Anne Herries - Medieval Brides

She woke to a woman’s laughter in the hall under the loft room. Gudrun.

Refreshed by a night on what must be the most comfortable mattress in Christendom, relishing the softness of her pillow, Cecily smiled and stretched. Light was creeping round the edges of the shutter above the bed.

Below, Matty was singing a lullaby, interspersing each verse with a giggle.

A baby gurgled in response. It had to be Agatha. Philip was too young to gurgle like that. Happy, homely sounds, floating up through the cracks in the floorboards. What joy to waken to lullabies and laughter after years of wakening to the cold chime of the Matins bell, to the sterile chant of plainsong.

Smiling, Cecily bounced upright, pushed her hair back from her face and surveyed the loft room with guilty delight. This was hers to enjoy—hers. The boarded floor with its rush matting, the whitewashed walls, the sloping roof, the pottery washbasin, the two braziers—though admittedly they had burned down to ash some time in the small hours.

She was not going to spend her nights in a dreary cell. She’d spend them here in this large and airy loft. And from tonight—her smile faded and she drew the covers more tightly round her shoulders—from tonight she would share it with Adam Wymark, a Breton who could not even speak her language properly.

His travelling chest was shoved against the wall, where Matty had left it after tidying away his clothes. Only one travelling chest? His hauberk and helmet must be stowed in the armoury, along with his sword and gambeson, or else he had them at his side, for they were not here. What else had Adam Wymark seen fit to bring with him from Brittany?

Clambering to her knees, Cecily reached up to open the overhead shutter. Light poured in. Getting out of bed, she padded across the matting to the travelling chest. The lid was heavy and creaked as it opened. A jumble met her eyes.

A dirty linen shirt, screwed up in a ball; another, frayed at the neck; a pair of braies; two pairs of hose, one with a nasty rent in it and stained with what looked like blood. Shuddering, she set the dirty shirt and bloody hose aside for laundering, thought better of it, and replaced them as she had found them. Near the bottom she found a clean shirt. A tangle of leg-bindings. A crumpled green tunic, a dark blue one. The quality of Adam’s clothing was good—serviceable, but not extravagant. A sheathed dagger. A leather purse, rattling with coins. She set the purse aside unopened, and her gaze fell on a ladies’ eating knife, its hilt set with pretty blue stones.

Catching her breath, Cecily picked up the knife and turned it over. Had this been Gwenn’s? Adam must have loved her. Ill-at-ease, she glanced once more into his coffer. There was little else. More clothes. A small, hard object wrapped in cream linen. But seeing the ladies’ eating knife had somehow stolen her curiosity. She might be marrying Adam Wymark, but she had not earned the right to root through his belongings.

Shoving the knife back where she had found it, Cecily replaced the rest of the clothing and quietly closed the chest.

After a quick wash, Cecily dragged on Emma’s blue gown and hurried downstairs.

Gudrun was changing Philip’s linens in the sleeping area, and Matty was no longer blithely singing lullabies. Her newly appointed maidservant was standing in the doorway, Agatha on her hip, scowling at some activity in the yard.

‘Matty, what’s amiss?’

Matty’s blue eyes were troubled. ‘It’s Lufu, my lady. She came back at dawn, and Sir Adam’s had words with her. Right stern he was, if I understood him right. She’s been put in the stocks, and that sergeant of his has just told their cook to tip pigswill on her.’

‘What? Let me see.’

Matty stood aside, and with a growing sense of disbelief Cecily saw that she spoke no less than the truth. For there, in the middle of the horse-trampled grass of the green, sat Lufu, in the stocks. Cecily clenched her fists. The use of the stocks was a common enough punishment, and humiliating though it was it was mild compared to some punishments. But she had thought, she had hoped…

‘Sweet Jesus!’

‘My lady!’ Matty gasped, turning startled eyes on her.

Normally, Cecily never blasphemed. But the truth was that Cecily had hoped that Fulford had been given a more temperate lord, and she was bitterly disappointed. Clenching her fists, wishing her eyes were deceiving her, she stared at Lufu.

The years had hardly changed her, though at present she was far from the carefree girl who lived in Cecily’s memory. Her broad face was streaked with grime and tears, and her plaits were unwound. Bedraggled brown strands stuck to her cheeks like rats’ tails. Her skirts were hiked up to her knees, enabling her ankles as well as her wrists to be locked in the stocks. Her hose had a hole at one knee, and her veil was nowhere to be seen.

Scattered about Lufu were vegetable peelings, stale ends of bread, rinds of cheese, cabbage stalks, chicken bones, and floor sweepings from the kitchen. Hunched over her imprisoned hands, she was the very image of misery.

Her heart going out to the girl, Cecily caught Matty’s arm. ‘Sir Adam didn’t have Lufu beaten, did he?’ Anger was a cold ball in the pit of her stomach. To think she had thought him considerate—to think that she had hoped Fulford would be governed by a moderate man who might rule with kindness. How could Adam treat Lufu like this?

Matty shook her head. ‘No, but she’s to rest there all morning.’ Her expression lightened. ‘Then she’s to wash and help that Brian with your wedding feast.’

Gritting her teeth, Cecily strode outside. The sun was dazzling, but not strong enough to ward off the nip in the air. Sigrida was walking up the lane past the churchyard, hand in hand with one of her children, and young Harold was lounging in a barrow by the stable, idly picking his nose. The door to the armoury was open, and someone was moving about inside. Probably him. Further off, down the track, the mill wheel was turning; she could hear the faint rumble of the machinery. Smoke plumed out of the roofs of the Hall and the smithy.

Hall, church stables and armoury were ranged about the green, and the stocks had been deliberately placed at the centre, ensuring that Lufu was on public view, her disgrace and her punishment known to the whole village.

‘Lufu?’ Cecily said, her nose wrinkling at the stench of pigswill.

Lufu raised a tear-streaked face and sniffed. A piece of eggshell was lodged in her hair. ‘L-Lady Cecily? You’ve grown up.’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you home for good?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you are marrying that…that b…Breton lord?’

‘Yes, but he’s a knight, Lufu. Not a lord.’

‘He’s lord of Fulford, though.’

‘Yes, I suppose he is.’

Another sniff. A hopeful look entered Lufu’s eyes. ‘Are you come to let me out?’

‘No, I’m sorry,’ Cecily said, as gently as she could. But she would try—by heaven she would try…

‘But my lady!’ Lufu’s face collapsed and fresh tears spilled down her cheeks. ‘That sergeant of his—a foreigner! What right has he—?’

‘Right of arms,’ Cecily said, tamping down her anger in order to calm the girl—at least until she could get her out of the stocks. ‘And since we cannot argue with that, we would be wise to submit to him.’ She went down on her haunches, bracing herself against the pungent smell of rotting food, and lowered her voice. ‘Listen, Lufu. This may be hard to understand, but I did believe…that is…I did hope that Adam Wymark might be as good a lord as my father was. That may still be true. He may yet be better.’

‘B-better?’

‘He didn’t have you flogged, did he? My father would have done.’