Читать книгу Medieval Brides - Anne Herries - Страница 12

From time to time Cecily rested her head against Adam Wymark’s broad back, pillowing her cheek with the fur-lined hood of his cloak. His leather jacket was visible through the links of his hauberk.

Fulford’s new lord was right-handed, so his shield was slung on his left. Whenever Flame broke into a trot it banged her thigh—she would have a bruise there for certain—but that was the least of her worries. Every muscle in her body was shrieking so loudly it was a wonder the whole troop couldn’t hear; every bone ached. Biting her lip to stifle her moans, Cecily clung to Sir Adam, and prayed that St Christopher, Patron Saint of all travellers, would keep her glued to Flame’s back. Once, riding had been a pleasure, today it had to be endured.

Circling thoughts had had her tossing and turning the night through, but one night’s loss of sleep was not the sole cause of her exhaustion. Rather, it was the series of night vigils that Mother Aethelflaeda had imposed on her in the week before Emma had run to the convent. That, and being permanently put on a fast. Fasting might be good for the soul, but it certainly weakened the body. Surreptitiously shifting her position, Cecily held down another groan. For all that she had rested her face against Adam Wymark’s cloak, by now it must bear the imprint of his chainmail. She was beyond caring.

At a moss-covered milestone which announced they had reached the outskirts of Winchester, they joined a steady stream of knights and pilgrims heading for the heart of the city. She was struck by how many men there were.

Ill at ease, she pushed herself upright. For the most part the men looked hairy and unwashed. Rough, and not a little frightening. Her convent eyes were to blame for this perception, no doubt. But they all looked so…so vigorous—though not quite as vigorous as the man sitting before her. They looked more alarming, however. More alarming than Duke William’s knight? Cecily puzzled over this for a moment, for the men were Saxons, like herself. But there was not one within sight that she would care to run into on a dark night, and she did not think the knight would hurt her. She caught her breath. She trusted him? That was not possible, Adam Wymark was her enemy.

Setting her jaw, telling herself she must keep her wits about her, Cecily glanced about. She had only entered the capital of Wessex once before, on the day her father had brought her to the convent, and that day had been so coloured by anger and grief and, yes, bitterness at being sent away from home that she had taken in little.

Winchester was circled by ancient Roman walls, and successive Saxon Kings from Alfred down to Harold had kept them in good repair. Wondering if the Normans had breached the walls in taking the city, Cecily craned her neck, but for the most part they looked intact, a solid line of grey stone which followed the course of the River Itchen. The river was wide and in full spate, and it flowed along just outside the walls. They would have to cross the river to enter the city.

Ahead of them was Eastgate and the bridge. The road filled with traffic. Dozens—no, hundreds of men here: bearded Saxons with shaggy manes of hair, clean-shaven foreigners. She saw Saxon women too, carrying babies on their backs, a priest on a mule, two dogs fighting—it was a stomach-churning contrast to the peace and quiet of the convent. One could so easily get lost if separated from one’s companions. Unconsciously, she tightened her grip on Adam Wymark’s belt.

He turned towards her, resting a hand on her knee. ‘We’re almost at the garrison,’ he said. ‘Can you last a little longer?’

The pressure of his hand was gentle, but Cecily felt it like a brand through her worn habit. She shot a look at the long, strong fingers, tinged red with cold because she had taken his gloves. His knuckles were grazed, his fingernails bitten down to the quick. Too human, those bitten nails. Better that she had not noticed them…

‘I’m fine, thank you,’ she said, though her muscles screamed that she’d be stiff for a sennight.

Duke William’s knight nodded, removed his hand from her knee and faced forwards, leaving Cecily blinking at a row of burnt-out dwellings that lined the route.

War damage? Some of the houses had been left without roofs, others were skeletons, with charred timbers that clawed at the sky. The smell of smoke was eye-wateringly strong. A lump closed her throat. Neither the Roman walls nor the River Itchen had been able to do much to save the buildings clustered on the outskirts of the old Saxon capital. The recent fighting had destroyed all but the most sturdy.

