Medieval Brides

He hardened his heart. He could not care. He did not care. He had sworn that never again would he care to the point when it hurt.

‘It…it was awkward, sir,’ Brian was saying. ‘After the baby vanished.’

‘Baby? What the hell is going on?’

With a sigh, Gudrun shoved the needle into her work and set it aside. ‘Philip, sir.’ She cleared her throat. ‘He was lost this morning.’

‘Lost?’ Adam was utterly at sea. The woman was telling him, as coolly as you please, that the baby she doted on was lost. Why did she not look more concerned? Nothing made any sense.

Except the bald fact that Cecily was not at Fulford.

Had she gone to escape him? Or to join his enemies? But even these questions, important as they were, were lost under an overriding question: was Cecily safe?

And now here was Gudrun, placidly telling him that baby Philip had been lost. He struggled to concentrate. Was she safe?

‘He was stolen. Abducted,’ Gudrun said. ‘Your men could not find him, and when they stopped looking Lady Cecily went to search for him herself.’

Adam rubbed his forehead. What was he missing? Gudrun was too calm—far too calm. She had to know where Philip had been taken, which meant that she knew where Cecily had gone. They were all in on it. He smothered a curse. ‘Did she have a groom with her?’

‘Yes, sir. In a manner of speaking,’ Herfu chipped in.

‘In a manner of speaking?’

‘Wat accompanied her.’

‘Wat? Christ on the cross—that boy’s no proper escort!’

Herfu looked at the floor. ‘Sir, it was as I said. Lady Cecily implied that she would remain within earshot.’

‘Hell’s teeth.’ Adam glared at the downbent head. ‘Sometimes, Herfu, you haven’t got the sense you were born with.’

‘I’m sorry, sir.’ His foot jiggled. ‘Th…there’s more…’

‘Out with it.’

‘It’s about the cook—Lufu. She’s vanished.’

‘Again?’

‘Yes, sir. I’ve just been to the cookhouse, and Evie says she’s not seen her for the past hour or more. She and her husband have been salting meat on their own. The miller’s mule has gone too.’

Adam swore, and snatched up his sword. ‘Maurice!’

‘Sir?’

‘Find me a dry cloak, and saddle that grey gelding. And the two blacks.’

‘We’re going out again, sir?’

‘Clever boy.’

‘Full arms, sir?’

‘Yes to the helm, and no to the mail. I’m not about to draw attention to myself, which is why I’ll take the gelding and not Flame.’

Maurice opened his mouth and closed it.

Adam gritted his teeth. ‘What?’

‘Sir Richard wouldn’t approve, sir.’

‘Sir Richard isn’t here to approve or disapprove. But we will wear leather gambesons—padded ones. Move, man.’

‘Aye, sir.’

Gudrun reached for Agatha and whipped her out of the doorway as Maurice ran out.

‘You, woman,’ Adam said in English, before he recalled her previous mistress, Cecily’s mother, had been Norman. He reverted with relief to that tongue. ‘Come back, please.’

Agatha on her hip, Gudrun approached warily. ‘Sir Adam?’

‘You know where she went?’

‘I…I know where she was headed, sir.’

Some of Adam’s tension eased, and he managed a smile. ‘Good. Where’s your husband?’

‘Wilf? Butchering the sheep carcasses behind the cookhouse, sir.’

‘Does Wilf ride?’

‘Of course, sir.’

‘Fetch him. He can be our guide. Herfu, you stay here. Post some guards up on the rise.’

‘You’re expecting trouble, sir?’

Buckling on his sword belt, Adam strode after his squire. ‘When will you learn, lad? Anything is possible.’

Under the canvas shelter, hugging Philip to her breast, Cecily was battling with despair. Not one of these people would meet her gaze. Undeterred, she cleared her throat, ‘My sister, Emma, has anyone seen her? Judhael said she was here.’

Outside, someone squelched through the mud. A horse whinnied. And still not a soul would meet Cecily’s eyes. She looked directly at the shepherd. ‘Gunni, Emma is all right?’

Gunni shrugged, and reluctantly met her gaze. ‘Lady Emma’s well enough. She went to gather dry kindling as we will be lighting a proper fire this evening.’

Emma? Gathering wood in the rain? But she nodded as though it was her sister’s habit to perform menial tasks. ‘So I shall see her soon?’

Gunni nodded. ‘Aye, lady, soon.’

Not ten minutes later, a woman ducked into the shelter. Even though she was expecting Emma, it was a moment before Cecily recognised her. Her sister’s cloak was dark with rain and mud, and when she thrust back her hood Cecily saw that she had dispensed with her veil completely, like a peasant. Her nose was red, her cheeks pale and her hair was thrust back in a single plait that looked as though it had been slept in. Never had she dreamed of seeing Emma so dishevelled.

