Anne Herries - Medieval Brides

The bridge rang hollow under the horse’s hoofs. A heartbeat later and the stone arch of Eastgate was a cool shadow over their heads, and then the light strengthened as they emerged into the city proper.

Inside the walls, there was little damage. Her heart lifted as the horses’ hoofs beat a sharp tattoo on the cobblestones. Passing lines of wooden houses—intact wooden houses—they entered the market square.

Saxons were selling eggs alongside cabbages, vending bread and new-baked pies, hawking ale alongside holy relics. Voices flew to and fro across the street like shuttles on a loom: speaking English, speaking French, speaking Latin—so many tongues that Cecily could not attune herself to all of them. It was a far cry from the peace and quiet of St Anne’s. And then, just as she thought she could take in no more, a voice she recognised cut right across the cacophony…a male voice.

‘Meet me in the Cathedral an hour from now.’

Ahead of her! No, on her right…

Tightening her grip on Sir Adam’s belt, Cecily turned swiftly to either side, her gaze sweeping the square. No—no, it could not be! But that voice…that voice…where was he?

‘Meet me in the Cathedral an hour from now.’ Yes, that was what he had said, clear as day. Judhael! One of her father’s men! It could not be he…and yet surely that voice was his? And who had he been talking to?

The crowd milled around them. Wildly, with her heart in her mouth, Cecily peered this way and that but could see no one she knew. And certainly there was no sign of Judhael, who had been her father’s most promising housecarl and her brother Cenwulf’s best friend…

Her head was spinning.

Had she dreamed hearing Judhael’s voice among the crowd? A faint moan escaped her, and she sagged against Adam Wymark’s broad back. Her mind was playing tricks. She was exhausted and near sick with worry, and it was hard to credit that her father’s hearth troops were probably all dead. She wanted them to have lived, and she was just conjuring up Judhael’s voice. Sister Mathilda had told her that the mind could play tricks, and Sister Mathilda was very wise—for hadn’t another sister, Sister Beatrice, regaled the nuns with the visions she’d had after a particularly penitential Lenten fast…

The Breton knight reached back and touched her knee. ‘Lady Cecily? What’s amiss?’

Dear Lord, the man didn’t miss a thing, Cecily thought, hastily straightening. ‘It…it’s nothing—a momentary dizziness, that’s all.’ And then she wished she’d said something—anything—else, for his grip shifted and he pulled her close to his mailed body.

‘Hold hard, my lady.’

Her fingers were already clinging so tightly to Adam Wymark’s sword belt she wondered if she’d ever pry them loose. Giving an inarticulate murmur, Cecily gazed steadfastly at the market stalls. Anything rather than meet the disconcerting green eyes of Duke William’s knight.

Meet me in the Cathedral an hour from now.

Judhael—if that really had been him—must have meant the Old Saxon Cathedral, St Swithun’s, not the New Minster which stood next to it.

An hour from now…an hour from now…

Somehow, within the next hour, she must free herself from Adam Wymark and make her way to the Cathedral. Judhael might well be with his Maker, but if she wasn’t in St Swithun’s to make certain that she had dreamed his voice she would never forgive herself.

A brace of clean-shaven Norman guards were stationed at each corner of the market square. Their hair was cropped in like manner to Sir Adam and his men. Each guard was fully armed in the costly chainmail, so they must either be knights or in the Duke’s personal entourage. She caught glimpses of several pointed shields, like the one which hung at Adam Wymark’s saddle and was bruising her thigh.

A woman threw a bowl of slops under Flame’s feet. The destrier didn’t miss a step. They clopped over the cobbles, the rhythm of the hoofbeat tattoo unbroken.

I have to get to the Cathedral, I have to, she vowed, as she jounced past the market cross and several squawking chickens in cages. Head in a whirl, she felt a pang for the peace and solitude of the convent herb garden. Her lips twisted. For years she had longed to be part of just such a bustle and rush, but now she was in the thick of it it made her dizzy and she could not think.

Think, think. How to get to the Cathedral unobserved…?

Adam Wymark wheeled his chestnut into an alley and they entered the Cathedral Close. At once, as though a curtain had been drawn shut behind them, the bustle and rush and noise of the market fell away.

Peace. Thank the Lord, Cecily thought, ruefully acknowledging that there must be more of the nun in her nature than she had realised.

They drew rein outside the long stone building that once had housed the Saxon royal family, the Palace of the Kings. A stone arch framed the thick oak of the palace doorway, impressively carved with leaves and fruit. A flight of steps ran up the outside of the wall, leading, Cecily surmised, to a second floor and the private apartments of her father’s liege lord, the late Harold of Wessex.

Today the Palace of the Kings—the Saxon Kings of Wessex—was bursting at the seams with what looked like the whole of Duke William’s invasion force. Despite her borrowed cloak, Cecily’s blood chilled, and the voice she’d imagined hearing in the market was pushed from her mind.

Was nothing sacred?

Two mailed Norman guards flanked the central doorway. Another pair were stationed on the landing at the top of the outside stairway. And in front of the Palace, on the flagstones, piles of weapons were being sorted by more of the Duke’s men—swords, spears, bows—the booty of war? A distant hammering told her that nearby a smith was hard at work.

Adam Wymark dismounted, stretched, and offered her his hand. His helmed head turned in the direction of her gaze. ‘Not what you’d expected?’

Cecily swallowed, and sought to express the confusion of emotions warring within her. ‘Yes…No…’ She tried again. ‘It’s just that it…it’s our Royal Palace.’

‘Last month it was,’ he said, eyes half hidden by his nose-guard. He reached up to help her down. ‘Today it is our headquarters.’

‘So I see.’ His hands, without his gloves, were red with cold. They rested briefly on her waist to steady her, and for a moment there was not enough air in the courtyard. She stared stolidly at his mailed chest, all too conscious of Adam Wymark’s superior height, of the lithe straightness and strength of the body under the chainmail, of the width of his shoulders. ‘Thank you, sir.’ His proximity was most disturbing.

‘I would think it an honour if you would call me by my Christian name,’ he said softly, for her ears alone.

Astonished, Cecily raised her eyes. He dragged off his helm and pushed back his coif, apparently waiting for her response, apparently meek. Not fooled for a moment, for this man was a conqueror, she swallowed. ‘But, sir, th-that would not be seemly.’

His lips curved, his eyes danced, a hand briefly touched hers. ‘Not seemly? You did propose marriage to me, did you not, Lady Cecily?’

‘I…I…’

His expression sobered. ‘Have you changed your mind?’

Cecily bit her lip. He had made his voice carefully neutral, had posed the question as casually as he would if he had been discussing the weather, so why was he watching her like a hawk? Because that was his way.

‘I…no, I have not changed my mind.’

If only he would not stare like that. It made her hot and uncomfortable. Had he taken her hasty offer of marriage seriously? She had not thought so, yet there was a tension about him, as if her response mattered to him. She could not think why that should be so. She had no dowry and he was already in possession of her father’s lands.