Anne Herries - Medieval Brides

‘That would be Harold and Carl, the miller’s boys.’

He was pleased to see the worry leaving her eyes. It was replaced with a look of puzzlement, as though she wanted to fathom him but could not. Well, that was hardly surprising. She was a mystery to him too.

‘I’ll get young Herfu to haul them over. They can earn their keep,’ he said. ‘Herfu can help too.’

‘Brian?’

‘Aye—he cooked for the troop before, and no one died.’

She smiled. ‘That’s a mercy. I can’t promise much tonight—unless we can lay our hands on some meat. There is no time to slaughter a pig or a lamb, and in any case their meat is best hung before eating—there are chickens, though, will they do?’

‘A feast. I’ve been longing for chicken ever since Mother Aethelflaeda tantalised us at the convent.’ Adam leaned forwards as a force that was beyond his strength to resist had him dropping a kiss on her nose. Fool, fool, wait until you know where her loyalties lie. ‘I’ll send Herfu over immediately. Once you’ve instructed him and the miller’s boys, come back to the Hall, would you?’

‘As you wish. Why?’

‘Because we’re going to search out the reeve—what was his name?’

‘Godwin.’

‘Godwin—aye. Maybe Godwin will know where the cook has gone, and I want you with me. It was heavy going, getting the message across to Father Aelfric.’

‘Of course. I understand.’

Dusk was falling by the time Cecily walked back into to the Hall.

Sir Richard was ensconced on a bench by the trestle, a cup of wine at his elbow, a lute in his hand. She broke her stride. A lute? Of course there was no reason why a Norman should not play the lute. But it gave her pause to see one of Duke William’s knights with a delicate musical instrument. His squire, Geoffrey, and a couple of the troopers sat with him, deep in murmured conversation. Adam was nowhere to be seen. Neither was Gudrun. But Adam’s squire, Maurice, was dandling a cooing Agatha on his knee, and Philip…

Her brother’s basket lay in the sleeping area, but from her standpoint it wasn’t possible to see inside. Was Philip with Gudrun or was he asleep? She didn’t care to think that he might have been left alone in the Hall with not a Saxon in sight. True, with Agatha crowing and waving her chubby fists at him so gleefully, Maurice did not look capable of harming a baby, but if Adam and his men discovered that Philip was the rightful heir to Fulford how would they react? Would they kill him? No, surely a man like Adam Wymark—apparently a considerate man—would not countenance infanticide?

Masking her concern, and mindful of Adam’s comments about not wishing to marry her in her habit, she stole a glance across the rushes to where Emma kept her clothes chest. It wasn’t there.

Nevertheless, Philip’s basket was. Casually, she wandered across. Her brother was asleep on his side, with only his face and one tiny fist visible above the coverlet. So sweet. So small. Her throat ached.

Adjusting his covers, she straightened. ‘Sir Richard?’

‘My lady?’

‘There was a small chest here earlier, under the window. Did anyone move it?’

‘Was it painted red?’

‘That’s it.’

‘Adam had it hauled up to the loft chamber.’

The loft room to one side of her father’s mead hall had been built at about the time of Thane Edgar’s marriage to her mother. Being Norman, Thane Edgar’s bride had not liked to sleep with the rest of the household. She had expected the Thane of Fulford and his lady to have some private space. The loft room had served Cecily’s parents as bedchamber, and also as meeting room for the immediate family.

Murmuring her thanks, Cecily hooked up her skirts and started up the ladder.

At the top, the landing was large enough for two people and the linen press, no more. She paused by the press, steeling herself—she had not entered this room since she had been forced into her novice’s habit.

Taking a deep breath, she lifted the latch. Facing her, at the gable end, was her parents’ bed—now Adam’s. Light slanted down from a wind-eye above it, lighting up a tumble of untidy bedding, a man’s green tunic, a crumpled white linen chainse or shirt. A brazier, unlit, stood at her right hand, another on her left…

A movement on the left caught her attention.

Adam! Stripped to the waist, standing before a ewer of water on a stand, washcloth in hand.

He turned.

‘Oh!’ In the moment before she lowered her eyes Cecily glimpsed a broad, well-muscled chest with dark hair arrowing down towards the tie of his hose. He seemed larger half naked, and most disconcerting. The effect of her years in the convent, she supposed. Curiosity warred with shyness. Shamefully, she wanted to continue looking at him. But shyness won, and she stared fixedly at a bedpost, hoping he could not see her blushes. ‘I…I’m sorry. Sir Richard said you’d had Emma’s belongings sent up here. I didn’t think you…’ Her voice trailed off.

‘I’ll be gone in a moment,’ Adam said, his voice amused. ‘If you’d pass me that towel?’

A square of white linen was lying in the rumpled mess on the bed. She thrust it in his general direction.

Swiftly drying himself, Adam dragged a clean linen shirt from a travelling chest that sat against the wall between Emma’s red one and her father’s strongbox. Out of the corner of her eye she saw that he had to duck his head to avoid hitting it on the low angled roof.

Only when he was safely inside his tunic did she risk meeting his gaze. ‘This was my parents’ room,’ she said softly, unable to analyse her feelings on seeing Adam Wymark standing in the same space where so often she had seen her father.

Should she hate this stranger from Brittany? She did not hate him—she did not think she could, for so far he had not shown himself to be a cruel man—yet to see him here, sword propped against the side of the bed in exactly the same way that her father had propped his sword…

Adam buckled his belt, his face unreadable. ‘I know, and I’m sorry if it offends you, but I used this room before chasing to the convent after your sister.’ He shrugged. ‘Tonight it’s yours. But tomorrow…’He came to stand close, so close she could smell the soapwort he had been using. ‘Tomorrow it will be our room.’

Her pulse quickened, her mouth opened, but no words emerged. He stood looking down at her: tall, slender, dark. A Breton knight. Her knight. Her mouth felt dry. Would he bring kindness to their marriage? Part of her was beginning to think it possible. But, no, how could that be when he was Duke William’s man, and she was marrying him for convenience? She was marrying him for Philip; for the villagers; for the sake of peace…

And for you? Does not a small part of you marry him for yourself? asked an insidious voice. No! Never! I marry him to…As Cecily looked up at Adam, her mouth went dry and she lost track of her thoughts. It was extraordinary how compelling she found the shape of his lips…

‘Beautiful…’ she murmured.

‘Hmm?’

‘Oh! N-nothing. I…I…nothing!’ she stuttered, her thoughts utterly scrambled.

Theoretically, Cecily knew what happened in the marriage bed—how had Emma phrased it? ‘You’ve seen the stallion put to our mares’—but how did that translate into human terms? She was largely ignorant of what actually went on between a man and a woman. Some men forced women, this she knew. One of the novices at the convent had been raped and sent there in shame when she had become pregnant, even though it had not been her fault. Cecily could still hear the poor girl’s cries echo round the chapel when she realised she would never return to her village. Would Adam force her? Once they were married he would have the right…tomorrow he would have the right…and no one called it rape when a man forced his wife.