, with both hands. Evie was heavy with child.

‘Evie, you remember me, don’t you? It’s Cecily—Cenwulf’s sister.’

More rustling of skirts as Evie came to stand close. She tipped her head to one side, examining Cecily’s profile, raising her hand to draw back the edge of the novice’s veil. Slipping her fingers under Cecily’s wimple, Evie extracted a long strand of yellow hair. Then she nodded and stepped back.

‘Aye.’ Her sigh was heavy. ‘It is Cecily Fulford. The likeness to Cenwulf is remarkable. If you think back, Leo, Cecily was the sister they sent to the convent…’ Briefly, Evie touched the wooden cross at Cecily’s breast. ‘Both this and her habit attest that she speaks true. This can be none other than Cecily of Fulford.’

Leofwine’s seax vanished. Taking Cecily by both arms, he shook her so her teeth rattled.

‘Listen, Cecily of Fulford, I don’t know why you have come visiting, and to be frank I do not care. I want you to leave. Evie and I have enough to contend with without your family stirring things up for us.’

Manhandling Cecily to the door, he reached for the latch.

‘A moment, please.’ Cecily bit her lip and gestured apologetically at Evie. ‘I…I’m sorry, but I saw my sister Emma at the Cathedral yesterday, talking to Judhael. I thought they might have come here.’

Evie and Leofwine gazed blankly at her.

‘Did they?’

Leofwine set his teeth, unlatched the door, and attempted to shove Cecily into the street.

‘Did they? Evie?’ Resisting Leofwine with all her might, Cecily felt the words tumble out. ‘I would have talked to them if I could, but it…it was not possible. I only want to know Emma is well…that she is not alone. Do you think she’s with Judhael, Evie?’

Evie turned her head away, chewing her lower lip.

‘Evie? Please…’

Evie spun back, and with little more than a swift headshake stopped Leofwine ejecting Cecily into the street. ‘Cecily…my lady…in the past your family were more than good to mine. Would that we could help you…’ again her hand rested upon her belly ‘…but we have our own family to consider—’

‘Aye,’ Leofwine all but growled. ‘Years without her quickening, then now, of all times, when the saints have deserted us and the world is in turmoil…’

‘Babies choose their own times,’ Cecily murmured, and sent Evie a warm smile. ‘I am happy for you.’

Evie inclined her head. ‘I thank you. But you must see how difficult it is for us. I will tell you what I told Emma—’

‘So she did come here. I knew it!’

‘Evie—’ Leofwine’s face darkened ‘—be wary.’

Evie placed a hand on her husband’s arm. ‘Think, love. Since Judhael told us less than nothing of his plans, there’s not much we can tell. But we can at least put her mind to rest on one score. Emma is with Judhael, Lady Cecily.’

‘They have left Winchester?’

‘I believe so.’

‘But you don’t know where they’ve gone?’

‘No—and we will have no part in any scheme of yours. As we will have no part in any of Judhael’s. I told both him and your sister as much. We are ordinary working people, my lady, and even at the best of times we walk a tightrope. Now—’ she lifted her shoulders ‘—we have to tread even more carefully.’

Cecily’s shoulders drooped, and she scrubbed wearily at her forehead. ‘I’m sorry. Perhaps I shouldn’t have come. I’d hoped to see Emma—to convince her that flight is not the only road open to her, to persuade her to come back to Fulford with me.’

‘She’ll never do that. Not while a Norman is suing for her hand.’

Cecily met Evie’s gaze, thankful that the poor light hid the hot colour that rushed into her cheeks. ‘Adam Wymark is from Brittany, not Normandy.’

Evie shrugged. ‘What’s the difference? Breton, Norman—marauders all. Your sister will have none of them.’

Cecily swallowed. She had heard similar words from Emma’s own lips. And if Judhael was Emma’s lover, Emma’s flight was all the more understandable. ‘Emma need have no fear of Adam Wymark. Not now,’ she said. ‘Evie, if you should see her again, I’d like to leave a message—’

‘No,’ Leofwine broke in curtly. ‘No messages.’

‘A few words only—should you chance to meet her.’ Suddenly it was vital that Emma knew of Cecily’s betrothal to Adam. ‘Please tell her that the Breton knight has agreed to marry me in her stead.’

Evie’s jaw dropped. ‘You, my lady? You’d marry one of them?’

Cecily lifted her head. ‘Aye. I am returning to Fulford. Please tell her.’