Moving with careful desperation in the debris, sifting through the wreckage, ragged figures picked through the pitiful remnants like crows at a carcase. It mattered not whether they were dispossessed householders or looters, it came to one thing—here on the outskirts of Winchester people had been reduced to penury. Cecily’s heart ached. Dear God, let Fulford not have suffered like this. Let the villagers be whole.

A troop of Norman horse-soldiers trotted smartly out of Eastgate and across the bridge, cutting a swathe through the pilgrims. When the troop drew level with Sir Adam, the leading knight saluted. ‘Wymark!’

‘Holà, Gervais!’ Turning his mailed head, Adam smiled over his shoulder. ‘Hang on, Lady Cecily, a few minutes more.’

She avoided his gaze. Adam Wymark might talk righteously about oaths sworn between kings, and of oaths broken, but what did the poor, ordinary folk know of that? No, this knight and his kind had caused too much suffering. The loan of a cloak and a pair of gloves and a few kind words could not begin to atone for what Duke William’s warriors had done to her homeland…

It was painfully clear that the Duke’s forces had been more than thorough in their attempts to stamp out any resistance. Since Winchester was the traditional heartland of the Earls of Wessex, she supposed it was logical that the Normans should scour the hinterland for rebels, but she did not have to like it.

One of the town mills, half consumed by fire, had collapsed into the river, its blackened debris forming a rickety raft. Ducks waddled across sodden, flame-scorched timber and planking. As one launched itself into the swift-flowing water, Cecily’s eyes filled. They edged past a Saxon pilgrim swinging himself along on crutches. His straggling brown hair was tied back with a piece of string and he had one foot, but despite this he was moving at a fair pace…

Another lame man, one bent leg encased in bandages…

And another, flat out on a hurdle. There were so many sick and wounded; there was so much suffering.

He had doubtless played his part. She shut her eyes to close out the sight of a young boy of about ten years of age who had lost his arm above the elbow, and a tear ran hot down her cheek. Loosening her grip on Adam Wymark’s belt, Cecily tried to shift back, away from him.

Old Minster—the Saxon Cathedral—had for centuries been renowned as a place of healing. These poor people were heading there, to the tomb of St Swithun, as they had always done in troubled times. They hoped for a miracle, and Cecily prayed they found it.

At the gate, a blind man held out his hand for alms. Fulford’s new lord dug into a small pouch and a silver farthing arced through the air, to land with a clink in the begging bowl.

Cecily frowned. The man was a mass of contradictions. What should she make of him? One minute he was William of Normandy’s loyal knight—a man capable of killing her countrymen—and the next he was giving succour to Saxon beggars.

A girl limped along on crutches, her clothes scarcely better than sacking. A young woman with a hen tucked under her arm took one look at their troop and spat pointedly in their direction. Fearful for the woman, Cecily went rigid. Her hot-tempered father would have leapt from his horse and taken his crop to her for such insolence. Sir Adam’s hands merely tightened on the reins and they pressed on steadily.

The bridge rang hollow under the horse’s hoofs. A heartbeat later and the stone arch of Eastgate was a cool shadow over their heads, and then the light strengthened as they emerged into the city proper.

Inside the walls, there was little damage. Her heart lifted as the horses’ hoofs beat a sharp tattoo on the cobblestones. Passing lines of wooden houses—intact wooden houses—they entered the market square.

Saxons were selling eggs alongside cabbages, vending bread and new-baked pies, hawking ale alongside holy relics. Voices flew to and fro across the street like shuttles on a loom: speaking English, speaking French, speaking Latin—so many tongues that Cecily could not attune herself to all of them. It was a far cry from the peace and quiet of St Anne’s. And then, just as she thought she could take in no more, a voice she recognised cut right across the cacophony…a male voice.

‘Meet me in the Cathedral an hour from now.’

Ahead of her! No, on her right…

Tightening her grip on Sir Adam’s belt, Cecily turned swiftly to either side, her gaze sweeping the square. No—no, it could not be! But that voice…that voice…where was he?

