Medieval Brides

‘Stockings,’ he repeated. ‘They’re next. Of course you can keep some of your clothes on, but these will get in the way.’

‘Th-they will?’

‘They will.’ He slid his hand up her leg and dealt with the fastenings. Ignoring the gasp of breath as his fingers trailed over her stomach, he drew off her stockings. One. Two. ‘Me next,’ he said, clearing his throat. Taking her hand, he set it against the cross-gartering at his calves. Her lightest touch was a torment. Already he was hard and ready for her. Praying the eagerness of his body would not repel her, he swallowed and asked, ‘And the English word for this?’

‘Cross-gartering.’

‘Cross-gartering,’ he said, trying out the words. ‘Cecily?’

‘Mmm?’

‘We don’t need cross-gartering either.’

‘Oh.’ She moved to unwind his leg-bindings, and as she did so her breasts shifted to peep out of the low-cut shift. Adam groaned, and leaned forwards to press a swift kiss on the scented warmth of her breast. She made a small sound, part-gasp, part-sigh. Her fingers stumbled over his bindings, then resumed.

‘That’s it, Princess.’

‘Princess?’

Adam’s cheeks burned. ‘That’s what you look like out of your convent habit—a princess, a Saxon princess.’ Taking his leg-bindings from her, he dropped them onto the floor, and reached for her hips. ‘My princess.’

He kissed her nose and her mouth and her body melted into his. Pressing closer, he let her feel the desire his body felt for hers. She moaned. Innocent, yes, but not cold. A maid, but not an ice maiden.

Taking one small hand, he pushed it under his tunic to the ties of his hose. ‘Help me. We definitely don’t need my hose or my braies.’ Her cheeks went scarlet, but she tugged at the ties of his hose and pushed the fabric of both garments down.

Adam sat up and made a point of lifting the hem of his tunic.

‘W-we don’t need that?’

‘No. Too hot,’ he said. ‘It is a furnace in here.’ He held up his arms, and after a brief pause she hauled his tunic up and over his head.

She drew back, eyeing his shirt. It was now his only remaining garment, as the shift was hers. Wrapping her arms across her chest, she frowned at him. ‘Adam, you agreed we’d keep some clothes…’

With a grin, Adam turned away long enough to blow out the candle on the bedside coffer. ‘Blow out your candle, if you please.’

Still frowning, she pinched out her candle, and became at once a shadowy figure, vaguely outlined by the soft glow of the braziers. Her hair gleamed pale gold through the dark.

Adam swallowed down a lump, and guided her hands to his shirt. ‘Cecily, we really don’t need this…’

Her breath came out in a shuddering sigh, and there was another pause during which Adam could hear the drums below, could feel the blood pounding in his veins. His manhood ached.

She tugged off his shirt.

‘And now you,’ he whispered. ‘Let the darkness clothe you, Princess.’

Moving closer, he brought his head to hers, raining kisses on her forehead, her cheeks, her mouth, quickly, quickly, hoping that in her innocence she would be distracted and not notice how his hands were running down over her hips, nor how they were tugging at the silk undergown, lifting…

‘There,’ he said, a note of triumph in his voice, as finally the silk undergown joined his tunic and shirt on the rush matting. ‘That didn’t hurt, did it?’

‘N-no. But, Adam!’ She gave a shaky laugh. ‘You promised!’

He silenced her with a kiss, and brought his naked body to hers. As flesh met flesh, both of them gasped. Trembling in his eagerness, Adam eased her onto her back. ‘Oh, Cecily, the feel of you—so soft, so…’

In the glow of the braziers Adam could see more of her than she most likely realised. Her skin was creamy, her breasts high and firm. Her eyes looked dark, dazed. She was the most beautiful creature in the world. Burying his face in her neck, he let his hand drift down over her breast. Immediately her nipple peaked under his fingers.

‘Adam!’

Her voice contained shock, but no displeasure. And that nipple was a temptation he could not resist. Smiling, he kissed a path down her shoulder and over her breast, so that he could take it deep into his mouth.

‘Adam!’ Her hands were in his hair, stroking, caressing, holding him to her. She liked it. She liked it…One small hand was sliding under his armpit, tugging him back up, urging his mouth back to her.

‘Adam…’

Her mouth opened under his and she continued to move restively under him. Her scent filled his nostrils, more intoxicating than any wine, and her hands slid down his sides. When she pressed him to her, and thrust her hips instinctively at him, Adam heard himself moan. ‘Sweetheart, yes…’

‘Show me, Adam. Show me what to do.’ Her hand was inching round to his front, but it was too much, too soon. He felt ready to burst. If he was not careful it would be over in seconds. Catching her hand, he eased away and set it back on his waist.

