Anne Herries - Medieval Brides

He paused, one foot over the threshold, and she could swear his lips twitched. Laughter? He was laughing?

She caught Gudrun’s arm, whispering, ‘Gudrun, take care.’

Ignoring Gudrun, Adam came to stand in front of Cecily. No, he was not smiling. His mouth was stern, his eyes cool. ‘Please to tell your woman that I would have private speech with you.’

‘Gudrun, if you wouldn’t mind leaving us? I will call you when we have finished.’

‘No, dear, it’s most improper.’

‘A brave woman,’ Adam murmured, his eyes not moving from Cecily’s, ‘but misguided. Please to tell her that if she doesn’t leave on her own two legs I shall toss her out myself.’

His tall, conqueror’s body surely had to have been made by some demon, since its shape so pleased her eyes yet at the same time it frightened her. He frightened her, with his calm, quiet assurance. He was unlike any man she had ever met. The moment he had opened the door she had recognised anger in him, but it was not like the hot, loud, uncontrollable anger that occasionally had taken over her father. This was, in its way, far more alarming. This was controlled power, and he was very much in command of it. Adam shifted slightly, as though to emphasise that his threat to throw Gudrun out was in earnest.

‘Gudrun, please!’

Gudrun threw a scowl at them and stomped from the room, muttering under her breath.

He was blocking out the light from the wall windows. A silhouette. A strong, slender young man. A warrior. Cecily crushed the damask to her breast and wondered if he could hear the pounding of her heart.

‘Is it customary in these parts for Saxon ladies to entertain housecarls in their chamber while dressing for their wedding?’

‘I…I…No.’ She put some strength in her voice. ‘Of course not.’

Adam smiled. It was not one of his more pleasant smiles. ‘I thought not. So, if you please, my lady, would you mind telling me what you were talking about?’

So quiet his voice. So calm his tone. She drew in a shaky breath. Do not let anyone suffer from what you say to him. ‘I…We…That is…he…’

‘My lady…?’

At a loss, she stared up at him. ‘He…he does not wish me to marry you.’ There—she had given him the truth, and it was a truth that could hurt no one.

‘And that is all?’

She stared up at him, but with most of the light behind him, his expression was hidden. ‘Sir?’

‘No meetings arranged with what is left of the Saxon nobility? No plans to oust me from Fulford? No plans to kill me, perhaps?’

Thankful that Edmund had not let her in on any of his schemes, again she could give him the truth. ‘To kill you? Not that I know of, sir.’

He stared at her for a long moment. ‘Would you tell me if you knew, Cecily? That is what I find myself wondering.’ Sighing, he turned his back on her, and his voice became little more than a whisper. ‘I find myself wishing I could trust you.’

Something in her tightened, and when after another pause she realised he was gazing down at the matting, tearing at one of his fingernails with his teeth, the tightness turned into pain. He was hurting, and she could feel it. He did want to trust her. But surely the great Breton warrior could not be hurting because of her? It could not be…And yet…?

She stared at his back, took a deep breath, and moved to his side. ‘Adam?’ Greatly daring, her pulse racing at her temerity, she reached up and gently took his hand away from his mouth. ‘That is not an attractive habit, sir.’

His fingers tightened on hers. His lips came up at one corner and his gaze softened. ‘You think not? Then, since you are to be my bride, I will do my best to break it.’ He opened his mouth to say more, but someone rattled the door.

‘Gudrun,’ Cecily said.

‘Is that woman afraid of nothing?’

Cecily laughed. ‘I don’t think so, sir.’

‘She has your interests at heart. She is a woman in a million.’ Lifting her hand briefly to his lips, he released her. Somewhat bemusedly, Cecily watched him wave Gudrun in and bow himself out.

‘He did not bully you, did he, dear?’ Gudrun asked when they were once again alone. For the second time, she took the dress from Cecily and shook out the creases.

‘N-no, not at all.’

‘That’s good. Hurry, dear, slip this on.’

Deep in thought, Cecily stood like a statue while Gudrun pulled the dress over her head and chatted and fussed and cajoled. Ought she to warn Adam if she learned of plans to kill him? Certainly she had no wish for his death. But if it came down to a choice between saving Adam’s life or the life of one of her father’s people she did not know how she would choose. Dear Lord, do not let it come to that, she prayed.

Gudrun adjusted the seams and hem of the garnet gown and, preoccupied though she was, Cecily managed to find words to admire the cream silk that lined the sleeves; she praised her mother’s embroidery on the hem and neckline…

‘Yes, Gudrun. No one could best Mother at gold and silver threadwork…Yes, Gudrun, the veil is very fine…Yes, Gudrun, it is clever the way the leaves and flowers on the circlet match the leaves and flowers in the weave of the gown…’

And while the surface of her mind was busy with Gudrun, another, deeper part of her was wondering what Edmund had been alluding to when he had said he had spoken to Judhael. Should she warn Adam? Or would a warning only make things worse? Was Gudrun right when she maintained that Edmund was all bluster?

Gudrun moved about her: pulling, lacing, checking the fabric was falling just so. And slowly the light from the windows moved across the matting. One thing was certain. At three o’clock, as the winter sun began to fade, she was going to be joined with Adam Wymark in Holy Matrimony. A day she had thought she would never see. Her wedding day.

This garnet gown—the gown her mother had embroidered for her sister—would help to conjure their presence, so she would not be standing alone when she made her vows. A small comfort, perhaps, but one she cherished.

As was the custom in England, the wedding was to be held just outside the wooden church. Word had spread among the villagers, and by the time Adam arrived with Richard and his men a number of Saxons had already gathered to witness it.

The doorposts of Fulford church were garlanded. Ivy, juniper and holly, twisted together with cream satin ribbon. Someone had made a rough arch out of lengths of hazel, and more of the cream ribbon was twined around it, holding the evergreens in place. Done in her honour, not his, but he was glad to see it.

The villagers fell silent at his approach. Adam ran his hand through his hair—shorn by Maurice in honour of the occasion—and straightened his dark blue tunic. For the tenth time he checked his cross-gartering. To Richard’s disgust, he had again dispensed with his sword.

At his elbow, Richard gave a soft chuckle. ‘Anyone would think you’ve not done this before.’

‘I’m not nervous!’

‘Of course not. You’re hopping from foot to foot like a cat on hot coals just for the exercise.’

Adam scowled and glanced towards the Hall. He had not spoken to Cecily since Gudrun had interrupted them, and he wished they had managed to exchange a few more words in private. He had glimpsed her in the Hall later, but she’d been so wrapped up in ordering the wedding supper and in Gudrun’s young son that he’d not won so much as a glance.

‘She’s late,’ he said, rolling his shoulders as her father’s remaining housecarl appeared in the Hall entrance. Relying heavily on his crutches, Edmund swung across the green towards them, his face rigid with hostility.

Adam’s scowl deepened. ‘That man bears watching,’ he murmured, for Richard’s ears alone, though he doubted that any of the Saxons would understand him. He did not catch Richard’s response, for at that moment there was a fluttering in the hall, a soft giggle—Matty—and then there she was, framed by the doorway.