Anne Herries - Medieval Brides

Cecily scrambled off the bed in a flurry of activity, shaking out the skirts of her gown and yanking at the bedcover. Rose petals fluttered to the floor. Adam narrowed his eyes, wondering whether his question had discomposed her, but then he noticed the rose petals and thought he understood the reason for her sudden burst of activity. He moved towards the bed. He might have his suspicions about young Philip—about her, indeed—but there was no place for them in this room, not tonight. She was innocent, and she deserved a bridegroom who would take care with her.

‘Cecily?’ Her veil quivered. There were two bright spots of colour on her cheeks. Make light of this, he told himself. She’s as nervous as you are. He smiled. ‘You look like a child who has been caught stealing sweetmeats.’

‘D-do I?’

He caught her hand, tried to pull her close, but she hung back and would not meet his gaze. ‘Cecily? Look at me.’

Slowly she raised her head. ‘Sir?’

Her eyes were as wide as a doe’s. Afraid—yes, she was definitely afraid. Laughing with her bridesmaids had been but a mask. ‘I realise we have not known each other long,’ he said. ‘The marriage need not be consummated tonight.’

Against his instincts, ignoring a most unnerving wave of disappointment, he managed to release her and sat down on the edge of the mattress. Nudging aside the rosemary and lavender posy, he tugged off his boots and tossed them into a corner. In the Hall, someone screeched with laughter, the drums pounded. He had started on his belt when a small hand touched his shoulder.

‘But, Adam…’ the quiet voice was puzzled ‘…if we do not complete our marriage with full—physical—union, it will not be a real one. It could be annulled.’

‘That is true.’

‘Then you…we…we must.’

Her gaze was so earnest that he could not doubt her seriousness. Dropping his belt, he stood up. Even without his boots she only came up to his chest. Little Cecily, his Saxon bride.

‘If it is important to you that we consummate this marriage, then we shall,’ he said, hoping that the only sign of the surge of excitement her words had given him was a slight huskiness in his tone.

‘Yes,’ she said steadily. ‘It is important. This must be a true marriage. Only…’

He found himself staring at her mouth, wondering if it tasted as sweet as he remembered. ‘Only…?’

Dark colour swept into her cheeks and her gaze slid past him. ‘I…I don’t know what to do.’

‘Not part of the convent catechism, eh?’

She gave a shaky laugh. ‘N-no.’

He reached for her wrist and this time she did not pull away. Raising it, he kissed the finger with his ring on it. ‘Let me tell you a secret, Cecily,’ he murmured.

‘Yes?’

‘I’m nervous too.’

Her eyes widened. ‘You? But you’ve been married!’

He lifted his shoulders and ran a hand through his hair. ‘Nevertheless, I am.’

‘I don’t understand.’

Adam had to agree. He didn’t understand it either. He didn’t love her—how could he after so short a time?—but he had not lied. He was nervous.

‘Gwenn and I—’ He stopped. Perhaps it was not quite tactful to mention one’s first wife when one was about to bed one’s second.

But her face was turned expectantly towards his. ‘Gwenn and you…?’

‘I…we…we grew up together, and fell in love as naturally as breathing. With Gwenn the act was…’ He hesitated, at a loss to explain his relationship with Gwenn to this innocent who had spent the latter part of her life stuck behind the walls of a convent.

Her large eyes were wistful. ‘You loved her,’ she said. ‘Were you nervous with Gwenn?’

He shook his head. ‘She was my first. We learned together.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘I could never be nervous with Gwenn.’

She shifted closer and laid a tentative, work-worn hand on his chest. ‘You were confident she loved you. You knew you wouldn’t lose her love, that she’d never hate you.’

‘Y-yes.’ Nonplussed, and more than a little disturbed, Adam drew back and turned to the wine on the coffer. For a moment he stared blankly at the twist of steam rising from the jug. Cecily had hit the nail on the head. He had been confident of Gwenn’s love. Whereas now…But, no, if followed to its natural, logical conclusion, her reasoning implied that his present nervousness was due to concern that she, Cecily, should not dislike him. Which was, he thought dismissively, ridiculous. He filled a goblet and passed it to her, the fragrance of the spiced wine rising to his nostrils.

Ridiculous. For him this was a marriage of convenience. He had only admitted to being nervous to set her at ease. Yes, he was strongly attracted to her, but his emotions were not involved. Nor did he wish them to be, for emotions were apt to cloud a man’s judgement. The only good thing to come out of Gwenn’s death was that he had learnt to keep his emotions in hand.

‘I won’t hate you, Adam.’ Goblet in hand, she stood before him, slender and straight, a beautiful Saxon princess in a garnet-coloured damask gown. His princess. She raised the goblet to her lips, sipped and offered it to him. ‘Truly I won’t.’

‘I’m glad of that,’ he whispered, ‘because I’m woefully out of practice.’ Setting the goblet aside, he reached for her, positioning her so the warmth of her body was where he wanted it, next to his. Gently, he removed her circlet and veil. ‘Gwenn died two years since.’

Her eyes became even larger. Down in the Hall, the drums speeded up.

‘Yes, there’s only ever been Gwenn. My first and my last.’

‘Your last? You mean you only ever…? I mean you…only…only with Gwenn?’

Nodding, he ran his hand down one shining golden braid. That wayward curl—the one that was always escaping—twined round his finger and he felt his loins begin to throb. ‘Aye, only ever with Gwenn. Until now.’ He bent his attention to unfastening the ribbon on a plait and hoped she wouldn’t see the trembling in his fingers.

Reaching on her tiptoes, she planted a light kiss on his cheek. ‘Thank you for telling me,’ she whispered.

Adam grunted and fumbled with the ribbon. She smelt of desire, warm and womanly. She smelt of all he had thought he had lost. He felt a pang in the region of his chest. He thrust it aside. ‘What’s the English word for this?’

‘Ribbon.’ Her voice sounded almost affectionate. He felt another distinct pang and frowned. No more wine for him tonight.

‘Ribbon,’ he repeated, as the ribbon fell away and the thick tress of hair unravelled. Adam began working on her other braid. More glorious hair unravelled; unbound, it almost reached her knees. He wove his fingers into the golden strands. It was soft, and held the fragrance of summer flowers and herbs. It made his head swim.

‘The candlelight makes your hair gleam like gold—gold silk.’ He had to clear his throat. ‘I saw your hair before.’

‘Did you?’ She was watching him almost tenderly.

‘Aye.’ He lowered his head and nuzzled her ear through her hair. Surreptitiously he inhaled. Rosemary, and underneath it that particular fragrance that he was beginning to recognise as her own. It was far more intoxicating than the spiced wine they had been drinking. ‘I saw it, when you helped that woman in labour. I thought you pretty,’ he added with a lop-sided grin. ‘Too pretty by far to be a nun.’

‘And now I’m your wife,’ she said, impulsively catching his hand and bringing it to her cheek. ‘But how I wish…I wonder…’

‘Mmm?’

She shrugged. ‘It is foolish, perhaps, but I wonder how it would have been if we had met otherwise. If you had not come with Duke William. If my parents were still living. If…’