Cecily jumped to her feet. ‘Emma!’

‘Cecily!’ They embraced, Philip between them. ‘They didn’t hurt you? I made Judhael swear—’ Breaking off, Emma pulled away and stripped off her kid gloves. Cecily noticed they were split at the seams and a greyish brown rather than the cream they had once been, and the boots that peeped out from under Emma’s bedraggled skirts were not the beautifully stitched riding boots that Cecily remembered. They had been replaced with heavy workaday ones, similar to those she had worn at the convent. The transformation took her breath away.

‘What?’ Emma asked, seeing her expression.

‘Nothing. It’s just…you…you’re so changed.’

Emma lost her smile. ‘We’ve all changed.’

‘That’s true.’

Tossing her gloves aside with an echo of her old arrogance that tugged at Cecily’s heartstrings, Emma drew Cecily onto the bench and gazed at the baby in her arms.

‘I wondered if he would bring you here. I hoped…’ Emma’s voice trailed off.

‘What? That I would join you?’ Firmly, Cecily shook her head. ‘This is no place for our brother, Emma, you must see that.’

Unhappily, Emma sighed. She lowered her voice. ‘Of course I see that. It’s just that Judhael…he…he can be so very persuasive. He always knows he is right, you see.’

Cecily made an impatient noise. ‘This is an instance when Judhael is not right.’ She drew breath to say more, but a warning squeeze on her arm had her glancing towards the opening of the shelter. Judhael was there, watching them.

Emma scrambled to her feet so quickly that Cecily frowned. Was her sister afraid of him? After seeing them at Winchester, in the Cathedral, Cecily had assumed they were lovers, but it was beginning to look as though she feared him…

‘You got plenty of wood?’ Judhael demanded, in a most unloverlike voice. He shoved his thumbs in his belt, and as he did so Cecily noticed that the back of one of his hands was scored with a deep scratch, the blood on it recently congealed.

‘Aye.’

‘And the beacon? You checked that?’

‘Yes. The cover’s not been touched, so the wood’s quite dry. I put fresh kindling there too, just in case.’

‘Come here then, wench, and give me a kiss.’

Wench? Open-mouthed, Cecily watched in astonishment as her prim sister, her butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-her-mouth sister, let Evie’s brother sweep her into his arms in front of his men, in front of everyone. And she didn’t even blush. The world might have changed, but her sister had changed even more.

As Judhael angled Emma’s head to him, so she could receive his kiss, Cecily found herself staring at the dried blood on the back of his hand. It looked odd—as though—a shudder ran through her—Judhael had not scratched himself, he had been bitten, and the bite looked very much like a human bite!

Wilf took Adam and Maurice directly through the woods to the chalky rise which led to Gunni’s hut. With worry about Cecily’s welfare a cramp in his guts, Adam thanked God that the man did not waste time with delaying tactics or pointless deviations. He simply pointed through the rain up a slippery track and said, ‘There it is, sir. Gunni’s hut.’

At the top of the rise Adam saw a rough tumble of stones that had some order to it and was roofed with dried bracken. A man in chainmail had beaten them to it. Le Blanc. He was on his knees by the wall of the shelter, bending over the body of a woman, tucking his cloak around her like a blanket.

Adam stopped breathing. He could scarcely bring himself to look. It couldn’t be Cecily, it couldn’t…

At his side, Wilf sucked in a breath. ‘Lufu!’

The name had Adam breathing again, and his guts griping with guilt. Not for the world would he wish harm on Fulford’s cook, but if it had been Cecily…He burned to look into those blue eyes once more, to know that she was safe. The question of whether Cecily had betrayed him or not was a mere trifle compared to that. These past days the fear of betrayal had occupied his mind, but now that the worst had apparently happened there was room for only one thought: Cecily must be safe. The implications of this—hell, he would think about implications later.

Now that he could breathe again, he noticed that Le Blanc’s roan and a mule—the miller’s?—were tethered by the hut.

‘Lufu!’ Wilf hurled himself from his horse.

Le Blanc’s mouth was a thin, angry line. His helm lay on the ground beside him and he was holding the girl’s hand, chafing it. Her lip had been split, she had a nasty discolouration on one cheekbone, and blood in her hair. ‘She’s alive, sir,’ Le Blanc said. ‘But she won’t waken.’

Tossing his reins at Maurice, Adam hurried over.