‘Meet me in the Cathedral an hour from now.’ Yes, that was what he had said, clear as day. Judhael! One of her father’s men! It could not be he…and yet surely that voice was his? And who had he been talking to?

The crowd milled around them. Wildly, with her heart in her mouth, Cecily peered this way and that but could see no one she knew. And certainly there was no sign of Judhael, who had been her father’s most promising housecarl and her brother Cenwulf’s best friend…

Her head was spinning.

Had she dreamed hearing Judhael’s voice among the crowd? A faint moan escaped her, and she sagged against Adam Wymark’s broad back. Her mind was playing tricks. She was exhausted and near sick with worry, and it was hard to credit that her father’s hearth troops were probably all dead. She wanted them to have lived, and she was just conjuring up Judhael’s voice. Sister Mathilda had told her that the mind could play tricks, and Sister Mathilda was very wise—for hadn’t another sister, Sister Beatrice, regaled the nuns with the visions she’d had after a particularly penitential Lenten fast…

The Breton knight reached back and touched her knee. ‘Lady Cecily? What’s amiss?’

Dear Lord, the man didn’t miss a thing, Cecily thought, hastily straightening. ‘It…it’s nothing—a momentary dizziness, that’s all.’ And then she wished she’d said something—anything—else, for his grip shifted and he pulled her close to his mailed body.

‘Hold hard, my lady.’

Her fingers were already clinging so tightly to Adam Wymark’s sword belt she wondered if she’d ever pry them loose. Giving an inarticulate murmur, Cecily gazed steadfastly at the market stalls. Anything rather than meet the disconcerting green eyes of Duke William’s knight.

Meet me in the Cathedral an hour from now.

Judhael—if that really had been him—must have meant the Old Saxon Cathedral, St Swithun’s, not the New Minster which stood next to it.

An hour from now…an hour from now…

Somehow, within the next hour, she must free herself from Adam Wymark and make her way to the Cathedral. Judhael might well be with his Maker, but if she wasn’t in St Swithun’s to make certain that she had dreamed his voice she would never forgive herself.

A brace of clean-shaven Norman guards were stationed at each corner of the market square. Their hair was cropped in like manner to Sir Adam and his men. Each guard was fully armed in the costly chainmail, so they must either be knights or in the Duke’s personal entourage. She caught glimpses of several pointed shields, like the one which hung at Adam Wymark’s saddle and was bruising her thigh.

A woman threw a bowl of slops under Flame’s feet. The destrier didn’t miss a step. They clopped over the cobbles, the rhythm of the hoofbeat tattoo unbroken.

I have to get to the Cathedral, I have to, she vowed, as she jounced past the market cross and several squawking chickens in cages. Head in a whirl, she felt a pang for the peace and solitude of the convent herb garden. Her lips twisted. For years she had longed to be part of just such a bustle and rush, but now she was in the thick of it it made her dizzy and she could not think.

Think, think. How to get to the Cathedral unobserved…?

Adam Wymark wheeled his chestnut into an alley and they entered the Cathedral Close. At once, as though a curtain had been drawn shut behind them, the bustle and rush and noise of the market fell away.

Peace. Thank the Lord, Cecily thought, ruefully acknowledging that there must be more of the nun in her nature than she had realised.

They drew rein outside the long stone building that once had housed the Saxon royal family, the Palace of the Kings. A stone arch framed the thick oak of the palace doorway, impressively carved with leaves and fruit. A flight of steps ran up the outside of the wall, leading, Cecily surmised, to a second floor and the private apartments of her father’s liege lord, the late Harold of Wessex.

Today the Palace of the Kings—the Saxon Kings of Wessex—was bursting at the seams with what looked like the whole of Duke William’s invasion force. Despite her borrowed cloak, Cecily’s blood chilled, and the voice she’d imagined hearing in the market was pushed from her mind.

Was nothing sacred?

Two mailed Norman guards flanked the central doorway. Another pair were stationed on the landing at the top of the outside stairway. And in front of the Palace, on the flagstones, piles of weapons were being sorted by more of the Duke’s men—swords, spears, bows—the booty of war? A distant hammering told her that nearby a smith was hard at work.

