Anne Herries - Medieval Brides

‘Turn about, sir,’ Maurice said. Dipping his fingers into a pot of evil-smelling ointment, he smeared it onto Adam’s shoulder, where the yoke had left a colourful bruise.

‘I’m not a horse, man,’ Adam said, wincing as Maurice worked it in with rather more energy than was comfortable.

‘Sorry, sir.’

Adam wrinkled his nose, trying to see over his shoulder into the pot. ‘What in the name of all that’s holy is in that stuff?’

‘Your lady said it would reduce swelling and bruising. It’s got…’ Maurice paused. ‘Arnica in it—yes, I think that was what she said. Arnica.’

‘Arnica never smelt like that when my mother used it. What the devil’s mixed with it? Rancid fat?’

The door latch clicked and a draught whispered across his skin. Cecily. His mood instantly lifting, he smiled—or rather he hoped he did. The swelling on his face probably made it look more like a grimace.

‘It’s goose fat, along with a few other things, and it’s not rancid,’ she said, returning his smile. Advancing into the room, skirts rustling over the matting, she took the pot from Maurice. ‘My thanks, Maurice. I can do the rest.’

Taking Adam’s chin in gentle fingers, she examined his face, turning it this way and that in the candlelight. Maurice quietly let himself out.

‘I hope you’re not thinking I’ll let you smear that on my face,’ Adam said, watching her out of his good eye. Her skin was flawless, and her lips were an invitation to sin—especially when she was smiling at him like that.

‘No? You think it will mar your looks?’ she said. ‘Believe me, sir, you could hardly look worse.’

‘I dare say I’ll live.’

‘That you will, thank the Lord.’ She took one of his hands and traced her fingers over his bitten nails before applying the ointment to his wrist with swift, gentle strokes.

Adam looked down at the top of her veiled head, conscious of a tightness in his chest and the beginnings of that familiar stirring in his loins. She had no idea…She was no longer a virgin, but her innocence remained intact. She did not have the slightest idea that a look, a touch, and he was reduced to a quivering mass of wants and needs and…He sighed. He wanted her. He would always want her. But—he grimaced—he wanted more than her body, he wanted her heart; he wanted her soul. He had not intended that this should happen. He had thought to wed her and bed her, and that would be an end to it. No messy emotions. No pain.

But here, staring at her downbent head, with lust making him hard as iron, there was pain. He loved her, and he wanted her to love him back. This was just like Gwenn. This was worse than Gwenn. This was not meant to happen. She was here in their bedchamber, tending him in a loving manner that roused his every sense, and he knew she would not reject him, and yet the pain remained, inextricably entwined with lust, it would seem. He could not fathom it.

She might have rushed to his defence in the rebel encampment, but he had yet to win her complete trust. Was that at the root of it?

No one had confirmed it to his face, but Philip had to be her brother. If Cecily confessed as much to him, he would know he had won her heart and her trust. And, yes, her heart was what he ached for. He had fled Brittany for a new life, hoping to escape old memories. Not for one moment had he believed that he would find a new love in Wessex, one which burned every bit as brightly as his love for Gwenn had done. But it was too soon to burden Cecily with this. She would not welcome a declaration from him for awhile.

Eyes on that rebellious curl, gleaming gold in the candlelight, Adam cleared his throat. He could be patient. ‘How is Lufu?’

‘Like you, she is black and blue. I suspect she has cracked a rib, so I’ve strapped her up. She must have fallen and hit her head on a stone, which is why she was concussed, but it’s no worse than that.’

‘Thank God.’

‘Aye. Emma and Gudrun will watch over her tonight.’ She lifted her head and grinned. ‘And Gunni, of course. He is sticking to her like glue. Everyone’s come to see how she is—Father Aelfric, Wat, Harold, Carl—everyone. Our people are pleased to have her back in one piece.’

Our people. Our people. A shiver Adam recognised as hope ran through him. She continued to fuss over the burns the bindings had made on his wrist. Idly, he reached for her curl and wound it loosely round his forefinger. Shifting closer, he inhaled: rosemary, soapwort, Cecily. Her scent wrapped round him, befuddling him. His wife.

‘And your sister?’ he asked, managing to stop himself from hauling her to him. ‘What will she do?’

‘I’m not sure. Edmund has offered to help Leofwine and Evie build a new house in Winchester. She may go and live there with the three of them for a time.’

‘She’s welcome to stay here. As is Edmund.’

Cecily shook her head. ‘They won’t do that. Not at present. Maybe later, when memories have…faded.’ She hesitated, doubt in her eyes.

He tipped his head to one side. ‘Yes?’

‘They’ll never tell you where that silver is. They won’t even tell me.’

‘I realise that. My guess is that Judhael will have taken it. Cecily, I don’t care about the silver.’

‘Truly?’

‘Truly. Judhael’s fighting a lost cause. A cask or two of silver won’t change that.’

‘So you…you really aren’t planning to hand Edmund over to the garrison commander?’

Slowly Adam shook his head. He released the curl and watched it spring back into its natural shape. ‘As I said, he is welcome here if he is willing to swear fealty to me.’

‘In time he may.’ Cecily sighed.

‘Princess?’ He picked up the curl again, threaded it through his fingers.

‘I…I was talking to George Le Blanc while I looked at his hurts. He told me how you came to be captured…’

‘And?’

‘He says you lured the rebels up to the beacon with smoke signals. Why?’

Adam shrugged, freed his hand from the strand of hair, and made to turn away. He did not want her to read what was in his heart. She was not ready. He steeled himself to face the fact that she might never be ready.

‘Wait, Adam,’ she said, catching his other arm and applying ointment to it. ‘Why would you lure them like that? Did you think that you and George alone could protect your interests in Wessex?’

Her head remained downbent, she was entirely focused on his wrist, but something about her tone told him that her question was not an idle one. His answer was important to her. He tipped her chin up. A faint flush was staining her cheekbones. ‘Cecily, as I told Judhael in the clearing, I came for you.’

A tiny crease appeared between her brows. ‘Yes, I remember that is what you said. But surely…? M-me? You put yourself in mortal danger with only one man at your side—for me?’

‘I came for you.’ Removing the pot from her, he put it on the washstand and slipped his hands round her waist. She would not refuse him. If he could not have her heart, there was comfort to be found in her body—much comfort. ‘You are the most important of my interests in Wessex,’ he said, dropping a kiss on her forehead.

‘I…I am?’

She wasn’t fishing for compliments. She really didn’t believe him. That father of hers—to thrust a loving, lusty girl like Cecily into the clutches of that cold-hearted Prioress…

‘Certainly. I’d like to say I had a plan for winning you back, but I’d be lying.’ He shook his head, his voice husky as he brought her body next to him. ‘When I returned from Winchester and found you gone I thought you had betrayed me.’

‘You were angry,’ she said softly. Resting her cheek against his chest, she put her arms about him and loosed a storm of lust and longing in him. It was enough to make him forget the aches in his back and shoulders and ribs; enough to make him forget the swelling of his eye…