Anne Herries - Medieval Brides

Spit-roasted chickens glazed with onions. The chickens were so tender that the meat was falling off the bone. Cecily’s mouth watered. By the look of it, Adam had understated Brian’s talents in the kitchen. The young man was a miracle-worker.

Sliding a platter into place, so that they could both reach it, Adam dropped a trencher of bread on it, apparently intending to share his food with her. Cecily had never observed this custom herself, but her French mother had taught her that it was part of formal etiquette in France that a knight should share his food and drink with his lady. As an overt statement of their union on the morrow, it couldn’t be more clear.

Tonight, Adam’s every move was designed to prove their unity. He honoured her because it was in his interests to do so.

The door banged again. Lamps and torches flickered as Harold staggered in with a round of white cheese and a bowl of cobnuts. Moments later Brian returned with a dish of steaming dumplings, which he set on the hearth to keep warm. Apple dumplings. Cecily could smell fruit and cinnamon. Carl carried in mead and ale, the jugs so full their contents slopped over the rims, and flasks of red wine appeared on the trestle.

Sir Richard sighed with pleasure and reached for a flask. ‘Adam ordered this in Winchester for you, my lady,’ he said. ‘He thought you would like to try it—it’s sweeter than most.’

‘My thanks.’ Adam had bought wine with her in mind?

The smell of the glazed chicken mingled with that of the apple dumplings, and after the meagre convent fare Cecily was hard put to it not to fall on the food like a ravening wolf. ‘Brian Herfu is more than a good cook,’ she observed.

‘Aye.’ Adam’s stomach growled. ‘Like most of us, he is more than just a soldier.’ He speared a joint of chicken on the end of his knife and eased it onto their trencher. ‘Would you have gravy, my lady?’

‘Thank you.’ Cecily stole a glance at Edmund, sitting at the far end of the trestle, below Adam’s men. As Adam spooned gravy onto their meat, Edmund’s scowl deepened.

What should she do about Edmund? She could not warn Adam that Edmund had plans for Philip, for not only would that reveal that Philip was no more the housekeeper’s child than she was, but it would also betray the fact that Edmund’s loyalties still lay with Wessex and put him in danger. And in any case Edmund had not actually told her anything. He had not trusted her with details.

Adam’s stomach rumbled a second time. With a grimace, he abandoned formality and, cutting a generous portion of chicken breast, nudged it to her side of the trencher. ‘For pity’s sake eat, my lady,’ he said. ‘I’m near fainting for want of real food.’

‘It’s Friday,’ Cecily muttered, assailed by guilt even as she picked up her knife. ‘By rights we should be serving fish.’

Reaching for the wine cup, Adam shook his head. ‘I thank God for this chicken. In any case, as I recall you should not even be eating fish—didn’t Mother Aethelflaeda impose a fast upon you as penance?’

‘Aye, bread and water. I feel guilty to be eating so well.’

‘Don’t—those years are gone.’ He leaned close, eyes serious. ‘Tell me truthfully…you are glad to be free of the convent?’

Was that doubt she could read in his eyes? Could her wishes be important to him? It did not seem likely, yet he had asked, so she answered honestly. ‘Yes, sir, I am glad.’

‘For the sake of the food, of course,’ he said, his mouth lifting up at one corner.

Forgetting herself, Cecily smiled back. ‘Naturally for the sake of the food.’

He set the cup down with a clunk. ‘You must test me now.’

‘Test you?’

‘My English. We will converse in English.’

‘As you wish.’

He gestured around the Hall. ‘This is Fulford Hall,’ he said, in clear but heavily accented English.

‘Yes, that is good.’

‘My name is Adam Wymark. I am a Breton knight. You are the Lady Cecily of Fulford. You are Saxon and you are my betrothed. We will be married tomorrow before Advent commences.’

‘Begins. Yes, very good,’ Cecily said, astonished at Adam’s swift progress. She lowered her eyes to hide a growing sense of alarm. Had he overheard her conversation with Edmund? She prayed not. He had only begun to learn, so his understanding must be poor, mustn’t it?

‘Wilf and Father Aelfric have been trying to teach me,’ Adam said, reverting to Norman French. ‘You see, like Herfu, I am not just a soldier, I am also a linguist.’

‘I see that.’ Saints, the one thing Cecily did not need was a husband with a swift turn of mind…

‘Now, this is where I will need your help,’ he continued. ‘How do you say, “I hope our marriage will be a successful one”?’

Successful, she noted, with a ridiculous pang she immediately dismissed. He had said successful. Not happy or loving, but successful. Nevertheless, she repeated his phrase for him in English.

Adam repeated the words after her.

‘Very good,’ she said, genuinely impressed. Heaven help them, Adam did indeed have a good brain.

As though she had spoken this last thought aloud, Adam looked meaningfully down the board to where Edmund leaned on his elbow, chewing a drumstick. A dark brow lifted. ‘And how do you say, “I will not tolerate disloyalty of any kind from anyone, be they serf, or soldier or…”’ his gaze shifted back to her ‘“…or even my wife.”?’

Cecily lifted her chin. He must have overheard her conversation with Edmund! He must have understood it! Calm, Cecily, calm. That is not possible. Adam had been too far away and Edmund had spoken quietly.

‘Well?’ he urged. ‘How do you say that in your tongue?’

Stumbling over the words, Cecily told him.

And, haltingly but clearly—oh, yes, very clearly—with his green eyes boring into her, Adam repeated the words after her.

He would not tolerate disloyalty. A piece of meat stuck in her throat. Blindly, she reached for the wine cup.

The wine was indeed smooth, but Cecily hardly tasted it. Her head felt as though it would burst, there were so many secrets and so much to hide from him.

Adam was leaning on the table, addressing Sir Richard, but the words flowed over her. Adam had a quick mind, and, as he had just warned her, he was not only a soldier. If she did not tread warily he would be bound to discover at least one of her secrets. He had too much charm—especially for an enemy. It was dangerous. She was not used to dealing with men and she had no defences against charming ones—even, it seemed, when Duke William had sent them. Adam tempted her to lower her guard, and in those unguarded moments her liking for him was growing beyond her wildest imaginings. He pleased her eyes too much. That was part of the trouble. She wanted to smile at him and watch him smile back. And then there were the butterflies.

She took another sip of wine, the wine Sir Richard said he had bought with her in mind, and her head throbbed.

In the wake of Hastings how could Lady Cecily Fulford and Sir Adam Wymark possibly have a successful marriage? How could she ever be his loyal wife?

Adam’s warning about disloyalty robbed the chicken of its flavour. He observed her continuously—outwardly content, smiling whenever their glances chanced to meet, the perfect knight, giving his lady the best cuts of meat, ensuring their goblet was filled with the sweet red wine. But unspoken threats hung over her head, and the fear that he was merely biding his time, waiting for her to make a mistake, was fast becoming a certainty.

On the other hand there was the wine…

From Sir Richard’s comment she surmised that Adam’s taste was for a sharper brew, but in this, as in every outward sign, he had deferred to her. It was a sham, though. It must be. A sham he kept up for the sake of the villagers. His quiet warning had been a timely reminder. She would not forget it. She wanted peace as much as he. In that, at least, they shared a common goal.