Adam Wymark dismounted, stretched, and offered her his hand. His helmed head turned in the direction of her gaze. ‘Not what you’d expected?’

Cecily swallowed, and sought to express the confusion of emotions warring within her. ‘Yes…No…’ She tried again. ‘It’s just that it…it’s our Royal Palace.’

‘Last month it was,’ he said, eyes half hidden by his nose-guard. He reached up to help her down. ‘Today it is our headquarters.’

‘So I see.’ His hands, without his gloves, were red with cold. They rested briefly on her waist to steady her, and for a moment there was not enough air in the courtyard. She stared stolidly at his mailed chest, all too conscious of Adam Wymark’s superior height, of the lithe straightness and strength of the body under the chainmail, of the width of his shoulders. ‘Thank you, sir.’ His proximity was most disturbing.

‘I would think it an honour if you would call me by my Christian name,’ he said softly, for her ears alone.

Astonished, Cecily raised her eyes. He dragged off his helm and pushed back his coif, apparently waiting for her response, apparently meek. Not fooled for a moment, for this man was a conqueror, she swallowed. ‘But, sir, th-that would not be seemly.’

His lips curved, his eyes danced, a hand briefly touched hers. ‘Not seemly? You did propose marriage to me, did you not, Lady Cecily?’

‘I…I…’

His expression sobered. ‘Have you changed your mind?’

Cecily bit her lip. He had made his voice carefully neutral, had posed the question as casually as he would if he had been discussing the weather, so why was he watching her like a hawk? Because that was his way.

‘I…no, I have not changed my mind.’

If only he would not stare like that. It made her hot and uncomfortable. Had he taken her hasty offer of marriage seriously? She had not thought so, yet there was a tension about him, as if her response mattered to him. She could not think why that should be so. She had no dowry and he was already in possession of her father’s lands.

What was the nature of the knight she had offered to marry? Undoubtedly he was physically attractive, but what of his character? What was Sir Adam Wymark? A ruthless conqueror or an honest man upon whom she could rely? Whatever his nature she must agree to marry him if she was to be certain of accompanying him to Fulford. Her newborn brother needed her help if he was to thrive—as did her father’s people, if a repetition of what had happened outside these city walls were to be avoided. Since Emma had refused him, Cecily was left with no choice. With baby Philip and innocent villagers to care for, she was needed at Fulford. Marry him she must. Her heart pounded. Why was there no air?

Around them, the Breton’s men were dismounting and leading their horses round to the back of the palace towards what had been the Kings’ Mews. The squire Maurice took Flame’s reins, and his knight’s helm, and followed the others.

Adam Wymark was looking at her lips. She could not think why he would be doing that unless that was what men did when they were thinking about kissing a woman. Was he? To her horror, Cecily’s eyes seemed to develop a will of their own, and she found herself examining his. They were well shaped and, oddly, looking at them made her pulse quicken. Slowly, they curved into a smile.

A guilty glance back up. Amusement was glittering in the green eyes.

Heat scorched Cecily’s face, and just as swiftly she ducked her head.

‘Lady Cecily, I have business in the garrison, despatches to send, so I must hunt out a scribe. If you would care for refreshment, Sir Richard will attend you until my return.’ He raised her hand, pushed back the hem of the glove with his thumb and pressed a swift kiss to her wrist. Her heart jumped.

‘Th-thank you, sir,’ Cecily murmured, staring at the cobbles as though they were runes that held the secret of eternal life.

‘Adam—my name is Adam.’

Cecily peeped up in time to catch that swift smile before he bowed and marched towards the sentries at the palace doorway. Her mind raced as she watched him go. Think, think. He is the enemy, and he cannot write. Remember that. It might be useful. He cannot write. Cecily could write—her mother had seen to it that both Emma and Cecily were lettered—and in the convent Mother Aethelflaeda had been quick to make use of Cecily’s talent in copying out and illustrating missals for the nuns. But she would not call him back and offer to be his scribe—not when she must go to the Cathedral without him. His eyes were too keen, and if by some miracle she did find Judhael in St Swithun’s she did not think that she could hide it from him.

