Deborah Hale - The Elusive Bride

“Never,” snapped Cecily, though her conscience pricked as she thought of the mysterious traveler she had encountered in the garden several weeks ago. He had come to her in dreams every night since. “I was plagued with suitors before the war broke out, all keen to get their hands on my dower lands. Edwin Goddard—he’s slow and stupid as an ox. Roger Vaughan—he’s a well looking fellow, but vain and boastful as a Gascon. As for Fulke DeBoissard—” her nose wrinkled at the thought of her most persistent suitor “—I wouldn’t wed that oily toad if he was the last male creature in Christendom!”

“I have heard a story,” ventured the prioress, “of a toad turned into a prince by the kiss of true love. Many a weak man has been improved by marriage to the right woman.”

“Our Holy Mother herself couldn’t salvage DeBoissard.”

“Cecilia Tyrell!” The prioress looked genuinely shocked. “You blaspheme.”

“I’m sorry, Mother,” Cecily pleaded desperately. “I didn’t mean to, honestly. It just slipped out.”

The prioress sighed. “Do you need any further proof of how poor a nun you’d make? An ungovernable tongue is no asset in a religious community—nor in a marriage, either. I doubt Our Lord would be flattered that you chose him because you could find no worthier spouse.”

Mother Ermintrude’s words knelled with gentle finality. Cecily would find no refuge from marriage within these walls.

“Gather your clothes,” urged the prioress. “There is a young man waiting for you in the portress’s stall.”

“Young man?” Cecily jumped up, her disappointment momentarily forgotten. “Why didn’t you say so? It must be Geoffrey.” Without a word of leave-taking, she bolted out the parlor door. Tearing down the hall, she then bounded straight across the priory garth. How she had missed her youngest brother—the lone survivor of four.

“Geoffrey!” she cried, hurling herself upon the young man who sat in the portress’s stall, hungrily consuming a bowl of pottage. At the last second she checked her headlong rush.

“Harald?” She recognized the son of Brantham’s castellan, her brother’s devoted companion. “Where is Geoffrey? I thought you were both with the Empress at Winchester.”

The boy started back from Cecily’s voluble onrush, then recognition dawned. He fell to his knees, pressing her hand to his cheek. It felt unnaturally warm to the touch. Acting on instinct, she reached out and pushed a lank lock of flaxen hair back from his forehead. Cecily gasped. A jagged gash marred his left brow, encrusted with dirt and dried blood.

“Harald, what happened to you?” Yet again she asked, “Where is Geoffrey?”

The boy ignored her questions. “Lady Cecily, I was sent to fetch you. You must come at once. Brantham is in an uproar!”

Calling for the herbalist, to dress Harald’s wound, Cecily felt her pulse quicken at the summons. She was not going back to make some odious marriage, after all. Brantham needed her.

For the first time in her life, her father needed her.

When they rode into Brantham Keep several hours later, Cecily took one look and wished she could scurry back to the order and peace of the priory. It was worse than anything she’d imagined during her headlong gallop from Wenwith.

The tide of civil war had swollen, then ebbed, leaving its flotsam and jetsam washed up in Brantham’s courtyard. Wounded soldiers who had crawled away from the fray, looking for succor or a decent place to die. Refugees from little villages overtaken by the onrush of battle. A pitiful band of lepers whose lazarhouse had been put to the torch by King Stephen’s Fleming mercenaries.

The bailey seethed with erratic, purposeless movement, danced to the jarring minstrelsy of cries, shrieks and groans. Vaulting from her horse, Cecily strode into the midst of the chaos. Drawing her lips taut with two fingers, she let loose a loud, shrill whistle that pierced the general din. In the second of amazed silence that followed, she bellowed her orders.

“Castle folk to me!”

Without a beat of hesitation they flocked to her, faces sweat streaked and exhausted, anxious eyes lit with a wary glimmer of hope. Cecily turned to the most familiar of her father’s retainers.

“I want anyone who can move on to do so before night falls. Give them whatever they need to speed them on their way. Get buckets and dippers, and make the rounds with water. Carry the worst wounded to the great hall. Father Clement and Mabylla can tend them. Harald, you police the lepers. Get them food and water, but see they keep to their corner of the bailey. Tell them I’ll be around with medicines once I get things sorted out. Someone fetch me the cook.”

“Lady Cecily. Thank God you’re home.” Piers Paston bustled out from the keep. Dropping to one knee, he enveloped her fingers in his massive hand. “We have been overwhelmed!”

“So I see.” Cecily could scarcely contain her asperity. The big, ruddy castellan looked so distraught, she instantly relented. “This visitation landed on you out of a blue sky and you haven’t had a quiet moment to collect your wits. You did right to send for me. I have had the leisure of a good ride to mull over the problem. Take two or three fellows and find them cloth and lumber to build awnings. These poor people will need shelter from the sun tomorrow, or we’ll have deaths from the heat. Have we dead already? Is anyone digging graves?”

Behind Cecily, a woman’s voice rang out, imperious as her own. “If only I’d had a general of your caliber with me at Winchester, Mistress Tyrell…”

Cecily spun about, dropping into a deep curtsy. She knew the voice, though she had last heard it all of four years ago. It would take longer than four years for her to forget her liege lady and idol, Empress Maud, Lady of the English.

“Your Grace. Welcome again to Brantham. I regret you find us in a worse case than when you left us.”

From her sidesaddle atop a dainty white jennet, the Empress swept a glance over the chaotic scene in Brantham’s bailey. “I could say the same,” she replied, with a faintly ironic smile. “By the sound of things, you are well on your way to setting the situation to rights. Let me not hinder you. We are on our way to the Devizes.”

With a gracious but forceful sweep of her hand, she indicated her small retinue, including a tall knight Cecily recognized as Brian FitzCount. “Can you spare us a night’s lodging?”

Cecily turned to Piers Paston with a questioning look. “Your own chamber is ready, Mistress Cecily,” said the castellan. “The gentleman can lodge in my quarters.”

Having quietly dismounted, FitzCount lifted the Empress down from her horse. Cecily could hardly contain her admiration. Clad in a borrowed gown and veil of indifferent quality, fresh from a siege and rout, Maud still looked every inch a queen.

“Show our guests to their accommodations,” Cecily ordered Sire Paston. “See that they are made comfortable.” To the Empress she added, “Forgive my poor hospitality. If there is anything you need—”

“You have your hands full,” the Empress reminded her. “When you have dealt with your duties, I would have a word with you.”

A good hour passed before Cecily felt confident that Brantham’s manpower had been effectively harnessed to meet the crisis. The sun had sunk low on the horizon, making the western wall cast a long shadow over the bailey forecourt. A faint breeze stirred the air, but carried no smell of approaching rain. In the lull, Cecily finally let herself think of her brother. She’d intentionally refrained from asking about Geoffrey, hoping no one would volunteer bad news. With all her other responsibilities delegated, she could no longer postpone an inspection of the great hall.