‘You’re mad. Being cooped up in that convent’s sent you mad.’

‘You may have something there,’ Cecily said quietly. ‘I loathed it.’

Evie’s face softened, and impulsively she took Cecily by the hand. ‘You poor thing. It must have been bad to make marrying one of them a better choice.’

‘Adam Wymark is not an evil man,’ Cecily said, knowing it to be the truth, but wondering how she knew this.

‘No?’ Evie patted her hand, her face the image of disbelief. ‘You poor thing.’

‘He’s not!’

Another pat. ‘I’m sure he is not.’

But Cecily intercepted the look Evie sent her husband, and she knew that Evie did not believe her. In Evie’s mind all the Duke’s men had souls as black as pitch. But life was not that simple. It would be easier if it were, for then she would not feel so guilty. It was as if, merely by talking to Leofwine and Evie, she was somehow betraying Adam. But there was no time to examine her guilt—which was misplaced anyway—she had a newborn brother and the villagers of Fulford to look to. They must come first.

‘If you please, I will leave now.’

Leofwine gave her a mocking bow and pushed open the door. A stream of sunlight rushed into the room. Momentarily blinded, Cecily picked up her skirts and stepped over the threshold.

‘Don’t fear for your sister, Lady Cecily,’ Evie called. ‘Judhael will look after her.’

Cecily nodded, though she had to push aside a nagging memory of the cold, almost callous expression on Judhael’s face when he had been talking to Emma in the Minster.

‘He will—I swear it.’ Evie smiled through the doorway and opened her mouth to say more, but Leofwine swung the door shut and cut off her words. The bolt scraped home.

Hunching into her cloak, Cecily glanced swiftly to left and right. At the southern end of Golde Street the sullen workmen were receiving their orders from a crop-headed Norman overseer in a scarlet tunic. The overseer’s shoulders were wrapped in a purple velvet cloak the emperor of Byzantium would have been proud to call his own. The booty of war, perhaps? By comparison the Saxon workmen were dull, in their brown and grey homespun. At their backs, the oxen were being roped to a series of metal grappling hooks that glinted menacingly in the sun.

Not that way. Turning on her heel, Cecily retraced her steps, hoping to be back before any of Adam Wymark’s company marked her absence. If questioned, she had a story ready, may the Lord forgive her for the lie: she would say she had been visiting Nunnaminster, the nunnery founded by KingAlfred’s Queen Ealhswith.

In the sunless alley running along one side of Leofwine Smith’s workshop, Adam Wymark and his captain exchanged glances. They were standing under the eaves, two men who had stood still and silent for some time, cloaks firmly wrapped about them to ward off the chill.

‘My apologies, Tihell, I should not have doubted you,’ Adam murmured, a grim set to his jaw. Since Félix Tihell, like him, came from Brittany, he was speaking in his native Breton. ‘Emma Fulford must have come here. You say you saw her leave the city afterwards?’

‘Aye, sir. She left by the Hyde Gate—the one that bypasses the abbey.’

An overwhelming surge of emotion was building inside Adam. It had been building from the moment he had heard Cecily in the workshop. Struggling to contain it, for a cool head was needed here, he lifted a brow. ‘So the Lady Emma does go north?’ He was furious: he wanted to tear the workshop apart plank by plank; he wanted it never to have existed. Cecily Fulford had come here. Cecily Fulford was a devious, lying witch. Damn her—damn her and her betraying blue eyes—damn her to hell.

‘So I believe.’

Adam’s hands were curled into fists. He forced them to relax. ‘I wonder…We thought that before and were wrong. Was Lady Emma on her own or did she have an escort?’

‘One Saxon man accompanies her—a groom, I think. I’ve a man tracking them. Told him to send word back to the garrison from her next stopping place.’

‘Good lad.’ Adam scowled at the workshop’s rough wooden planking. It was green with damp. ‘You say that the man who lives here is a goldsmith?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Why should both Fulford ladies come here? What is the connection?’

‘As yet, I don’t know,’ Tihell said. ‘Could you make out what they were saying?’

‘No, damn it. My English is not yet up to it. Yours?’

‘Sorry, sir. Mine is no better. I caught a name or two—Emma, Judhael, your Lady Cecily…’

‘My Lady Cecily.’ Adam’s tone was bleak.

‘What will you do, sir?’

‘Do?’