Sir Adam spoke briefly to the guards by the arched doorway and vanished into the Palace of the Kings. Suddenly cold, Cecily pulled her—his—cloak more tightly about her.

‘My lady?’

She started. Sir Richard was at her elbow.

‘You are thirsty?’

She nodded.

‘Follow me, and we’ll see what the storemaster has to offer.’

It was easier than she had dared hope to escape alone into the Cathedral. Having refreshed herself, she simply asked leave of Sir Richard to visit St Swithun’s tomb, saying she wanted to pray for her family. She said she hoped to find some peace. Neither of these remarks were lies, and she would not think about sins of omission…

Thus it was that an hour later Cecily was walking with Sir Richard across the Close, past New Minster, to the porch of Old Minster. She left him leaning irreverently on a crooked tombstone that dated back to a time before King Alfred.

‘Take as long as you need,’ Sir Richard said.

Inside, the cool dimness of the great Cathedral surrounded her.

Oddly, the large interior was made small by lack of light and the press of an army of pilgrims. It would be hard to pray. And as for peace—why, the Norman garrison was more orderly than St Swithun’s Cathedral. The air was smoky with incense; walking sticks and crutches tap, tap, tapped against the floor tiles; priests chanted a Latin psalm. A bell rang. One young woman had her arm entwined about her young man’s waist, and was giggling at his whispered witticisms, another hissed none too quietly to her deaf grandmother, and a small dog—a dog?—yelped as a pilgrim tripped over it…

But no sign of Judhael. No sign at all. Buffeted and knocked by those behind her, keeping an eye out for Judhael, Cecily was pushed slowly and inexorably into the shadowy nave. A couple of hundred people, maybe more, were queueing to file past St Swithun’s tomb. Mother Aethelflaeda would be shocked at the lack of decorum and respect.

‘A candle, sister?’ asked a priest, thrusting one under her nose in a businesslike manner. ‘To help your prayers fly to God.’

Cecily shook her head as she squeezed past him. ‘I…I’m sorry, I have no coin.’ God would have to heed her prayers without a candle, she thought ruefully. If she’d had coin she would have bought three candles: one each for her mother and father, and one for her brother, Cenwulf.

The line of pilgrims pressed on, and Cecily was carried with them, like a straw in a flood, to the foot of St Swithun’s tomb.

Hanging-lamps and candleholders dangled from the lofty roof overhead. Bathed in a pool of candlelight, the tomb itself was, ironically, almost buried beneath dozens of crutches and sticks and cripples’ stools that had been nailed onto the cover by grateful pilgrims. Even the great round pillars nearest the tomb had hooks hammered into them, and each was also hung about with yet more crutches, more sticks and more stools. The limewash behind the pilgrims’ offerings was almost invisible, and lead tokens bearing the Saint’s image lay scattered across the floor like autumn leaves.

So many miracles must have been wrought here, Cecily thought. Surely God will heed my prayers? And thus, for the few rushed seconds that she found herself before St Swithun’s tomb, she prayed. Not for the family that she had lost, but for the family that remained: for her sister Emma, that she might find peace and happiness wherever she had gone, and for her new brother, Philip, that he might grow safely to manhood, and finally that her brother’s friend Judhael might perhaps be alive and well and not simply exist in her imaginings.

Then the pilgrims behind her pressed forward, and she had passed the tomb. No Judhael. Not ready to return to the alien place that the Palace of the Kings had become, she broke free of the queue that was pushing her to the north door. Perhaps it would be quieter in the east end.

Near the transept, a rampantly carved wooden screen kept the great mass of people separate from the bishops and priests and their choir. Knowing better than to pass into the hallowed precincts beyond the screen, Cecily walked up to it and sank to her knees before a section carved with swirling acanthus leaves. Closing her eyes, she folded her hands in an attitude of prayer and sought to reconcile her mind to the revolutions in her life.