Wilf had Lufu’s other hand and was stroking it, speaking softly in an English so heavily accented that Adam couldn’t catch the full meaning. But any fool could understand the gist of it. Wilf was fond of her. He was telling her that she would be all right now they had found her.

Staring grimly at Lufu, Adam prayed the man was right. Apart from the bruising to her face, her skin was the colour of bleached linen, and her breathing was alarmingly shallow. ‘God’s Blood, she looks as though she’s been through a mangle.’

‘I reckon she has.’ Le Blanc swallowed and gestured vaguely towards a rocky outcrop. ‘She was beaten. I…I saw most of it from behind that. I couldn’t do anything, sir, there were too many of them.’

‘Them?’

‘Saxons. They would have—’

‘Take it slower, Le Blanc, so Wilf can follow you.’

‘Sir.’ Le Blanc’s eyes found Wilf’s. ‘I…I’m sorry she’s hurt, but the man moved like lightning—’

‘Saxon?’

‘Aye. I thought he was bluffing at first, it never occurred to me that he’d hurt one of his own, and by the time I’d realised what he was about it was over. Besides, there were others with him. They would have killed me, and I still wouldn’t have been able to prevent it.’

Wilf frowned, trying to follow what had been said. ‘You say a Saxon did this?’

‘There were several present or I would have intervened, I swear. But only one of them spoke to her, and only one of them did the beating.’ Slowly, he shook his head. ‘What kind of a man would beat his countrywoman to a pulp like this?’

‘We should move her inside,’ Adam said. ‘She’s soaking. She doesn’t need a chill on top of a beating.’

‘I thought of that,’ Le Blanc said. ‘But it’s possible her ribs are broken, and I was worried about moving her…’

‘If we use your shield and a cloak as a stretcher to get her into the hut, she should be all right,’ Adam said, hoping to God he was right. ‘We have to get her warm. And someone must go for proper help.’ Adam turned to Wilf and asked in English, ‘Is your wife the best person to deal with this?’

‘In Lady Cecily’s absence, yes.’

Cecily, Cecily, where are you? ‘Fine. Let’s get Lufu into the shelter, and make her comfortable, and then Wilf can fetch Gudrun. She’ll be a better judge of whether Lufu can be got safely back to Fulford than any of us.’

Together, they eased the unconscious Lufu onto Maurice’s cloak and Le Blanc’s shield. Inside the hut the light was poor, but to one side there was a low shelf with a mattress stuffed with heather. They placed Lufu on it.

After Wilf had set out for Fulford, and his hoofbeats had died away, Adam made Le Blanc strip off his mailcoat. ‘Leave your helmet behind too,’ he said. ‘I’m leaving mine here.’ Saxons did wear conical helmets, but Adam did not want to present too warlike an aspect. If he and Le Blanc were spotted he’d rather they were taken for huntsmen or poachers.

Uneasy about the idea of continuing up Seven Wells Hill so lightly armed, Le Blanc didn’t scruple to say so. ‘Wouldn’t we be best to wait until Wilf returns?’

A hideous image of Cecily in the hands of the beast who had beaten Lufu flashed into Adam’s mind. ‘No time,’ he said. ‘But I’ll take Maurice instead of you, if you’d rather stand guard over Lufu.’

Le Blanc bristled, as Adam had known he would. Two years Maurice’s senior, Le Blanc had campaigned with Adam in Brittany and Normandy, and was not about to cede superiority to a mere squire. ‘No, sir. I’m your man.’

‘Maurice, stay with the girl.’

‘I’ll not leave her, sir.’

As the grey and the roan climbed towards the summit of Seven Wells Hill, the rain began to ease and the breeze strengthened. High up, a red kite coasted into view. Uncertain of what he was looking for, but praying they would stumble across something, anything, that might lead them to Cecily, Adam found himself envying the big bird its vantagepoint. Perhaps it could see Cecily. Not that the vista was bad from up here, with what must be the whole of Wessex spread out below them on all sides. At the peak, it must be like standing in the middle of a map.

Shivering, grateful for the thick padding in his gambeson, Adam urged the gelding to the summit, and took a moment or two to get his bearings in the hope of seeing something that would tell him what to do next. He was almost at a complete loss, riding on pure instinct—something he never liked to do. At bottom, he was a planner, a strategist who disliked taking unnecessary risks, but today his instincts were screaming at him, telling him that all the planning in the world might not be enough to lead him to Cecily.

Below lay the wooded valley they had ridden through—the one that led to Fulford. Behind him, to the north, lay Winchester, with its acres of cultivated fields. The peasants’ strips were clearly visible, brown stripes marked off by ancient hedgerows, by the twisted trunk of a leafless crab-apple or a lichened medlar. To the south the land rose and fell in soft curves as it disappeared into the distant reaches of the South Downs. Today they were blurred by low-lying cloud and dark with the last of the rain, but on a clear day one might see the sea he had crossed.

