Anne Herries - Medieval Brides

The Cathedral bell tolled.

‘Oh!’ In a trice, the dreamy expression vanished from her eyes and she stepped back, muttering, ‘Th-the Angelus bell.’

She made as if to cross herself, noticed he had her hair wound round his finger, and tugged it free. ‘I…I must tidy myself, sir.’ Hastily she pushed the curl back under the wimple and drew his cloak more closely about her.

The bell tolled on.

She continued to fuss with the sackcloth that passed as her clothing, straightening her veil, her wimple.

Adam grinned. ‘Be calm, Cecily. You are not in the convent now.’

‘I know. It’s just that it…it’s the first time I’ve missed the Angelus in four years. It feels wrong—like a sin.’

Shaking his head, he took her hand, kissed it. ‘It’s no sin if you are my betrothed. You were not made to be a nun. What age are you?’

‘Sixteen.’ Her blue eyes regarded him gravely. ‘And you, sir, what age are you?’

‘Twenty-two.’ He bent to murmur in her ear. ‘And you called me Adam a moment ago.’

‘Adam.’ She whispered his name and blushed, but would no longer meet his eyes. The Cathedral bell had reminded her of who she was, and who he was. Cecily had reverted, and was once again the shy Saxon novice he had taken from St Anne’s, and he was a Breton knight, Duke William’s man. Their tryst was ended.

Gently, Adam took her hand again and cleared his throat. ‘We ride for Fulford in half an hour, in order to make the most of the light.’ He eyed her wimple and grey veil with distaste, remembering how far Fulford was from Winchester’s market. ‘But first, if there is anything you need to buy here, I have some silver.’

She blinked. ‘I thank you, S…Adam. But until I see what state my parents’…that is…your holding is in, I cannot say what provision we may need.’

‘I’d have you better gowned. My wife will not walk around in rags.’

Cecily looked down at her skirts as though seeing them for the first time. ‘Oh.’

He tugged at her wrist. ‘Come—there’s bound to be a mercer’s stall at the market.’

She hung back, shaking her head.

‘Cecily?’

‘I would not waste your money. My mother used to keep bolts of fabric in a chest. There should be enough stuff for a gown for me.’

He bit back a smile. ‘I see I am marrying a thrifty soul.’

‘It’s the convent, Sir—’

‘Adam—remember?’

‘Adam. The convent made me so. The Rule of Holy Benedict…’

Raising her hand to his lips, Adam took pleasure in the colour that washed into her cheeks. ‘Tomorrow,’ he said softly.

‘Sir?’

‘We’ll get to Fulford tonight, and tomorrow we’ll wed.’

‘S-so soon?’

Leaning forwards, he pressed a kiss on the part of her brow not hidden by her wimple. ‘I see no reason to delay. Once at Fulford Hall you will have time to renew old acquaintance and—’ he flicked at the wimple with a grimace of distaste ‘—set a maid to see to your clothing. And then we’ll marry.’

Leading her back round the north wall of the transept, Adam marched to the Cathedral forecourt, where Richard was waiting. As he buckled on his sword he intercepted one of Cecily’s shy smiles. His heart felt lighter than it had in years.

Adam had not known what to expect when he had first gone to Normandy to uphold Duke William’s claim to the English throne. Setting out from Brittany, he had hoped for land and favours, for a new life away from the places where Gwenn’s ghost haunted him at every turn. He had thought he might win himself a new wife, but he’d never dared hope for one as lovely as this. One who might, if he were not on guard, tempt him into losing his heart again. He’d certainly not reckoned on an innocent novice for a bride either, but that was of no matter. Her smile alone was worth the crossing of several seas.

He was, he realised with baffled astonishment, feeling an emotion that was too complicated to be expressed as happiness, but it came close—damn close. And for that Cecily Fulford was entirely responsible.

His lightheartedness lasted as long as it took to walk back to the Saxon Palace, where the troop was stationed. The guards jumped to attention as they entered the main hall. Cecily kept close, white teeth still nibbling at her lip. That pretty flush was gone. ‘You’ve been here before?’ he asked.

She swallowed. ‘Once, years ago. With my father—with Thane Edgar.’

Adam nodded. This must be hard for her, and he had no words to make it easy. In her place he would be counting the differences between now and then.

He had not seen the Palace of the Kings when the Duke’s men had first entered the city, but he’d heard about beautiful wall-hangings ripped from the walls—even now the hooks and rods on which they had hung were still visible, bent awry by careless hands. He’d heard about antique arms that had hung proudly over the main dais where the Royal family of Wessex had taken their seats to break bread. Telltale white marks on the smoke-blackened limewash were all that remained of them. He’d heard about costly silver plate—looted, most likely, from the self-same sideboard that Cecily was gazing at. One of the sideboard doors hung askew on one hinge, and one of its legs was broken. He’d heard of a great shield, emblazoned with the dragon of Wessex. There was no sign of that, either. No, Adam decided ruefully, nothing he could say would make this easy.

His captain, Félix Tihell, was back, talking to Maurice on the other side of the central fire. Adam steered his betrothed to a bench by the wall. ‘Wait here,’ he said, and left her gazing up at the gallery constructed at one end of the hall, on the first-floor landing, well away from the central fire. The room on the gallery had served as a private solar for the Earls of Wessex. The garrison commander had taken it over.

It was warm by the central fire, which was a proper roaring fire, piled with dry logs, not like the sulky affair at the convent guest house. Tihell had his helm under his arm, and he was out of breath, with a light sheen of sweat coating his forehead as though he had been running. He broke off at Adam’s approach.

‘Sir Adam.’ Tihell saluted. ‘In your absence, I was about to give Maurice my report.’

‘Give it to me direct,’ Adam said, waving his squire away. ‘Don’t tell me the trail went cold?’

‘No, sir,’ Tihell said, chest heaving as he caught his breath. ‘I followed the pony tracks from the convent, out of the north gates as you directed, but they did not continue north, as we expected. Instead they circled round to the west in a wide loop. Lady Emma stayed overnight with her groom at a tavern called the Green Man, and the next day they continued, eventually hitting the road to Winchester.’

Adam tensed. ‘Winchester? She came here? Lady Emma came here today?’

His captain nodded. ‘Aye. We made good time, and I managed to catch up with her. Actually, I came through Hyde Gate behind her. Followed her straight to the Cathedral.’

Feeling as though he’d been kicked in the gut, Adam’s eyes went involuntarily to Cecily, sitting demurely on the bench on the other side of the fire, with her hands folded nun-fashion in her lap. Smoke and flames curled between them, but she intercepted his gaze and sent a shy smile across the hall. When he did not return it, her smile faltered. Something within him twisted. ‘The Cathedral?’ he repeated slowly. ‘Which one? Old Minster or New Minster?’

‘The one which holds their saint’s relics.’

‘Old Minster. Hell, I should have known,’ Adam said, closing his eyes as Cecily’s reaction when she had caught sight of him flashed into his mind. That sudden pallor…that frantic scramble for the Cathedral door.