Tihell peered round the corner of the workshop and looked meaningfully down the street, the way Cecily had gone. ‘About her. I doubt she was exchanging recipes for pancakes.’

Adam’s mouth twisted. ‘Hell’s teeth, Tihell—’

‘Will you report her to the garrison commander?’

Adam stepped out into the street and stood, hands on hips, staring towards Westgate, but in truth he saw nothing. ‘Hell’s teeth,’ he repeated. ‘One minute I’d swear she was the sweetest girl in Christendom, and the next I wonder if I’ve contracted to marry a viper.’

Tihell was eyeing the shuttered window and the closed door of the workshop. He leaned a broad shoulder testingly on the wood. ‘You want to see inside, sir?’

Adam held up a hand. ‘No—no need for that as yet. It would give the game away.’

‘Sir?’

‘You and I know that the Fulford ladies have been here, but I don’t want our knowledge proclaimed from the rooftops.’

‘Sir?’

Lowering his voice, tamping down the irrational anger that was burning inside him, Adam leaned closer. ‘We play a waiting game, Tihell. Watch, pretend to know less than nothing, and we may draw them out. Don’t mention Lady Cecily’s visit here to the men, will you?’

‘No, sir.’

Clenching his teeth against the pitying look his captain sent him, Adam started off up the street.

Tihell kept pace alongside. ‘On the other hand, sir,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘it may not be as bad as it looks.’

‘Rebels are known to be in the area,’ Adam said curtly.

‘Yes, sir, I know. But Lady Cecily is not necessarily—’

Adam checked. ‘You seek to advise me? Out of your great wisdom?’

‘No, of course not. It’s just that I…Will you report her to the commander?’

‘Since we didn’t understand above a word of what was said, we’ve no proof of what she’s up to either way. Anyway, what’s it to you if I do report her?’

His captain shrugged. ‘Nothing. But she does have a way with her.’

‘Oh?’

‘No need to look daggers at me, sir, but she does have a way with her, and you can’t deny it. I’ve seen you watch her. And young Herfu told me that last night you and she—’

‘Tihell, you’re on thin ice. An old friendship can only be tested so far.’

‘Yes, sir.’

They continued in silence for a pace or two.

‘Sir?’

Adam sighed. ‘Captain?’

‘Herfu likes her. And Maurice. Already.’

‘And I. That’s the hell of it,’ Adam said softly.

‘She seems kind—genuinely kind,’ Tihell went on, as they reached Westgate and started down the hill behind a man rolling a barrel towards the market. ‘No foolish airs and graces. Will you hand her over to the commander?’

Adam made a dismissive movement. ‘Damn it, man, can’t you sing another tune?’

His captain flushed. ‘My apologies, sir.’

‘Listen, Tihell—listen carefully. Rather than see Lady Cecily put in some dank cell when we’ve no solid proof of her disloyalty, I intend to take her back to Fulford. I can keep better watch over her there—if she is in contact with the Saxon resistance, she will act as bait.’

‘You intend to use her?’

‘I do indeed. Lady Cecily will draw them out. If I handed her over to the garrison commander Duke William’s cause would not be advanced one whit. Watch her and we may uncover an entire nest of vipers—’

‘But, sir, there is another possibility…’

‘Something warns me that you’re about to tell me what that might be.’

Tihell gave him an earnest nod. ‘There might be a perfectly innocent reason for Lady Cecily’s visit to Golde Street.’

Adam stared. ‘It seems that Herfu and Maurice are not her only conquests. You also seek to be her champion.’

Tihell kicked a chicken bone into the gutter and would not meet his eyes. ‘Don’t rush to judgement, sir, that’s all,’ he muttered. ‘If she is disloyal, time will tell.’

‘We’re all fools,’ Adam said slowly.

‘Sir?’

‘Have done, man, have done. I’ve a mind of my own and have already decided on Lady Cecily’s fate.’

‘Aye, sir.’

Adam smiled. ‘Perhaps another commission will put a stop to your philosophizing?’

‘Sir?’

‘When the troop leaves for Fulford I want you to stay behind. Wait for your man to send word, and then get on Lady Emma’s trail yourself.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And be wary, Tihell. I don’t want to lose you.’

‘Sir.’

‘Then, regardless of what you discover, we shall rendezvous in three days’ time, at the garrison. Noon. You can give me your report then.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Chapter Ten

He caught up with the little novice before he had worked out what he was going to say to her. There was a flash of blue ahead of him—his cloak—moving swiftly along the path through the cemetery. At least she is not running off, like her sister, he thought, and some of the tension he had been carrying fell away. He did not want to lose her.