Whatever lay before her, she must do her utmost to ensure that no more evil befell Philip or the people of Fulford. Whether she could best serve as mediator for Adam Wymark, or as his wife, she could not say. In time, God would no doubt reveal His plans for her…

Placing herself in God’s hands, Cecily was preparing to rise when she became aware of a furtive argument on the other side of the rood screen.

‘No, I’m sorry. I found I could not!’

A woman in the priest’s stalls? A woman whose voice was an exact match for her sister Emma? Impossible. Heart in her mouth, convinced that she must be mistaken, for Emma had clearly stated that she was heading north, Cecily strained to hear more. It was hard to be certain, for the woman’s voice was distorted by anger and muffled both by the screen and the noise of the pilgrims in the nave.

‘You are a fool!’ A second voice, harsh and uncompromising and much easier to hear. Male—it was definitely male. Her pulse quickened. Judhael?

‘It was not possible.’ Emma—that had to be Emma…

‘You are weak.’

‘Compassionate, rather.’

For a space the man made no reply, and Cecily heard only the pilgrims at prayer; the tapping of crutches; the chanting of priests. She thought quickly. Back in the market square her mind had not being playing tricks on her—she had heard Judhael. Once his voice had been as familiar to her as her father’s or her brother’s. Judhael was alive! One of her father’s housecarls, and Cenwulf’s close friend, Cecily had assumed he had been killed at Hastings. She wanted to look, to see for herself, but fear of causing a commotion and bringing the Normans down upon them kept her on her knees.

Judhael’s voice softened. ‘Perhaps you do not trust me.’

‘I want to trust you,’ Emma murmured. ‘But there is more than trust at issue here. It could have been his death, and what good would that do anyone? He is an innocent.’

What were they talking about? Clumsily, Cecily clambered to her feet. She rested a hand—it was shaking—against an acanthus leaf and peered through the tracery.

Yes! Praise the Lord, it was Judhael who faced her—a tall man with his long fair hair tied back at his neck, Saxon fashion. Hands on his hips, he was scowling at her sister. Cecily could only see Emma’s back, but there was no doubt that it was she. That burgundy cloak was confirmation, if confirmation were needed. Emma had worn that cloak when visiting Cecily in the convent.

Emma had not gone north. Emma had lied to her. Why? And what was she doing in Winchester, meeting secretly with Judhael?

‘You should have brought him,’ Judhael said.

Cecily’s stomach lurched. God in Heaven, the man was wearing his seax—his short sword—in the Cathedral!

‘You broke your oath to me,’ he went on, white about the mouth. As a child, Cecily had never seen Judhael look like this, furiously, uncompromisingly angry. But she knew that look. Her father had worn it often enough.

‘My loyalty was torn…’ Emma gave a little sob, and her head sank. ‘Judhael, you are too harsh.’

Something about Emma’s tone of voice, meek, yet unashamedly emotional, caught Cecily’s attention. Back at the convent she had asked Emma if she had a sweetheart, now she realised with a jolt that matters had progressed far beyond that. Judhael was her sister’s lover. Emma’s next words confirmed this.

‘Judhael, my love—’

Just then Judhael looked past Emma, towards the rood screen. Cecily fell to her knees, clutching an acanthus leaf. If she revealed herself, she risked drawing Richard of Asculf down on them. She glanced over her shoulder. There was no sign of him in the shuffling press of pilgrims around the tomb, but he could not be relied upon to wait her pleasure in the Close. He might come looking for her at any moment.

What would happen if Judhael and Emma were discovered here? She did not know what they were doing, but their discovery by Sir Adam or one of his men could only lead to their capture. And with Judhael in this mood, and armed as he was, it could well lead to bloodshed…

‘I see only a woman whom I cannot trust.’ Judhael’s tone was icy.

Another little sob from Emma. ‘And I see a man who…’

The rest of Emma’s words were lost under the sound of brisk footsteps coming towards Cecily from behind. Turning her head towards the main body of the Cathedral, she felt her heart turn to stone.

Sir Adam Wymark had stepped out of the crowd and was marching purposefully towards her.