Anne Herries - Medieval Brides

‘You are a fool!’ A second voice, harsh and uncompromising and much easier to hear. Male—it was definitely male. Her pulse quickened. Judhael?

‘It was not possible.’ Emma—that had to be Emma…

‘You are weak.’

‘Compassionate, rather.’

For a space the man made no reply, and Cecily heard only the pilgrims at prayer; the tapping of crutches; the chanting of priests. She thought quickly. Back in the market square her mind had not being playing tricks on her—she had heard Judhael. Once his voice had been as familiar to her as her father’s or her brother’s. Judhael was alive! One of her father’s housecarls, and Cenwulf’s close friend, Cecily had assumed he had been killed at Hastings. She wanted to look, to see for herself, but fear of causing a commotion and bringing the Normans down upon them kept her on her knees.

Judhael’s voice softened. ‘Perhaps you do not trust me.’

‘I want to trust you,’ Emma murmured. ‘But there is more than trust at issue here. It could have been his death, and what good would that do anyone? He is an innocent.’

What were they talking about? Clumsily, Cecily clambered to her feet. She rested a hand—it was shaking—against an acanthus leaf and peered through the tracery.

Yes! Praise the Lord, it was Judhael who faced her—a tall man with his long fair hair tied back at his neck, Saxon fashion. Hands on his hips, he was scowling at her sister. Cecily could only see Emma’s back, but there was no doubt that it was she. That burgundy cloak was confirmation, if confirmation were needed. Emma had worn that cloak when visiting Cecily in the convent.

Emma had not gone north. Emma had lied to her. Why? And what was she doing in Winchester, meeting secretly with Judhael?

‘You should have brought him,’ Judhael said.

Cecily’s stomach lurched. God in Heaven, the man was wearing his seax—his short sword—in the Cathedral!

‘You broke your oath to me,’ he went on, white about the mouth. As a child, Cecily had never seen Judhael look like this, furiously, uncompromisingly angry. But she knew that look. Her father had worn it often enough.

‘My loyalty was torn…’ Emma gave a little sob, and her head sank. ‘Judhael, you are too harsh.’

Something about Emma’s tone of voice, meek, yet unashamedly emotional, caught Cecily’s attention. Back at the convent she had asked Emma if she had a sweetheart, now she realised with a jolt that matters had progressed far beyond that. Judhael was her sister’s lover. Emma’s next words confirmed this.

‘Judhael, my love—’

Just then Judhael looked past Emma, towards the rood screen. Cecily fell to her knees, clutching an acanthus leaf. If she revealed herself, she risked drawing Richard of Asculf down on them. She glanced over her shoulder. There was no sign of him in the shuffling press of pilgrims around the tomb, but he could not be relied upon to wait her pleasure in the Close. He might come looking for her at any moment.

What would happen if Judhael and Emma were discovered here? She did not know what they were doing, but their discovery by Sir Adam or one of his men could only lead to their capture. And with Judhael in this mood, and armed as he was, it could well lead to bloodshed…

‘I see only a woman whom I cannot trust.’ Judhael’s tone was icy.

Another little sob from Emma. ‘And I see a man who…’

The rest of Emma’s words were lost under the sound of brisk footsteps coming towards Cecily from behind. Turning her head towards the main body of the Cathedral, she felt her heart turn to stone.

Sir Adam Wymark had stepped out of the crowd and was marching purposefully towards her.

‘S-Sir Adam!’

With her hood up, her features were partly shadowed, but even so the frozen expression on the little novice’s face brought Adam to an abrupt halt a few feet away from her. He frowned. He was not wearing the mail coat he was certain she hated, having put it off to enter the Cathedral, and Richard was guarding his sword outside, so why that look of absolute horror the moment her eyes lit on him? He had hoped she was beginning to trust him. Given his recent decision, and the letter he had despatched to Duke William, it was essential that she trusted him.

White as whey, she was scrambling to her feet, almost tripping over her threadbare habit in her haste to get round him, to reach the door.

Heart sinking, Adam caught at her wrist, and she stilled in mid-step, looking back at him. No, she would not even meet his eyes. She was looking past him at a naked Eve on the carved rood screen, eyes wide and full of fear.

‘Sir Adam! I…I’m sorry if I kept you. I…I thought you were still at the Palace.’ She tugged against his hold, edging them both back into the stream of pilgrims pouring out into the relative brightness of the Close.

Refusing to release her, Adam did, however, surrender to the desperation in her eyes and allowed himself to be drawn along. They emerged, blinking, in the cobbled forecourt, where a feeble November sun was struggling to get through the cloud. Free of incense and candle-smoke, the fresh air raised goosebumps on his neck.

Richard was lounging against the wall where he’d left him, paring his nails with his dagger. On seeing them, he straightened and made to bring Adam his sword. Adam caught his eye and shook his head.

Cecily continued to draw him away from the Cathedral entrance, away from the pilgrims and the crush in the porch, and gradually her momentum slackened. Her eyes remained wide, but her cheeks had regained some of their colour, thank God. She tipped her head back to look up at him, and the hood of the cloak he had lent her fell back to reveal the grim novice’s wimple, the short grey veil.

Her eyes were as blue as forget-me-nots, her lashes long and dark. Her lips were trembling—rosy, kissable lips. Adam’s stomach clenched. Forgive me, Gwenn. This girl’s colouring was the opposite of Gwenn’s—Cecily of Fulford was tiny and fair, whereas Gwenn had been tall and dark. And until yesterday Gwenn’s dark colouring had been Adam’s model of beauty. But today…today…

Confused by his reaction to her, Adam looked down at Cecily Fulford and hoped she could not read his mind. He did not want her to know the extent to which her delicate beauty moved him. He would not grant her that much power. Why, even with the girl dressed like this, in a beggarly novice’s habit, he desired her. Perhaps he might begin by caressing her cheeks, by testing their softness…no, he would start by kissing those lips…

Hell’s teeth—how could he hope to court her when she regarded him in this manner? He might think her the prettiest girl in Wessex, but his Duke’s ambition and her family’s destruction lay between them. He must tread softly if he was to win her. And win her he would. He rubbed his forehead, wondering briefly how his mind had altered in the past few hours. When the little novice had first offered him her hand in exchange for her sister’s he had vowed to tread warily. He had thought to refuse her until he knew more of her character and her motives in offering to accompany them back to Fulford. But now—Adam gazed into the largest blue eyes he had ever seen and his mind was in ferment.

Forgive me, Gwenn.

‘My lady, you did ask to wed me,’ he reminded her. ‘Yet you regard me as though I were a monster. You did not regard me so in the convent. What have I done?’

She bit her lip, stared intently at the great door of the Cathedral, at the pilgrims filing out, and gave him no answer. Her bosom heaved as she dragged in a breath.

Adam set his jaw. Perhaps she had considered further and thought the gulf between them was impassable. Yes, that might be the sum of it. He did not only have to contend with the fact that he was an invader in her eyes; she had realised that she was gently born while he came from humble stock. Gripping her wrist more firmly, he tried again. ‘My lady…Cecily…I give you notice I have decided to accept your proposition—both your propositions, that is. I will marry you.’