Hell, that was not right. He did not want to lose the chance of using her. Give her some rope and she would help flush out resistance to Duke William’s rule. Yes, that was it: he was planning to use her…

Adam shook his head at the chaos an innocent-looking face was bringing to his normally orderly mind, and began closing the distance between them. That hideous veil was lost beneath the hood of his cloak. A strategist by nature, Adam fought to compose his thoughts. He misliked entering a field of battle in disarray.

Was that was this was? A battle? Damn it, a couple of hours ago he had woken with the girl in his arms, soft and pliant from sleep. Her morning kisses had tasted of welcome; they had seemed to hint that they might deal well together, had seemed to promise affection, if not love itself, given time. Hah! The little novice might well have been moved by love this morning, when she had visited the goldsmith’s house, but it was not love for him. No. He must strive to remember that.

But, with his eyes fixed on that diminutive cloaked figure, his thoughts refused to get back into line. The touch of her…the smell of her…somehow she had driven out his longing for Gwenn. Temporarily, of course, but it had been a first to awaken and not ache for Gwenn. That should have alerted him. The little novice was not as harmless as she appeared. He was treading on treacherous ground.

His lips curved into a self-deprecating smile. Wonderful. He had no clear strategy; he did not have the lie of the land; he was about to engage with the enemy. Bloody wonderful.

Cursing himself for the worst kind of fool, Adam stared at that slender back and narrowed the distance between them. If only he could read minds. She was hoping, no doubt, that her visit to Golde Street had gone unobserved. Gritting his teeth, ignoring a bitter taste in his mouth, he waved his captain on with a muttered, ‘Look to the horses, man, and get the troop in order. We’re leaving for Fulford in half an hour.’

‘Yes, sir.’

He strode up to the little novice and caught her by the shoulder. ‘Lady Cecily?’

‘Sir Adam!’ She practically leapt out of her skin. ‘I…I was just wondering where you were.’

I’ll bet you were, Adam thought, missing neither the nervous smile nor the guilty flush. For his part, he was wondering what lies she would feed him. ‘Where have you been?’

‘I…I…thought I would take a look round the town. It’s been so long since I was last here.’

Taking her hand, placing it carefully on his arm, he urged her towards the garrison. ‘Where is Maurice? He should have escorted you.’

Her eyes were wide, her expression earnest. ‘I did not think I would go far,’ she said. ‘I told him I was only going to the Cathedral, but then I…I thought I would like to see the convent at Nunnaminster.’

Liar, liar, Adam thought, fighting to school his expression to one of polite interest. ‘What was it like?’

‘The nunnery?’

‘What else?’ A tendril of hair was curling out under the edge of her wimple, gleaming gold in the sun. He tore his gaze away and reminded himself of what he must do. Nothing. He must do nothing because this was a waiting game. Give her some rope and see what she does with it.

It would be easier, cleaner, quicker—an end to this torment, this polite fencing that left so much unsaid—to shake the truth out of her once and for all. He grimaced. Direct confrontation might put an end to the ache that was not knowing whether he could trust her or not, but it would not advance Duke William’s cause. No, he must play the waiting game. It should not be hard. A pretty Saxon face and a soft, warm body would not distract him from his duty to his lord.

‘I…I could not find the convent,’ she was saying. ‘I l-lost my way at the top of Market Street and came straight back.’

She was the most terrible liar. No, it was more than just that. She did not like lying to him. Unaccountably Adam’s heart lifted. Nodding at her almost cheerfully, he covered her hand with his and they proceeded towards the Old Palace, outwardly a Breton knight, with his lady at his side. And inwardly? Her fingers were trembling under his and she would not meet his gaze. Adam might be deluding himself, but he did not consider that all was lost if she disliked feeding him lies.

Adam had borrowed a horse from the garrison for Cecily to ride home. It was a wreck rather than a horse. Gripping the reins, Cecily glared at the back of the animal’s head and, using her heels, tried vainly to urge it into a trot. She was riding astride, no ladies’ saddle being available at the Palace stables, and today that was a blessing. Had she been riding sidesaddle she doubted she would have been able to get the wreck to do more than shuffle, and she was lagging behind as it was. Astride, there was some measure of control, or so she liked to imagine. The wreck was spavined and flea-bitten—not fit even to be a packhorse.

