Anne Herries - Medieval Brides

Cecily looked directly into those disturbing eyes. ‘She was visiting me.’

His expression was blank. ‘How so?’

‘Because Lady Emma of Fulford is my sister, and—’

A lean-fingered hand shot out to catch her by the wrist. ‘Your sister? But…I…’ He looked uneasy. ‘We were not certain she had a sister.’

Trying unsuccessfully to pull free of his hold, Cecily shot a look of dislike at the knight lounging against the wall, looking for all the world as though these proceedings had nothing to do with him. ‘Is it so surprising that your Duke has an imperfect knowledge of the lands he has invaded and its people?’ she replied sharply. She bit her lip, only too aware that if she were to find a way to help her new brother she must not antagonise these men. She moderated her tone. ‘Emma had a brother too. Until Hastings. We both did.’ She looked pointedly at the fingers circling her wrist. ‘You bruise me.’

Stepping back, the squire released her. ‘My apologies.’ His eyes held hers. ‘And I am sorry for your brother’s death.’

Cecily felt a flash of grief so bitter she all but choked. ‘And my father’s—are you sorry for that too?’

‘Aye—every good man’s death is a waste. I heard your father and brother were good, loyal men. Since they died at Caldbec Hill, defending their overlord when the shield wall broke, there’s no doubt of that.’

‘Oh, they were loyal,’ Cecily said, and try as she might she could not keep the bitterness from her tone. ‘But what price loyalty when they are dead?’ Tears pricked her eyes, and she turned away and struggled for composure.

‘Perhaps,’ the squire said softly, ‘you should more fairly lay the blame for what happened at Hastings on Harold of Wessex? It was he who swore solemn oath to Duke William that the crown of England should go to Normandy. It was he who went back on his word. It was his dishonour. What followed lies at the usurper Harold’s door rather than my lord William’s.’

Because Mother Aethelflaeda was in the habit of hugging what little news that filtered through the convent walls to herself, Cecily’s knowledge of goings-on in the world was limited. Her years in the novitiate meant she scarcely understood what the squire was saying.

A movement caught her eye as the knight—what had Emma called him? Sir Adam Wymark?—uncrossed his legs and pushed away from the wall. After stripping off his gauntlets, he lifted his helm. When he brushed back his mail coif to reveal a tumble of thick brown hair, and smiled across the room at her, the foreign warlord responsible for her family’s troubles vanished and a vigorous, personable man stood before her. Like his squire, he was young—not so handsome as the squire, but by no means ill-favoured…

Cecily fiddled with the rope of her girdle while she considered this sudden transformation, and an idea began to take shape in her mind—an idea that Emma had half jokingly presented to her. It was not an idea she had any great liking for—particularly since, given a choice between the two men before her, she would choose the squire.

Emma’s alarming parting shot: ‘Sir Adam Wymark…I give him to you, for I do not want him’ still echoed in her mind. Could she do it? For herself, no, Cecily thought, staring at the mailed knight. But for her brother and her father’s people? She straightened her shoulders.

She’d do it. For her brother…she must do it…

Mother Aethelflaeda shifted. ‘Hurry them up, Cecily,’ she said in English, in a curt tone which told Cecily she was fast recovering her sang-froid. ‘The sooner these Norman vermin are out of our hair, the better.’

‘Yes, Mother,’ Cecily said, deceptively meek, but in no hurry herself—for every minute they spent talking was giving Emma more time to get away.

The squire’s green eyes captured hers. He was frowning. ‘Your sister said nothing to you of her destination?’

‘No.’

‘You’d swear that on the Bible?’

Cecily lifted her chin and forced the lie through her teeth—not for honour, which was a cold and dead thing, a man’s obsession, but for her sister’s sake. Emma had been so desperate to escape. ‘On my father’s grave.’ She steadied herself to make what she knew all present would condemn as an improper and an absurdly forward suggestion. But just then the squire turned and sent a lop-sided smile to his knight.

‘It would seem, Richard, my friend,’ he said, ‘that my lady has well and truly flown.’

Cecily caught her breath and blinked at the mailed figure by the wall. ‘You…you’re not Sir Adam?’

‘Not I.’ The knight jerked his head at the man Cecily had mistaken for his squire. ‘Sir Adam Wymark stands beside you, Sister Cecily. I am Richard—Sir Richard of Asculf.’

‘Oh.’ Cecily swallowed. Face hot, she quickly rethought her impetuous plan. Her heart began to beat in thick, heavy strokes, as it had not done when she had considered it with Sir Richard in mind. ‘M-my apologies, S-sir Adam. I mistook you…’

A dark eyebrow lifted.

‘I…I thought Sir Richard was you, being mailed, and you…you…’

Sir Richard gave a bark of laughter. ‘By God, Adam, that’ll teach you to doff your armour. She mistook you for my squire!’

Cecily’s cheeks were on fire, but she did not bother to deny it.

This was not a good start in view of her proposal. ‘M-my apologies, my lord.’ If only the ground would open up and swallow her. Cecily lifted her eyes to Sir Adam’s, noting with relief and not a little surprise that he seemed more amused than angry. Most men, in her limited experience, would view her misunderstanding as a slight. Her father certainly would have done.

‘“Sir” will suffice, my lady.’ He smiled. ‘Duke William has not yet made us lords.’

Emboldened, Cecily rushed on before she could change her mind, thoughts crowding confusedly in her mind. Think of baby Philip, she reminded herself, now Maman is…no more. Imagine him being brought up by strangers with little love for Saxons, let alone for Saxon heirs. Think of Gudrun and Wilf, and Edmund and…

Step by step.

She hauled in a breath, bracing herself for step one. ‘Sir Adam, I have a suggestion…’

‘Yes?’

Cecily twined her fingers together and lowered her head, affecting a humility she did not feel to hide her feelings. Those green eyes were too keen, and the thought that she might be an open book to him was unsettling. ‘I…I wonder…’ She cleared her throat ‘Y-you will need an interpreter, since my sister is not at home. Not many will speak your tongue…and my mother—my late mother—was Norman born.’

Sir Adam folded his arms across his chest.

‘I…I wondered…’ She shot a look at Mother Aethelflaeda. ‘If you would consider taking me? I know the people of Fulford, and they trust me. I could mediate…’

The man her sister had rejected kept silent, while his eyes travelled over her face in the intent way that she found so unnerving. ‘Mother Aethelflaeda would permit this? What of your vows? Your duties to the convent?’

‘I have taken no final vows yet, sir. I am but a novice.’

His gaze sharpened. ‘A novice?’

‘Yes, sir. See—my habit is grey, not black, my veil is short, and my girdle is not yet knotted to symbolise the three vows.’

‘The three vows?’

‘Poverty, chastity and obedience, sir.’

His hand came out, covered hers, and once more those strong fingers wrapped round her wrist. ‘And you would return to Fulford Hall to interpret for me?’

‘If Mother Aethelflaeda will permit.’

Adam Wymark smiled, and a strange tension made itself felt in Cecily’s stomach. Hunger—that must be the cause of it. She had missed the noonday meal doing penance for her missed retreat, and then with Ulf’s wife there had been no time. She was hungry.