‘Adam?’

‘Not yet, love,’ he muttered, quivering with tension. ‘You will spoil it.’

‘Adam?’ Her breath caught and she turned her head away, her voice small. ‘You don’t like me touching you?’

Gently he brought her head round and kissed her. ‘No—on the contrary, I like it too much. You…you excite me.’

In the dim light of the braziers her eyes went wide. ‘I do?’

Clearing his throat, he gave a shaky laugh. ‘Too much, I fear. You unman me, Cecily.’

‘I…I don’t understand.’

‘Here.’ He kissed her cheek and her collarbone. ‘This first time, let us start with me pleasuring you.’

There were questions in her eyes, but he settled his lips at her breast and ran his fingers over the silky skin at her sides and down her thighs. They parted at his lightest touch, and when his fingers found her secret woman’s place she made a sound that was part-gasp, part-moan.

‘That’s…Oh! Adam, that’s…Yes, that. Adam, don’t stop, please…’

She was making tiny incoherent sounds—sounds that made him think he could wait no longer. Gritting his teeth, fighting his own instincts—instincts that were prompting him to roll onto her and push himself deep, deep inside—Adam kissed, he stroked, he teased, he caressed. He kept reminding himself that his bride was innocent, that she was a virgin, but it was hard for him to remember because she was panting, her breath coming in short gasps, and all the while she clung to him.

‘Adam—Adam, please.’

His innocent wife’s nails were gouging holes in his arm and shoulder, and then it happened. Her breath stopped and her whole body went tight as a bow. Under his fingers the warm flesh throbbed.

She let out a sigh and her body went slack. ‘Adam, wh…what was that?’

‘Pleasure, I hope.’

Another soft sigh. ‘Pleasure indeed.’ She gave his shoulder a gentle bite and licked it.

He groaned, utterly lost. The musky scent of her arousal filled his consciousness. In all the world there was only Cecily and himself. When her hands started to explore his body again, Adam could wait no longer. ‘Now?’

‘Mmm…yes!’

He moved over her, positioning himself carefully, with his weight on his elbows. She writhed. ‘Stop, Princess, stop. When you do that—’ Gritting his teeth, Adam rested his forehead against hers. ‘It is too much. You must hold still—please hold still. I am trying not to hurt you.’

She smiled at him through the dusky light, and as he readied to push she pressed a series of kisses to his mouth, took hold of his hips.

‘Careful, love. Steady, or you’ll—’

Another smile, and she pulled him to her. Inside. He was inside. It felt like coming home. He moved once, twice, before he remembered: innocent, she was innocent. Somehow he froze and managed to lift his head. ‘You moved. I hurt you.’

‘Only for a moment.’ Under him her hips were busy, pressing towards him, moving away, finding her natural rhythm. ‘Can we move again? Together?’

Innocent no more. His convent bride. Heart thudding, Adam buried his head in her neck and rocked his body back and forth. Someone moaned—both of them moaned. ‘No pain?’

‘No pain. I think—if you move again—there might be more pleasure.’

Heart singing, he kept moving. Back, forth, back, forth, the rhythm already perfect. ‘That…pleases?’

‘Don’t…stop.’

Her breath was coming fast. His matched it. The tension was building. It was building too fast. But it had been a long time for him, and she was…she was not helping him slow down. She was covering his face in kisses, nipping at his ear, moaning. His innocent bride. He could not last very long at this rate. One more push, perhaps two, maybe three…

Beneath him, Cecily went rigid. Her insides gripped him. ‘Adam!’

A heartbeat later her name was torn from him in a rush of joy.

By mid-morning the following day Cecily was in the cookhouse, breaking her fast with a thick wedge of Lufu’s latest batch of wholewheat bread. She was sinfully late rising—again.

Still glowing as a result of the carnal love she had discovered with Adam during the previous night, she smeared a wedge of bread with honey and sat on a three-legged stool to warm her toes by the central cooking fire. Who would have thought one of William’s knights could be so gentle? He’d made it beautiful for her. Carnal love. The love that Mother Aethelflaeda had railed against. With Adam it was…She sighed, aware that the colour in her cheeks owed as much to the memory of her wedding night as it did to Lufu’s cooking fire. Even with so much horror between them Adam had made it beautiful. Recalling how he’d overcome her reluctance and had winkled them out of their clothes, down to the last stitch, she hid a smile behind her bread.