‘Take a look at this, sir!’

Adam wrenched his gaze from the undulating waves of downland that he had been scouring in the vain hope of seeing a diminutive figure in a blue cloak and wheeled his horse round.

‘A beacon!’ Le Blanc had pulled up in the centre of a flat, grassy area at the top of the hill. Leaning to one side, he drew his sword and flicked at several turves of grass that formed a mound in the middle. As the turves flipped over, Adam saw they were camouflaging an oilcloth, which in its turn had been flung over a squat metal brazier. Clinging to his pommel, Le Blanc lifted the oilcloth with the point of his sword. The brazier was brimful with wood and ready to fire, assuming that the oilcloth had kept off the worst of the weather.

The brazier had probably last seen use when Duke William’s fleet had been sighted to the east of the Narrow Sea. It would have called out the fyrd, the local militia. With its commanding position, the Seven Wells beacon would be visible in most of Wessex…

‘Do you think it’s still in use?’ Adam said, his pulse quickening as inspiration struck. ‘Le Blanc?’

‘Sir?’

‘Fire it. Fling damp vegetation on it so it smokes like hell, and then gallop back to Fulford. Fetch Herfu and as many men as you can muster.’

Le Blanc blinked. ‘But, sir, Saxon scouts are bound to see the smoke, and every rebel within spitting distance will be on you in a heartbeat.’

‘Exactly.’ Adam waved an arm to encompass the vast landscape spread out below. ‘Look about you, Le Blanc. If we don’t fire it we could be searching for their camp till the last trumpet sounds. This will draw them out in no time.’

‘I’ll fire it, sir, but I’ll not leave you. Maurice is bound to see the smoke. He can raise the alarm.’

‘They’ll outnumber us.’

Le Blanc shrugged. ‘Nevertheless, I’ll not be leaving you.’

Chapter Nineteen

Cecily pushed back the flap of the awning. Edmund was outside, arguing with Judhael.

‘It’s impossible, I tell you,’ Edmund was saying in exasperated tones. ‘So many are dead! And those that are left have fled or have no authority.’

‘What about old Morcar of Lewes, and Siward Edwardson—?’

‘You’ve just hit the nail on the head there, Judhael. They’re old. Both of them doddering, grieving for sons lost in battle. You’re mad if you think they carry any authority…’He caught sight of Cecily and lowered his voice, and Cecily could not catch the rest.

Sighing, she wrapped her arms about her middle and went to peer in Philip’s basket. The baby was awake, on the point of dozing, a dribble of milk at the corner of his mouth for the wet nurse had just set him down.

‘Thank God you found Joan,’ Cecily muttered to Emma, who was still watching the men by the campfire. ‘Otherwise we’d be in for a sleepless night. I only hope we can keep him out of the draughts.’ Impulsively, Cecily gave her sister a hug. ‘I love you.’

Emma turned, her eyes awash with tears. ‘It was not meant to be like this,’ she whispered, in a choked voice. ‘I—’

‘Judhael!’ A lookout cried out. ‘Prisoners!’

Cecily was on her feet in an instant, the hairs lifting on the back of her neck. No…no!

Four horses were being ridden into the encampment. Thank God, Cecily thought, on registering the riders’ flowing hair and beards, Saxons. No sign of Flame. For a moment she was giddy with relief. It was only Judhael’s scouts, coming home to roost for the night. There were no prisoners; the lookout had been mistaken…

As the cavalcade rode slowly through the thickening dusk towards the campfire it was possible to make out that two of the horses did in fact bear high-backed chevaliers’ saddles, with pommels at the front. Cecily froze. Her countrymen thought horses too valuable to risk in fighting; they only used them for transport. And since Saxons fought on foot they had no use for such saddles…

And then she saw him. Adam. Her heart lurched.

Adam and another man were bringing up the rear. They had rope halters around their necks, but that was not the worst of it. Thick branches had been lashed across their arms and shoulders like yokes. With their arms forcibly outstretched, and the weight of their burdens unbalancing them, they were slipping and skidding in the mire. George. The man staggering alongside Adam was George Le Blanc. Their clothes were plastered with mud kicked up by the horses; their heads were bowed; their faces hidden.

With a sob, Cecily gripped Emma’s arm and dragged her from the shelter. Gunni followed, close and silent as her shadow. The trees loomed up around the clearing, their trunks tall and dark in the twilight; the fire sputtered; torches flared.

