Anne Herries - Medieval Brides

Pulling the hood of Adam’s cloak up over her veil and wimple, and fastening it tight to obscure her face, Cecily dived into the shade between the two Minsters and turned left.

Quickly, quickly, through the graveyard. Rows and rows of gravestones.

No Maurice. No one following her.

Oh, sweet Lord, she thought, her breath coming fast. Adam must not find out about this. Quickly, quickly, on into Market Street, Another left turn. People setting up stalls, hawkers grabbing her arm…

‘Silk ribbons! Silk ribbons!’

‘Fresh loaves! Baked this morning!’

Shaking herself free, Cecily ploughed on. Up past Staple Street. The crisp air was filled with the bleating of sheep as shepherds with crooks led a flock to the slaughter pens. It’s November, she realised, with something of a jolt. They kill the animals that can’t be over-wintered in November. It felt oddly like an affront to see such a normal everyday sight so soon after the killing of England’s King and the loss of so many men. But the year turned regardless of the falling of kings and men. Everyday life must resume, and the meat would certainly be needed in the cold months to come. A butcher, wearing a sackcloth apron that was dark with blood, stepped out in front of her, and a metallic smell rose to her nostrils. All but gagging, Cecily pressed on.

Sweat breaking out on her brow, she glanced back and caught her boot on a loose cobble. No Maurice, no Adam, and no sign of any of his troops, thank God.

A stone was digging into the ball of her foot; her boot had a hole. Pausing to shake the stone free, she skirted round some night soil a householder had tipped into the gutter in the centre of the street and went on. And then Westgate reared up in front of her, gates yawning wide to let people bound for market into the city. Practically running, Cecily turned into a street that hugged the old Roman walls. Wooden houses, some thatched, others tiled with wooden shingles.

The morning sun was a low dazzle before her. She paused to catch her breath. Golde Street had to be near here: a few yards more, a little further. There! Golde Street. She shaded her eyes against the glare. The street was not as she remembered it when her father had brought her here. The shops had been open for business then, and bustling with trade. Now it looked like the Sabbath. The shopfronts had wooden bars nailed across the shutters, giving the impression that the shopkeepers had no intention of opening this side of the Day of Judgement. Where was everyone? Had trading ceased since Duke William’s invasion?

A girl sat on a threshold, suckling a baby. An old woman hobbled towards her, coming from the well with a bucket in hand, water slopping over the rim. A dog lifted its leg on the corner of a house. But where were the goldsmiths, the merchants, the customers?

And there, at the end of the street by the well, what was happening there? A group of men—Normans, to judge by their attire and by their priest-like shaved heads—were clustered round a barrel, staring at a scroll of parchment that was weighed down with stones. One man was leaning on a stick—no, it was a measuring rod. A measure? What was going on? Surely there was no room for more houses?

White stone markers had been laid out at intervals along the street, but Cecily could see no rhyme or reason in their placing. Half a dozen men wearing leather aprons and toolbelts that named them builders and carpenters stood close by. Their long hair proclaimed them to be Saxon, and their sullen, slouching posture told her they were to labour unwillingly.

Cecily hurried on—on past a wheelbarrow spilling ropes and tackle onto the ground. Leofwine’s house had been about here…

Yes—this was it! Leofwine’s shop was barred, like the others, but, undeterred, she banged on the door. At the southern end of the street there was a rumble of wheels and four yoked oxen rounded the corner. They were hauled to a halt. A plough team? In Golde Street? The world had run mad.

‘Leofwine! Evie!’

A bolt shot back with a snap, the door opened a crack. ‘Yes?’

‘Leofwine, you might not remember me—’ she began in English. ‘Your wife’s brother, Judhael—’

A hand shot out, caught the sleeve of her habit and hauled her unceremoniously into an ill-lit room. The door slammed, the bolt snapped back and she was shoved against the wall with such force that her head cracked against an oak upright. For a few seconds the workshop whirled about her.

Hand hard on her chest, Leofwine held her immobile. A seax winked in his other hand, and she felt the cold prick of steel at her throat.

‘L-Leofwine?’

‘Who the hell are you?’

Leofwine’s eyes were like ice. Cecily would never have known him for the carefree goldsmith who had married Judhael’s sister Evie five years earlier. ‘It’s Cecily—Cecily Fulford. Leofwine, don’t you remember me?’

‘Can’t say as I do.’

Cecily’s eyes were adjusting to the gloomy interior. Behind Leofwine a three-legged stool stood before a scarred workbench, the surface of which glittered with flecks of silver and gold. Fine chisels and pliers were lined up in racks on the wall, there were delicate hammers and tweezers, and to one side a miniature anvil. It looked as though it had been some time since Leofwine had been at work. A crucible lay on its side in the far corner, next to a small brick furnace. Several sets of long metal tongs hung from hooks on the adjoining wall.

A skirt swished, and something dark moved at the back of the workshop, by the door that led to the private family chamber. A white face appeared. ‘Evie!’ Cecily cried, almost choking as Leofwine pressed the point of his blade into her throat. ‘Come out! Please, speak for me!’

Skirts rustled. Leofwine slackened his grip and scowled over his shoulder. ‘Well, Evie? Is this yet another Fulford woman come to put us in peril?’

Cecily looked an appeal at Evie. There were tight lines around the girl’s eyes, and she clutched protectively at her belly, her large belly, with both hands. Evie was heavy with child.

‘Evie, you remember me, don’t you? It’s Cecily—Cenwulf’s sister.’

More rustling of skirts as Evie came to stand close. She tipped her head to one side, examining Cecily’s profile, raising her hand to draw back the edge of the novice’s veil. Slipping her fingers under Cecily’s wimple, Evie extracted a long strand of yellow hair. Then she nodded and stepped back.

‘Aye.’ Her sigh was heavy. ‘It is Cecily Fulford. The likeness to Cenwulf is remarkable. If you think back, Leo, Cecily was the sister they sent to the convent…’ Briefly, Evie touched the wooden cross at Cecily’s breast. ‘Both this and her habit attest that she speaks true. This can be none other than Cecily of Fulford.’

Leofwine’s seax vanished. Taking Cecily by both arms, he shook her so her teeth rattled.

‘Listen, Cecily of Fulford, I don’t know why you have come visiting, and to be frank I do not care. I want you to leave. Evie and I have enough to contend with without your family stirring things up for us.’

Manhandling Cecily to the door, he reached for the latch.

‘A moment, please.’ Cecily bit her lip and gestured apologetically at Evie. ‘I…I’m sorry, but I saw my sister Emma at the Cathedral yesterday, talking to Judhael. I thought they might have come here.’

Evie and Leofwine gazed blankly at her.

‘Did they?’

Leofwine set his teeth, unlatched the door, and attempted to shove Cecily into the street.

‘Did they? Evie?’ Resisting Leofwine with all her might, Cecily felt the words tumble out. ‘I would have talked to them if I could, but it…it was not possible. I only want to know Emma is well…that she is not alone. Do you think she’s with Judhael, Evie?’