‘My lady?’

‘Oh! Sorry, Lufu, what did you say?’ Really, she must try to give more than half an ear to the girl.

‘I was talking about Brian, my lady. He’s a miracle-worker. Not bad—for a foreigner…’

The cookhouse was indeed improved beyond recognition. Logs and kindling were stacked high to one side, ready for use. Well-scoured pots and pans hung in neat array on the walls; the workbenches and tables had been scalded; months of dirt had been scrubbed away; the floor was clean.

‘I’m glad he was helpful.’

‘Aye. He had those useless miller’s boys jumping about and no mistake.’

‘Where are they this morning?’

‘Gone to see to the slaughtering. Brian said it was long overdue.’

Cecily stared. Brian was in the right. The slaughtering was long overdue—it was not for nothing that November was known as the month of blood. She had observed as much to Adam upon their arrival back at Fulford. ‘Evidently there really is more to Brian than soldiering,’ she murmured, recalling something Adam had said.

The rumble of cartwheels sounded on the track outside. Bread in hand, Cecily left the fire to look through the cookhouse door. A moth-eaten mule was drawing a heavily laden cart towards the mead hall, its hooves cutting through the last shreds of mist which clung to the ruts in the road.

Lufu joined her in the doorway, wiping her hands on a cloth. Saucepans and ladles hung from the sides of the cart, clanging as the cart swayed and rattled over the bumps. ‘Tinkers?’ Lufu clucked her tongue. ‘That poor mule could do with a good feed—just look at its ribs.’

But Cecily only had eyes for the man and the woman hunched into their cloaks on the cart. ‘Not tinkers, Lufu. It’s Evie and Leofwine!’

‘Evie?’

‘Judhael’s sister, from Winchester.’ Dropping her half-eaten bread on the workbench, Cecily hurried out. The cart was filled to breaking point—bedding, a travelling chest, a couple of trestles and a tabletop, stools, several bundles. Whatever could be wrong? It looked as though Evie and Leofwine had brought their entire house with them apart from the four walls. She reached them as they drew up in front of the Hall.

Evie had been crying; her eyelids were puffy and swollen. One hand was clinging to the side of the cart, the other was folded over her belly, as though protecting her unborn child. Her cheeks were pale as parchment, her lips had a blue tinge to them, and she was shuddering with cold.

In his beard, Leofwine’s mouth was one grim, taut line. He nodded curtly in her direction. ‘Lady Cecily.’

‘Evie, Leofwine—be welcome,’ Cecily said, damping down her curiosity.

Evie looked mournfully across and let out a little sob as Leofwine swung down from the cart and came to stand directly in front of Cecily. ‘Are we welcome, Lady Cecily? Are we?’

‘But of course. Why would you not be?’

Evie sniffed and two large tears rolled down her cheeks. ‘I told you, Leo. I told you she’d see us right.’ She swayed in her seat, her pallor alarming.

‘Come inside, both of you,’ Cecily said. ‘Wilf will see to the mule. Wilf? Wilf!’

Chapter Sixteen

It did not take long to get Evie and her husband settled before the fire. Gudrun brought Leofwine a mug of ale. ‘I’d offer you the same, Evie,’ Cecily said, ‘but by your colour I think you’d best take this.’ Moving to the hearth, she put a spoonful of herbs in a twist of muslin, dropped the muslin into an earthenware mug and poured boiling water over it from the kettle.

‘There you are,’ she said, passing the steaming mug to Evie.

‘What’s in it?’

‘Nettle infusion, a drop of honey—it will do you and the babe good. Lufu will bring you both some chicken broth presently.’

Evie wrapped her hands round the mug, hunched over the fire, and stared into the flames. ‘My thanks.’

Satisfied that Evie’s shivering had stopped, and that her colour was returning, Cecily looked at Leofwine and silently indicated that he should move with her out of earshot. When they reached the other end of the hall, Leofwine rested his foot on a bench. His long hair was straggling out of the tie at the back of his neck; his beard was untrimmed.

‘What happened, Leofwine?’

He scowled into his ale cup. ‘That day you visited my workshop, did you see the builders at the other end of Golde Street?’

‘Yes.’

Leofwine’s face darkened. ‘Normans—the Duke’s men, may they rot in hell. They demolished the workshop.’

