Anne Herries - Medieval Brides

‘The nunnery?’

‘What else?’ A tendril of hair was curling out under the edge of her wimple, gleaming gold in the sun. He tore his gaze away and reminded himself of what he must do. Nothing. He must do nothing because this was a waiting game. Give her some rope and see what she does with it.

It would be easier, cleaner, quicker—an end to this torment, this polite fencing that left so much unsaid—to shake the truth out of her once and for all. He grimaced. Direct confrontation might put an end to the ache that was not knowing whether he could trust her or not, but it would not advance Duke William’s cause. No, he must play the waiting game. It should not be hard. A pretty Saxon face and a soft, warm body would not distract him from his duty to his lord.

‘I…I could not find the convent,’ she was saying. ‘I l-lost my way at the top of Market Street and came straight back.’

She was the most terrible liar. No, it was more than just that. She did not like lying to him. Unaccountably Adam’s heart lifted. Nodding at her almost cheerfully, he covered her hand with his and they proceeded towards the Old Palace, outwardly a Breton knight, with his lady at his side. And inwardly? Her fingers were trembling under his and she would not meet his gaze. Adam might be deluding himself, but he did not consider that all was lost if she disliked feeding him lies.

Adam had borrowed a horse from the garrison for Cecily to ride home. It was a wreck rather than a horse. Gripping the reins, Cecily glared at the back of the animal’s head and, using her heels, tried vainly to urge it into a trot. She was riding astride, no ladies’ saddle being available at the Palace stables, and today that was a blessing. Had she been riding sidesaddle she doubted she would have been able to get the wreck to do more than shuffle, and she was lagging behind as it was. Astride, there was some measure of control, or so she liked to imagine. The wreck was spavined and flea-bitten—not fit even to be a packhorse.

Struggling with her mount left Cecily with no energy to worry about displaying darned stockings or watching their route. It left her with little energy for worrying about the disturbing conversation she had had with Adam outside the Palace walls. She could not put her finger on why the conversation had disturbed her, but she could not set it behind her. Nothing overt had been said, and yet dark undertones had been present. Of course she did not know Adam Wymark well enough to know his every mood. He might have a nature as volatile as her father’s, but she did not think so. Outside the Palace she had sensed…she had sensed…

Had Adam found out about her visit to Leofwine’s house? It was certainly possible, but he had not said as much. Throughout his manner had been polite, watchful—yes, very watchful—and ever so slightly off. He must know more than he was saying.

She glanced over the ears of the wreck she was riding. She had no idea how far they had gone. Apart from Maurice, who rode silently at her side, everyone else in Adam’s troop, including Adam himself, was several hundred yards in front of them. Sighing, Cecily reapplied her heels to the wreck’s ribs.

The road was bordered by spindly hawthorn bushes that were peppered with berries. Old man’s beard snarled in the leafless branches of blackthorn bushes and tangled in thin, red-stemmed dogwoods.

As their party rounded the next turn they came to a crossroads, where the way was scarred with deep ruts, white with the chalk that told her they were nearing the downlands—sheep-farming country. In the summer the downs were a haze of bees and blue butterflies, and as for the skylarks…But this was November, Cecily reminded herself. The downs would be quiet. There would be no skylarks spiralling in the heavens—the downs would be resting, like the convent herb garden.

They passed a moss-covered milestone with the name ‘Fulford’ carved deep into its surface and she realised with a jolt that they were almost home.

Home. Perhaps it had been a mercy that for the past few miles her mind had been occupied, for now they were almost there her stomach began to churn. What would she find at Fulford? Was there anyone left who would recognise her? Would she be able to keep her brother safe?

Cecily dug in her heels and the horse’s ears flickered, but the beast must have a hide of iron and the will of a mule, for its pace was unalterable. Slow, slow, slow.

Ahead of them, Adam shoved his cloak back over one shoulder and leaned a hand on the cantle of his saddle. ‘Maurice, take Lady Cecily’s reins, will you? She’s obviously in difficulties, and it’s dangerous to be strung out along the road like this.’

Without waiting for any response, he about-faced, pulling his cloak back into place.

Since returning with her to the Palace, the man she had agreed to marry had not spared her so much as a glance. He must know about her visit to Golde Street. The warm, considerate, handsome man who had kissed her that morning had been transformed into a harsh, glacial-eyed warrior. Were they one and the same person? First thing this morning Adam had seemed kind—almost sweet, if a man could be sweet. But after she had returned to the Old Palace he had been cold and distant. Unapproachable.

And now he was bent on humiliating her in front of his squire. She huffed out a breath. She was not in difficulties. It was the pitiful shambles of a horse she’d been given. Poor bony nag, it could barely stand. Her father would never have mounted her on such a beast; he would have deemed it only fit for dog meat.

Maurice reached down and took her reins.

‘It’s not me,’ Cecily muttered, glaring at Adam’s broad back.

Maurice urged his own destrier on, and its sheer size and strength forced the wreck to keep up. ‘I know,’ Maurice said. Behind the nose-guard of his helm, his dark eyes were smiling. ‘And so does Sir Adam.’

‘Then why did he choose such a horse for me?’

‘Sir Adam was lucky to get a horse at all. It was the last in the stables.’

‘The last? I wonder why? I should have thought the Duke’s men would have fought to the death over it.’

‘Quite so, my lady.’ Maurice’s lips twitched. ‘But it must be better than sharing Sir Adam’s.’

‘Oh, yes, Maurice. At least I’ve been spared that.’

Trotting along with Maurice, several yards behind Flame, Cecily ignored the sharp look that Adam’s squire gave her and concentrated instead on keeping the horse moving.

The Wessex countryside slid by, becoming more and more familiar with every step. The road ran up a rise and down the other side, beginning a gentle descent into a lightly wooded valley that sliced a long bite out of the downland. Flocks of sheep moved placidly over the downs, and below, on the floor of the valley, the River Fulford flowed slowly on. It would eventually reach the Narrow Sea. Generations of Cecily’s family had lived near the River Fulford. Its waters had ground their corn, kept their fish fresh in the fish pond, helped them grow cress…

In no time Cecily was looking at strips of farmland that had been cut out of the woodland. Ahead, Adam reined in, and allowed them to draw level with him.

‘Familiar, my lady?’ Maurice asked.

‘Aye. Fulford Hall.’ She cleared her throat. ‘It’s very close.’

‘I’ll take it from here, Maurice,’ Adam said, taking her reins from his squire. He pulled off his helm, looped the strap round the pommel of his saddle and pushed back his coif. ‘See to the horses, will you?’

‘Aye, sir.’ Maurice spurred on ahead.

Adam’s profile was stern. And then he looked at her and smiled. But it seemed Cecily was getting to know him. His smile was false.

‘Sir?’

‘Be my guide, will you? When we took possession we were hard pushed to make out a word that was said to us, and I would know the name and station of everyone on this holding—down to the last soul. You swore to be my guide, remember? And I want you to teach me English.’