Anne Herries - Medieval Brides

His dark brows came together. ‘You do not like horses?’

‘Oh, no—I do like them. But I am woefully out of practice. And yours are so large. Could I take Mother Aethelflaeda’s pony?’

‘I asked, but she refused to lend it.’ Briefly his green eyes lit up. ‘No doubt she thinks I’ll mince it and feed it to the dogs.’

‘But, sir—’

He turned and, brushing her protests aside, ducked under the arch. ‘We’ll find something suitable.’

With a scowl, Cecily followed, her eyes fixed on Adam’s mail-clad back. Ride pillion behind one of his men? No, no, no. It was one thing to race across the downs with her brother Cenwulf as a child, but then she had been riding her own gentle Cloud, not clinging to one of Sir Adam’s men astride a hulking great warhorse. And she would certainly not—her cheeks positively flamed—perch behind him, the strange Breton knight who had come to lay claim to her father’s lands.

The yard was a mill of armed and mounted men. Harness jingled as the destriers tossed their heads and stamped great dints in the earth. With their helms on, Cecily could not recognise any of the men and boys from the previous night. All were terrifying alien beings, with loud voices and metal weapons that gleamed in the morning light. They looked prepared for anything.

Her heart thumped. Was she really going with these foreigners? She must be mad. For a moment the coward in her had the louder voice, urging her to remain safely in the convent. What if her countrymen attacked them? Of all in their party she would be the only one with no chainmail or gambeson to keep her safe, and it would take but one arrow from a Saxon bow to put an end to her. A cold lump settled in her belly, like yesterday’s porridge.

‘Cecily! Cecily!’ Maude’s voice cut across the general clamour, and then her friend was beside her, hugging her, eyeing Sir Adam and his men askance. ‘Are you sure this is wise?’ Maude hissed, veil quivering.

Adam Wymark turned his head—he had not yet mounted. His mail coif was pulled up, but Cecily knew that he could hear them. She thought of her newborn brother, an orphan with no other family to fend for him, and she nodded.

‘Don’t they frighten you?’ Maude whispered, pressing a small sacking-wrapped bundle into Cecily’s hands.

Stiffening her spine, Cecily ignored the question and glanced at the sacking. ‘What’s this?’

‘Healing herbs. I took them from the infirmary—horehound, poppyseeds, woundwort and suchlike…You grew them, dried them—I thought you should have them. I knew you’d never take them, but you don’t know how your mother’s store cupboard stands.’

Cecily’s eyes widened. ‘Maude, you shouldn’t have. What if Mother finds out? She’ll beat you for stealing.’

‘Who’s to tell? I certainly won’t, and since you won’t be here…’

Cecily shook her head, smiling. ‘My thanks. I may well need them.’

Adam Wymark threw his mount’s reins at a man and strode towards them. His black hair was no longer visible under the mail coif, but his green eyes remained the same—not harsh or mean, but enquiring—and with a lurch in her belly Cecily realised she did not hate him. Of all the men the Norman Duke could have sent to Fulford, he was probably the least offensive. Why, the good Lord knew how harsh and unreasoning her own father had been at times. It seemed possible that Sir Adam was more temperate—she would watch and reserve her judgement.

With a wave of his hand, Sir Adam indicated his troop. ‘My men are at your disposal, my lady. With whom do you ride?’

‘W-with whom?’ Cecily bit her lip as all eyes turned on her. What was more unsettling? The thought of riding pressed against Sir Adam, or the thought of riding with one of his men? ‘S-sir, I…I…’

Maude, who spoke French, had watched this exchange. She stepped forward, a stubborn set to her jaw that Cecily recognised from one of the many times she had seen Maude wilfully disobey one of their order’s rules. ‘Lady Cecily should not be riding with a common soldier, sir.’

Afraid for her friend, Cecily caught Maude’s sleeve. ‘Maude, no!’

Sir Adam looked thoughtfully down at Maude, and said with pleasant deliberation. ‘You are in the right—though my men would no doubt not thank you for naming them “common”…’He sighed heavily. ‘And here I was thinking that, in God’s eyes at least, all men are equal.’

‘They are, sir,’ Maude said, hastily backing down. ‘Indeed they are.’

‘Ah, well, that is good. Because I am a common man, and Lady Cecily is to ride with me.’

Catching sight of a suspicious gleam in his eyes, a twitch of his lips, Cecily frowned. To be sure there was an edge to his voice, but he was laughing—the wretch was making fun of them…

‘Say your farewells,’ he said, and stood aside to allow Maude and Cecily to embrace.

Then, taking her by the wrist as he had done the previous evening, he led her to where a man—no, he was a boy—was holding his destrier, the magnificent chestnut. Cecily bit her lip. She’d never ridden anything half that size.

‘Don’t fear him.’

‘I…I don’t.’

‘Here…’ He drew her level with the horse’s head. ‘His name is Flame. Let him see you, smell you. He won’t hurt you if he knows you’re with me. You can touch him. I’ve never known him bite a woman.’

She shot Adam Wymark a startled look, but it was impossible to tell whether he was teasing or not. ‘He bites men, then, sir?’ In battle, she supposed, this destrier would do anything its master asked of it. It was a sobering thought.

‘Go on—stroke him.’

Tentatively, Cecily reached out and patted the great arched neck, murmuring softly, as though the warhorse were one of her father’s ponies. Thus she had petted her own Cloud before coming to St Anne’s. Cloud had gone back with her father to Fulford as novices were not allowed ponies. What had happened to her? This horse’s chestnut muzzle, she discovered, was just as soft as Cloud’s had been.

‘Warm velvet,’ she murmured.

‘That’s it—let him know you’re not afraid,’ said the man at her side. He still had a firm grip on her wrist.

‘I’m not afraid,’ Cecily said, pulling away from the fingers on her wrist.

A brief smile lit those disturbing eyes and he released her, turning away to reach something down from behind the saddle—a saddle which was not the chevalier’s saddle she had noticed the day before. Somehow he had contrived to find one suitable for carrying a lady pillion.

She frowned. ‘You planned to have me behind you all along…’

Ignoring her remark, he handed a blue bundle to her. ‘Here—you’d best borrow this.’

His cloak, and the finest Cecily had held in an age. Of rich blue worsted, lined with fur. Carefully, so as not to startle the chestnut, Cecily unfolded it. So heavy, so warm, so sinfully sensual. You could bury your face in it and….

Momentarily speechless at such thoughtfulness, she blinked up at him, confused by the contradictions he presented. A foreign knight who had come to take her father’s lands and yet who considered her comfort.

He shrugged and turned away to pull something else from his pack, the faintest colour staining his cheekbones. ‘My mother would have had that thing you’re wearing for dish-clouts years ago,’ he said gruffly. ‘You’d best borrow these too. They’ll be overlarge for you, but better than the nothing that the convent has seen fit to provide you with.’

Gloves. A warrior’s pair, to be sure, but again of the best quality, carefully cut, the stitching perfect, lined with sheepskin.

‘B-but, sir—what of you?’

‘My gambeson is padded, Lady Cecily. Your need is greater.’