‘Your workshop? But why should they do that? It could not be a reprisal—not when Winchester surrendered without a fight. D-do you think they suspect…?’ Cecily caught her breath. What had Edmund said? That the Saxon cause was not lost…that Judhael was continuing to fight. And again—when she was in the loft room with Gudrun—Edmund had hinted that the resistance had plans…

‘Sweet Mother—Judhael and Emma went to your house! The Normans must know. They suspect you…’

Leofwine put a heavy, work-scarred hand on Cecily’s arm. ‘No, my lady, it’s none of that,’ he said, his voice bitter as January frost. ‘It might be easier to bear if it was. A man likes to know he’s deserved it when he has his livelihood wrested from him.’

‘There must be some mistake….’

‘No—no mistake. Those foreign devils have cut the heart out of the city.’ He glanced across at Evie, who was rocking Philip in her arms, and his face softened for a moment. ‘Two whole streets have gone, my lady. Sixty houses in all. We’ll have to start afresh.’

‘To what purpose? It makes no sense.’

‘Our old palace isn’t fine enough for William of Normandy,’ he replied with a short laugh. ‘No—he must have a fully defendable castle. They are building a timber motte and bailey first—later they’re to rebuild in stone. The bastard is afraid of us Saxons, and I expect he’s right. After this he’ll need more than a castle with a moat around it to keep his hide whole.’ He shook his head. ‘Our palace was fine enough for King Harold, but this bastard—My workshop…our house…’ His voice cracked. ‘Gone as though of no account. We merely stood in his way.’

‘Sixty houses?’ Cecily could not imagine it. ‘The entire street?’

‘Aye.’ Leowine’s eyes were bleak. ‘And with Evie so near her time I thought of you. I know you’re to wed one of them, but I thought…I hoped…in honour of the connection between your family and hers…’

‘Of course,’ Cecily said, and it was her turn to reach out to Leofwine. ‘You did the right thing, and I assure you you are both most welcome.’

Leofwine gave a heartfelt sigh and looked about the Hall, seeing it, she suspected for the first time. ‘And Fulford’s new lord? Where is he? Will he bid us welcome?’

Cecily spread her fingers so he could see her ring. ‘My husband,’ she said firmly. ‘Sir Adam will not turn you away.’

Leofwine tugged thoughtfully at his beard. ‘I trust you are right. Evie is taking it hard, but we are lucky to have Fulford as a refuge. There are those in far worse case than us. I tell you, my lady, it’s enough to make me consider taking up arms for the first time in my life.’

‘Well said!’ Edmund cut in. His crutches clunked against the table as he lowered himself onto the bench. ‘Well said, Leo. Spoken like a true Saxon.’

‘Don’t, Edmund,’ Cecily said, but her protest was swept aside while the two men exchanged greetings and Edmund commiserated with Leofwine on his ill-fortune.

‘I have more news, Edmund,’ Leofwine continued, when he had brought Edmund up to date. ‘News that will gladden your heart. Those Frankish swine didn’t have it all their way.’

‘No?’ Edmund leaned his head on his hand and looked up, his face alight with expectation. ‘Pray continue, Leo.’

Glancing at the Hall door, Leofwine leaned forwards confidentially. ‘The mint, Edmund. The mint in Winchester has been robbed.’

A slow smile spread across Edmund’s face. ‘The Winchester mint? You do surprise me.’

Edmund’s tone did not match his words. Her heart sinking, Cecily’s eyes went from one man to the other, observing their reactions, guessing at the level of their knowledge, wondering at the level of their involvement. Had Judhael been responsible for this robbery? She chewed the inside of her mouth, debating with herself whether she judged it a crime to have robbed the mint at this moment. The Winchester mint was a Saxon mint, and yet with Duke’s William’s conquest it suddenly belonged to the Normans? Was that just? Those coffers had been filled by Saxons, with Saxon silver, for a Saxon king—King Harold.

‘Aye.’ Leofwine’s eyes gleamed. ‘Someone ripped the strongboxes clean from the floor. Must have used the same method—rope and oxen—that was used to pull down my workshop.’

‘Really?’

‘Aye, so there’s some justice.’

Edmund shifted closer. ‘Evie’s brother, I’ll be bound.’

Leofwine’s face became blank. ‘Could be. Couldn’t say.’