Struggling with her mount left Cecily with no energy to worry about displaying darned stockings or watching their route. It left her with little energy for worrying about the disturbing conversation she had had with Adam outside the Palace walls. She could not put her finger on why the conversation had disturbed her, but she could not set it behind her. Nothing overt had been said, and yet dark undertones had been present. Of course she did not know Adam Wymark well enough to know his every mood. He might have a nature as volatile as her father’s, but she did not think so. Outside the Palace she had sensed…she had sensed…

Had Adam found out about her visit to Leofwine’s house? It was certainly possible, but he had not said as much. Throughout his manner had been polite, watchful—yes, very watchful—and ever so slightly off. He must know more than he was saying.

She glanced over the ears of the wreck she was riding. She had no idea how far they had gone. Apart from Maurice, who rode silently at her side, everyone else in Adam’s troop, including Adam himself, was several hundred yards in front of them. Sighing, Cecily reapplied her heels to the wreck’s ribs.

The road was bordered by spindly hawthorn bushes that were peppered with berries. Old man’s beard snarled in the leafless branches of blackthorn bushes and tangled in thin, red-stemmed dogwoods.

As their party rounded the next turn they came to a crossroads, where the way was scarred with deep ruts, white with the chalk that told her they were nearing the downlands—sheep-farming country. In the summer the downs were a haze of bees and blue butterflies, and as for the skylarks…But this was November, Cecily reminded herself. The downs would be quiet. There would be no skylarks spiralling in the heavens—the downs would be resting, like the convent herb garden.

They passed a moss-covered milestone with the name ‘Fulford’ carved deep into its surface and she realised with a jolt that they were almost home.

Home. Perhaps it had been a mercy that for the past few miles her mind had been occupied, for now they were almost there her stomach began to churn. What would she find at Fulford? Was there anyone left who would recognise her? Would she be able to keep her brother safe?

Cecily dug in her heels and the horse’s ears flickered, but the beast must have a hide of iron and the will of a mule, for its pace was unalterable. Slow, slow, slow.

Ahead of them, Adam shoved his cloak back over one shoulder and leaned a hand on the cantle of his saddle. ‘Maurice, take Lady Cecily’s reins, will you? She’s obviously in difficulties, and it’s dangerous to be strung out along the road like this.’

Without waiting for any response, he about-faced, pulling his cloak back into place.

Since returning with her to the Palace, the man she had agreed to marry had not spared her so much as a glance. He must know about her visit to Golde Street. The warm, considerate, handsome man who had kissed her that morning had been transformed into a harsh, glacial-eyed warrior. Were they one and the same person? First thing this morning Adam had seemed kind—almost sweet, if a man could be sweet. But after she had returned to the Old Palace he had been cold and distant. Unapproachable.

And now he was bent on humiliating her in front of his squire. She huffed out a breath. She was not in difficulties. It was the pitiful shambles of a horse she’d been given. Poor bony nag, it could barely stand. Her father would never have mounted her on such a beast; he would have deemed it only fit for dog meat.

Maurice reached down and took her reins.

‘It’s not me,’ Cecily muttered, glaring at Adam’s broad back.

Maurice urged his own destrier on, and its sheer size and strength forced the wreck to keep up. ‘I know,’ Maurice said. Behind the nose-guard of his helm, his dark eyes were smiling. ‘And so does Sir Adam.’

‘Then why did he choose such a horse for me?’

‘Sir Adam was lucky to get a horse at all. It was the last in the stables.’

‘The last? I wonder why? I should have thought the Duke’s men would have fought to the death over it.’

‘Quite so, my lady.’ Maurice’s lips twitched. ‘But it must be better than sharing Sir Adam’s.’

‘Oh, yes, Maurice. At least I’ve been spared that.’

Trotting along with Maurice, several yards behind Flame, Cecily ignored the sharp look that Adam’s squire gave her and concentrated instead on keeping the horse moving.

The Wessex countryside slid by, becoming more and more familiar with every step. The road ran up a rise and down the other side, beginning a gentle descent into a lightly wooded valley that sliced a long bite out of the downland. Flocks of sheep moved placidly over the downs, and below, on the floor of the valley, the River Fulford flowed slowly on. It would eventually reach the Narrow Sea. Generations of Cecily’s family had lived near the River Fulford. Its waters had ground their corn, kept their fish fresh in the fish pond, helped them grow cress…