Anne Herries - Medieval Brides

Mother Aethelflaeda had told the nuns that carnal love, as she called it, was only acceptable if the couple were married and were intent on begetting children. They were to take no pleasure in their union, for then it became sinful. ‘Carnal love distracts one from the love of God,’ Mother Aethelflaeda had stressed, many times. ‘It is a woman’s duty to give her husband children, yet it is a sin when she takes pleasure in it.’

Confused, Cecily gazed at the man she would marry on the morrow, the man who pleased her eyes, and butterflies fluttered in her belly. If only it were darker in here. He must know he has this strange effect on me. He is laughing at me. He is…

Would he please her body too? Kissing Adam was already a pleasure, which must mean she was a sinner. And as for the rest…Well, tomorrow would tell whether she would find doing her duty a pleasure or no. Her legs felt weak. She did not think he would have to force her…

Adam’s gaze had lightened. ‘You’ve come to change your gown?’

‘Aye—it will feel strange to wear colours after so long.’

He smiled and gently stroked her cheek, warm fingers sliding underneath her wimple. She wanted to lean into the caress like a cat, and rub her cheek against his fingertips. Sensual longings took shape in her mind—forbidden, sinful longings.

‘I won’t be sorry to see the back of this,’ he said, and with his other hand he twitched at her skirts. ‘Not to mention this grey apology for a habit that the convent saw fit to clothe you in.’ Taking up his sword, he turned to the door. ‘I’ll send Gudrun up with more hot water.’

The latch clicked quietly behind him.

Alone in her parents’ room, Cecily sank onto the rumpled bed and put her head in her hands. What was the matter with her? If Mother Aethelflaeda had but a glimpse at the turmoil in her mind she would have her doing penance till her life’s end.

Downstairs in his basket lay her baby brother, an orphan, an innocent. It was up to her to protect him, and to do that she must marry Adam. Honesty compelled her to admit that she had found his dark looks achingly attractive from the first, and against all odds she was learning to like him personally as well. In other circumstances she might have been happy to wed him, might have been able to make a good marriage with him. But—reaching up, she snatched off her veil and wimple—how could they possibly make a good marriage when of necessity she must keep so much hidden from him?

She twisted the veil into a tight bundle. Adam must not discover that Philip was her brother; he must not discover that one of her father’s housecarls, Judhael, was likely determined to overthrow his Duke’s regime; he must not discover that Emma was consorting with Judhael; he must not…

The latch rattled, and a young girl pushed open the door. She was on the verge of womanhood, her thick dark hair bound in two glossy braids which hung over her shoulders, her blue eyes were wide, and when they met hers, her lips curved into a welcoming smile. She hovered on the threshold with a jug of steaming water. ‘Lady Cecily?’

‘Matty?’ Matty was the miller’s daughter—a child when Cecily had last seen her. Now she was growing into an attractive young woman.

Matty came into the room, clutching the jug to her breast. ‘My lady.’

She made to curtsey, but Cecily was up trying to hug her before she had the chance. ‘Oh, Matty, it is good to see you.’

Setting the jug down, Matty hugged her back, her smile warm. ‘We’re glad to see you too, my lady. We need you.’ She lowered her voice. ‘These Franks frighten me—they frighten us all.’

‘There’s no need to fear them,’ Cecily said, with a confidence that surprised even herself. ‘They won’t harm you.’

Hastily, Matty crossed herself. ‘I pray you are right. But with our men gone…’

‘They will not hurt you. Sir Adam will not permit it. We are his people now, and it is his duty to protect us.’

‘Truly?’

Cecily nodded reassurance. ‘I am sure of it.’

Matty bit her lip. ‘If you say so, my lady.’ She glanced at the washstand. ‘Sir Adam asked me to fetch you hot water.’ Unexpectedly, she grinned, and her eyes sparkled. ‘At least I guessed that was what he wanted. His English is not very good, is it?’

‘That’s kind of you—my thanks. And, no, his English is weak, but he is learning.’

Matty went to the washstand, slid open the wall shutter and tipped Adam’s water out, regardless of any hapless soul who might be walking under the eaves. She refilled the ewer from the jug, chattering nineteen to the dozen. ‘He tried to get Marie to come out of the church to help him translate, but Marie won’t budge. She’s asked for an escort to go the convent—says she’ll take your place. Even though she’s a Frank herself, she refuses to speak to them. That’s one of the reasons I was afraid. I thought if Marie wouldn’t have anything to do with them, they must be evil.’

‘Fear is contagious,’ Cecily murmured.

Matty paused for a moment, head tilted to one side. ‘Aye, maybe it is, an’ all.’ She shrugged. ‘Anyhow, Wilf came back with the mended cart, and Sir Adam and that friend of his—the other knight…’ She coloured and gave Cecily a coy look.

‘Sir Richard?’

‘Aye—him. They’re talking to Wilf.’ Matty giggled. ‘Or rather, they are trying to. They sound right funny when you come to think of it.’

Listening with half an ear, refraining from pointing out that were Matty to attempt to speak Norman French or Breton she would probably sound just as amusing, Cecily randomly pulled a gown out of her sister’s clothes chest. It was periwinkle-blue, of fine worsted, with silken side lacings and cream embroidery at the neck and hem. A length of cream and blue braid lying under the gown was evidently intended for a matching girdle. She also unearthed a linen undergown, and a new pair of hose. New hose—what luxury. Heavens, Emma’s clothes were so beautiful they were positively immoral…

‘You’ll need a maid,’ Matty said eagerly, moving to the bed and beginning to strip it, efficiently separating dirty linens from woollen blankets. ‘He said you would need one. At least that’s what I think he was trying to say. May I be your maid, Lady Cecily. May I?’

‘Mmm?’ Absently, Cecily shook out the blue gown, and though she knew it was vanity—yet another sin to chalk up on her account—she couldn’t help but notice how well it draped. After the harshness of her convent habit, the fabric was soft as thistledown. Would he like her in it? Would he think her pretty? Not that that mattered, of course.

The scent of lavender filled the air, and with it the realisation that Emma must have put bunches of dried flowers amongst her things. Emma. Tears pricked at the back of her eyes. Where was Emma? Could she find happiness with Judhael? Would he look after her? Overwhelmed by conflicting emotions, Cecily covered her face with her hands. She wanted to scream. Was she hysterical? One moment she was hoping Sir Adam thought her pretty—how trivial!—and in the next breath she was fighting back tears. Was that what hysteria was?

Matty was clattering out onto the landing to the linen closet, still talking, and by the time she returned with an armful of fresh linen Cecily had herself in hand. ‘Gudrun said to change the sheets,’ Matty said. ‘Oh, do say I can be your maid, my lady. Marie’s entering the convent, so she won’t do. And Gudrun’s got too much to do with running the Hall and with the babies.’

‘I’m not sure I’d know what to do with a maid.’

Matty’s face fell. ‘Oh, but you must have one—you’re to be lady here! I know I’m only the miller’s daughter, and there’s much I don’t know about being a lady’s maid, but I can learn. I want to learn. Oh, please, Lady Cecily—let me be your maid.’ Her blue eyes met Cecily’s, clear and quite without guile. ‘I’d like to do more than hoist sacks of grain for my father my whole life.’