One of the scouts unwound the leash tying Adam and Le Blanc to his pommel and tossed it to Judhael. ‘Found a couple of strays by the beacon,’ he said, jumping down from his horse with a grin. ‘Thought you’d like to put them out of their misery.’

Cecily stumbled nearer, but Emma hung on her arm like an anchor, and when their eyes met Emma gave her head a quick shake. Ignoring her, Cecily broke free and edged closer. She was not mad enough to think she was a match for Judhael and these men, but she had to get near Adam—she had to. There was room for no other thought.

The torchlight flickered on his dark, rain-slicked hair. Adam, Adam, look at me, she pleaded silently. Let me see you’re not badly hurt. And then, while one of the Saxon scouts was busy muttering in Judhael’s ear, Adam lifted his head, and the flames from one of the torches flickered across his face.

Her insides turned to water. Adam had been beaten; one of his eyes was swollen and half-closed, and those lean cheekbones were smeared with a dark substance that could either be blood or mud. His arms were stretched out, roped to the branch so roughly there was definitely blood at his wrists. Looking directly at her, he lifted his mouth in a lop-sided smile. He mouthed her name, ‘Cecily.’

Edmund muttered at Judhael and drew Adam’s gaze. A slight narrowing of the green eyes told her Adam had marked Edmund’s unsplinted leg.

‘Emma,’ Cecily whispered, desperation putting wild ideas into her head. ‘Give me your eating knife.’

‘Don’t be a fool!’

Cecily swallowed a groan. It was hopeless. What could one girl do with an eating knife? But she could not stand by and watch when—

‘Edmund tells me that you are Sir Adam Wymark,’ Judhael said, speaking in English. ‘The “hero” of Hastings and our self-appointed lord and master.’ He threw a disparaging glance at George Le Blanc. ‘This must be one of your Bretons. Only one? Odd—I’d heard you had a whole troop. Careless of you not to bring the rest with you today—have the others deserted?’

A lock of dark hair flopped across Adam’s unhurt eye. He tossed his head to clear his vision, but the yoke on his shoulders unbalanced him, and he struggled to keep his footing in the mire. Someone laughed. Cecily’s nails dug into her palms.

‘Lost your tongue?’ Judhael asked. ‘Or can’t you understand me?’

‘I understand you,’ Adam replied. His English was heavily accented, but his voice was strong.

‘My man tells me you ran into his arms like a long-lost lover,’ Judhael said, folding his arms. ‘Now, why should you do that?’

Adam stood as straight as a man could with his arms strapped to a wooden yoke. ‘I came for my lady.’

Tears stung at the back of Cecily’s eyes, and the scene blurred. Oh, Adam, you idiot.

‘Your lady?’ Judhael’s voice was harsh, disbelieving. ‘You came for Cecily Fulford?’

‘Yes.’

‘Liar—you think to trick me. The garrison at Winchester put you up to this. We know you were there this morning. You have come to try and discover where I have hidden the silver.’

‘No, but tell me where it is and I’ll be happy to pass the message on.’

‘Gunni!’

‘Judhael?’

‘Our guest doesn’t seem to realise he is in grave trouble. Bring it home to him, will you?’

Rolling up his sleeves, Gunni clenched his fists. Cecily clutched Emma, and when Gunni drew his arm back to strike she flinched and shut her eyes.

‘So you’re Gunni?’ Adam’s voice, almost conversational. ‘The shepherd?’

The thud of Gunni’s fist connecting with Adam’s stomach had her eyes flying open in time to see Adam double over with a grunt. As he toppled, one end of the yoke thumped into the mud, bringing him down on his knees. Cecily’s heart contracted. He looked weary beyond thought. How much of a beating had he sustained up on the hill?

‘You’re Lufu’s man?’ Adam gasped. A trickle of blood ran down from his hairline.

‘Lufu?’ Gunni froze in the act of aiming a booted foot at Adam’s ribs. ‘What about Lufu?’

‘She’ll be all right—’ another gasp ‘—we think.’

Reaching for Adam’s gambeson, Gunni hauled him to his feet, yoke and all. ‘What do you mean, you think she’ll be all right?’

Adam swayed under the weight of the yoke. ‘Le Blanc there found her.’ He paused to search for words. ‘By the little…shelter, I think the word is. Your shelter, I was told. She was unconscious.’

‘Liar! Filthy liar!’

Adam shook his head. ‘She’d been beaten and is in a far worse state than I.’

Abruptly Gunni released Adam and, horror dawning on his face, turned. ‘Judhael? Brun said you went that way. Did you see anything?’