Anne Herries - Medieval Brides

Were military matters so pressing that they drove all finer feelings from his mind? Or, worse, had he somehow found out about Emma and Judhael’s presence in the city? She prayed not. For if Adam Wymark—Adam—were to challenge her on that subject, she did not know how she would answer him.

The key point, though, and the one she must hold fast to, was that she should get to Fulford to see to her brother’s safety. She must also keep an eye on her father’s people.

Were they the only things that mattered? a little voice wondered as she recalled the warmth of Adam’s smile after they had kissed. A genuine warmth, she would swear. And yet, set that next to the way he had scowled and glowered at her only a few moments ago. But, scowl and glower though he may, she did not fear him. She sighed. Life might have been bleak in the convent, but it had been so much simpler.

‘Maurice, where will I sleep?’ she repeated, inwardly praying there was a ladies’ bower. Given that she was the only woman in the hall, it seemed a faint hope.

Maurice spread his hands. ‘Sir Adam didn’t say. You’d best ask him at supper.’

She rose from her bench. ‘Is there anything I can do?’

The squire shot her a startled look. ‘Do, my lady?’

‘I’m not used to being idle. I’d rather do something.’

‘Such as?’

She shrugged. ‘Anything. Is there an infirmary? I could help there. Or I might be of use in the cookhouse…’

Maurice looked shocked. ‘No, my lady. Sir Adam wouldn’t want you wandering off. Besides…’He rolled his eyes towards the knights hogging the central fire. ‘There’s plenty more like them roving the city. You’d do best to keep your head down, if you see my meaning. You’ll be safe enough here, among Sir Adam’s troop.’

Shifting the bench nearer to the men who were dicing, Maurice indicated that she should take her seat.

Sighing, Cecily settled in for a long afternoon. With something of a jolt she realised she would feel happier if Adam was here in person. While she was still uncertain of what to make of him, she did prefer it when he was around, even if all he did was glower at her.

By the time Adam returned to the Royal mead hall night had long since fallen. Torches chased the shadows away, candles glowed in beaten metal wall sconces, the central fire crackled and spat. The room was filled with the gentle buzz of conversation, the occasional roar of laughter.

Adam’s hair was damp from recent washing, and he was wearing his dark blue tunic, belted at the waist with a chased leather sword belt, and a serviceable brown wool cloak bought from the garrison’s quartermaster. His leather gambeson dangled from his fingers. Slinging it over one shoulder, he rested his other hand on his sword hilt and paused just inside the threshold, searching for Richard and his men and…

No sign of that petite figure in her drab veil and gown. He’d left her alone deliberately, to see what she might do. Where the devil was she? His stomach tightened into several knots. That night’s rations were to blame—not the fact that he didn’t know where she was. He had eaten with the Duke’s commanders in the upstairs solar. Food had been plentiful, but too much bread and ale and oversalted pork after weeks of hunger was not good for a man’s digestion.

He grimaced. Who was he fooling? She was the cause of his indigestion; he wanted to think the best of her. Damn it, how could that have happened already? He’d not known the woman more than a few hours…

Groups of men were clustered in the various pools of light made by the torches. Laughter floated out from under the nearest torch, where men were drinking and dicing. Farther down the hall came the rhythmic scrape, scrape, scrape of a whetstone on steel. A blue spark flashed—a squire sharpening his knight’s sword. From under another torch came a quiet muttering as friends simply talked.

There—there she was. Perched on a bench at the wall at the far end, in an oval pool of light. Brian Herfu, the youngest in his troop, sat next to her, and she was turned towards him, veil quivering as she listened to what he was saying. A string of rosary beads was wrapped round her wrist, and a missal lay on top of her small bundle of belongings. A missal? She could read? Wondering if Cecily could write—that would be a rare and wonderful accomplishment in a wife—Adam started towards them.

Brian had lost his older brother shortly after Hastings, and when Adam saw that the lad’s eyes were glistening with tears he had little doubt but that they were discussing Henry’s death.

Cecily touched Brian’s arm. The movement made the rosary swing gently to and fro. ‘How did Henry die?’ she was asking.

Brian’s dark head bent towards Cecily’s. ‘Blood loss, my lady. A leg wound. He—’

Not needing to hear the rest, Adam turned away. He had been beside Brian at Henry’s deathbed, and did not begrudge him any comfort that Cecily might give him. Catching Maurice’s eyes, he motioned him over.

‘You’ve eaten, sir?’ Maurice asked.

‘Aye. And the men?’

Maurice nodded.

‘And my lady? You saw to it that she was well fed?’

‘Yes, sir. It was plain fare, but good. She seemed very hungry. I think they must have rationed her at the convent.’

‘Likely you’re right,’ Adam said, glancing across at the slight figure by the wall. Cecily had turned towards Brian and was holding his hand in both of hers. He saw Brian clutch convulsively at the sympathy she offered. ‘Where’s Sir Richard?’

Maurice tried, unsuccessfully, to smother a grin. ‘Went out earlier. Not back yet. He mumbled something about trying to find a proper bathhouse.’

Adam rolled his eyes, the distinction not lost on him. There was nothing wrong with the wash-house next to the palace. In the main the Saxons had clearly used it for doing the royal laundry, but one could bathe there if one had a mind. He had done so, and doubtless countless Saxon princes and lords had also done so before him. Since it was a Royal Palace there were bathtubs. Richard must have other activities in mind.

‘He might not find much favour with Saxon women,’ Adam said.

‘He will if he pays enough,’ came the dry response.

‘Enough, Maurice! You are not his peer, to speak about him with such familiarity.’

‘My apologies, sir.’

Adam looked pointedly at Cecily. ‘You watched her close?’

‘Aye, sir. She hasn’t stirred all evening—except for a visit to the latrines and the wash-house.’

Adam narrowed his eyes. ‘You accompanied her?’

‘Of course. But I didn’t go into the latrine with her, if that’s what you mean. I simply escorted her to the privy and back.’

‘And she met no one?’

‘No one.’

‘And what about the wash-house? Anyone there when she went in?’ Since Adam had paid a visit to the wash-house himself, he knew first-hand how there was room enough for anyone intent on a clandestine meeting to hide behind the great cauldrons or the washtubs.

‘No.’ Maurice looked affronted. ‘I checked the place was empty before she went in.’

Adam started to chew a fingernail, and checked himself. ‘You are certain?’

‘Aye. She went to wash and change her habit, nothing more.’

‘Very good, Maurice.’ Some of the groups under the torches were starting to break up. Men were rolling into their cloaks, eager to bag places close to the fire. ‘We’ll bed down shortly. Who’s watching the horses?’

‘Charles, sir, followed by George.’

‘Good. Stow this and get yourself settled.’ He tossed Maurice his gambeson. ‘I won’t need you again tonight.’

‘My thanks, sir.’

Adam found a blanket in his pack and took it over to where Cecily was sitting. She was so pretty, with those delicate features and huge dark-lashed blue eyes. Gut-twistingly pretty. If only he could be sure she would not betray him…