Cecily bit the inside of her mouth so hard the metallic taste of blood burst onto her tongue. Yes, it had to be Judhael. Pray God he had not dragged Emma into this. If they were caught the Duke of Normandy would be merciless. What was it Edmund had told her? That the whole of southern England had been laid waste…

Sick with dread, she held her peace. But dread was not her only emotion. She was frustrated too—frustrated and angry. Before Edmund’s arrival, Leofwine had deferred to her, had been content to talk to her. But now that Edmund was here—even though she was lady of the Hall and Edmund had been but one of her father’s many housecarls—they were doing what men always did: talking to each other as though she, the woman, was invisible. Her father had treated her mother in like manner. As a child she had resented it every time he had done this, and despite the passing of the years her view of such behaviour had not changed.

‘Judhael.’ Edmund nodded with satisfaction, but his expression was ugly. ‘Good—it’s time we had some substance behind us. The tide will turn in our favour, Leo. This is but the beginning.’

Leofwine’s face remained closed. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

Cecily shifted, uncomfortable with the way Edmund was leading the conversation, but just then Adam strode into the hall and Edmund clamped his mouth shut. An awkward silence gripped the room.

Adam had been helping Brian Herfu with the slaughtering, and he was numb with cold. He made straight for the warmth of the hearth. Newcomers. A pregnant woman was seated to one side of the fire, cradling the baby Philip, and at the other end of the hall Cecily was standing with Edmund and a bearded Saxon. She did not look happy.

Conscious of the grim aspect he presented, with his tunic and hose begrimed with sheeps’ blood, Adam nodded briefly to the woman at the fireside. ‘The annual winter slaughter,’ he murmured.

The woman swallowed and gave a curt little nod, but her eyes widened and fastened on the bloodstains. Adam knew by the way she lost colour that she had to be thinking of Hastings. Thankful that he had at least had the forethought to wash the worst from his hands in the river, he flexed his fingers before the fire and waited for feeling to return.

‘Adam, we have guests,’ Cecily said, breaking the silence. When she started walking towards him, he left the hearth and met her halfway. He took her hand and she shuddered. ‘You’re frozen!’

‘You can’t wear gloves when killing sheep.’

‘You’ve been helping Brian?’ she asked, surprise in her tone.

‘As you observed yourself yesterday, the practice field needed clearing. Did your father not take part in the cull?’

Slowly she shook her head, quietly observing the blood on his clothes, but she did not withdraw her hand from his. Indeed, she was rubbing her thumb over the back of his hand as though she would impart some warmth to him. ‘Never. But I expect Brian was grateful, since we’re so behindhand.’ She waved at the woman at the fireside. ‘Adam, this is Evie Smith, and this…’ she led him towards the trestle ‘…is her husband, Leofwine. He is a goldsmith. They are come from Winchester and are in need of our help.’

Adam’s insides were in a trice as cold as his fingers. ‘From Winchester?’ Golde Street. Hell, he had almost forgotten about Golde Street. These must be the people she had visited. Cursing himself for letting himself be distracted by a soft body and melting blue eyes, he forced himself to listen.

As she gave him her account of what had happened to Leofwine Smith’s workshop, his mind seemed to split in two. One part of him was attending to the tale his wife was telling while the other was wondering where her loyalties lay. If it came down to a stark choice between the Saxons—‘my people’ as she constantly chose to refer to them—and himself, how would she choose?

Duke William’s plan to throw up a motte and bailey in the south west of the city was not news to him, but he had had no idea that sixty homes would have to be demolished to accomplish it. He noted the stiffness in Leofwine’s posture and found he felt some sympathy for the man. The goldsmith had pride. He resented having to fling himself on Adam’s mercy.

‘My Hall is yours, Leofwine Smith,’ he said, in his stilted English. He wound his arm about Cecily’s waist, to endorse the welcome he knew she had given. Under his arm, Cecily held herself like a block of wood. Upset that her friends had been made refugees? Pray God that is all, Adam thought, giving her a slight squeeze. Her eyes met his, and they were dark with apprehension. Suspicion twisted within him like a cold snake. No, he thought. Don’t, my princess—don’t be thinking of betrayal. But there was more, he’d swear. Something else was eating at her…

‘You did not think I’d refuse them?’ he muttered in French, for her ears alone.

‘No—no,’ she said, but her expression did not lighten.

Edmund was watching them, those thin lips curling in sardonic amusement. It was he, Adam would swear, who was at the root of Cecily’s tension. Damn the man. Left to his own devices, Adam would have had him banished from the village before he could blink. Yet, since Edmund had not actually made a move against him, he could not act—not without being the unjust boor that Cecily’s people no doubt expected him to be.

‘Leofwine has more to tell your husband—doesn’t he, Lady Wymark?’ Edmund said.