Читать книгу Medieval Brides - Anne Herries - Страница 14

By the time Adam returned to the Royal mead hall night had long since fallen. Torches chased the shadows away, candles glowed in beaten metal wall sconces, the central fire crackled and spat. The room was filled with the gentle buzz of conversation, the occasional roar of laughter.

Adam’s hair was damp from recent washing, and he was wearing his dark blue tunic, belted at the waist with a chased leather sword belt, and a serviceable brown wool cloak bought from the garrison’s quartermaster. His leather gambeson dangled from his fingers. Slinging it over one shoulder, he rested his other hand on his sword hilt and paused just inside the threshold, searching for Richard and his men and…

No sign of that petite figure in her drab veil and gown. He’d left her alone deliberately, to see what she might do. Where the devil was she? His stomach tightened into several knots. That night’s rations were to blame—not the fact that he didn’t know where she was. He had eaten with the Duke’s commanders in the upstairs solar. Food had been plentiful, but too much bread and ale and oversalted pork after weeks of hunger was not good for a man’s digestion.

He grimaced. Who was he fooling? She was the cause of his indigestion; he wanted to think the best of her. Damn it, how could that have happened already? He’d not known the woman more than a few hours…

Groups of men were clustered in the various pools of light made by the torches. Laughter floated out from under the nearest torch, where men were drinking and dicing. Farther down the hall came the rhythmic scrape, scrape, scrape of a whetstone on steel. A blue spark flashed—a squire sharpening his knight’s sword. From under another torch came a quiet muttering as friends simply talked.

There—there she was. Perched on a bench at the wall at the far end, in an oval pool of light. Brian Herfu, the youngest in his troop, sat next to her, and she was turned towards him, veil quivering as she listened to what he was saying. A string of rosary beads was wrapped round her wrist, and a missal lay on top of her small bundle of belongings. A missal? She could read? Wondering if Cecily could write—that would be a rare and wonderful accomplishment in a wife—Adam started towards them.

Brian had lost his older brother shortly after Hastings, and when Adam saw that the lad’s eyes were glistening with tears he had little doubt but that they were discussing Henry’s death.

Cecily touched Brian’s arm. The movement made the rosary swing gently to and fro. ‘How did Henry die?’ she was asking.

Brian’s dark head bent towards Cecily’s. ‘Blood loss, my lady. A leg wound. He—’

Not needing to hear the rest, Adam turned away. He had been beside Brian at Henry’s deathbed, and did not begrudge him any comfort that Cecily might give him. Catching Maurice’s eyes, he motioned him over.

‘You’ve eaten, sir?’ Maurice asked.

‘Aye. And the men?’

Maurice nodded.

‘And my lady? You saw to it that she was well fed?’

‘Yes, sir. It was plain fare, but good. She seemed very hungry. I think they must have rationed her at the convent.’

‘Likely you’re right,’ Adam said, glancing across at the slight figure by the wall. Cecily had turned towards Brian and was holding his hand in both of hers. He saw Brian clutch convulsively at the sympathy she offered. ‘Where’s Sir Richard?’

Maurice tried, unsuccessfully, to smother a grin. ‘Went out earlier. Not back yet. He mumbled something about trying to find a proper bathhouse.’

Adam rolled his eyes, the distinction not lost on him. There was nothing wrong with the wash-house next to the palace. In the main the Saxons had clearly used it for doing the royal laundry, but one could bathe there if one had a mind. He had done so, and doubtless countless Saxon princes and lords had also done so before him. Since it was a Royal Palace there were bathtubs. Richard must have other activities in mind.

‘He might not find much favour with Saxon women,’ Adam said.

‘He will if he pays enough,’ came the dry response.

‘Enough, Maurice! You are not his peer, to speak about him with such familiarity.’

‘My apologies, sir.’

Adam looked pointedly at Cecily. ‘You watched her close?’

‘Aye, sir. She hasn’t stirred all evening—except for a visit to the latrines and the wash-house.’

Adam narrowed his eyes. ‘You accompanied her?’

‘Of course. But I didn’t go into the latrine with her, if that’s what you mean. I simply escorted her to the privy and back.’

‘And she met no one?’

‘No one.’

‘And what about the wash-house? Anyone there when she went in?’ Since Adam had paid a visit to the wash-house himself, he knew first-hand how there was room enough for anyone intent on a clandestine meeting to hide behind the great cauldrons or the washtubs.

‘No.’ Maurice looked affronted. ‘I checked the place was empty before she went in.’

Adam started to chew a fingernail, and checked himself. ‘You are certain?’

‘Aye. She went to wash and change her habit, nothing more.’

‘Very good, Maurice.’ Some of the groups under the torches were starting to break up. Men were rolling into their cloaks, eager to bag places close to the fire. ‘We’ll bed down shortly. Who’s watching the horses?’

‘Charles, sir, followed by George.’

‘Good. Stow this and get yourself settled.’ He tossed Maurice his gambeson. ‘I won’t need you again tonight.’

‘My thanks, sir.’

Adam found a blanket in his pack and took it over to where Cecily was sitting. She was so pretty, with those delicate features and huge dark-lashed blue eyes. Gut-twistingly pretty. If only he could be sure she would not betray him…

At his approach, Brian coloured and tugged his hands free. ‘Excuse me, my lady,’ he said. Bowing, he made himself scarce.

‘You will need this,’ Adam said, handing Cecily the blanket. He pointed at the wall. ‘May I suggest you lie there? It’s farthest from the fire, I’m afraid, but you’ll be safer beringed by my men.’

Her cheeks flamed. ‘Is there no ladies’ bower, sir?’

‘We cannot afford such refinements. This is a garrison. You’ll have to bed down by me.’

A guffaw, quickly suppressed, came from one of Adam’s men.

‘B-by you, sir?’

‘I know this cannot be easy, my lady,’ Adam said, deliberately using her title as a means of demonstrating to his men that he wanted them to use courtesy in their dealings with her, ‘but you truly will be safer by me.’

Rising swiftly, Cecily set about ordering her bed. Absurdly self-conscious, she hoped no one could see how her hands were shaking. Within moments she had made a place for herself near the wall, and had removed her veil and wimple. Her heart pounded. Though she kept her back to Sir Adam, she could feel his gaze on her as clearly as she would a caress—on her shoulderblades, her hair. Burrowing into the luxurious fur-lined cloak, she fixed her eyes on the rough wall plaster, focussing on a crack in the render. A shiny black beetle was scuttling into the crack. Though she could not see Adam, she could hear him moving about behind her.

From the sounds she judged that he must be quite near, but she did not like to look. A knight had come in with his wife at supper-time, but apart from that single woman she had seen no other all afternoon. She was adrift in a man’s world, and the rules were very different from those of the convent. Usually Cecily slept on her other side, but that would mean facing Adam, and she felt too vulnerable to face him while she slept, too exposed.

An amused whisper reached her. ‘Do you always sleep with your hair so tightly braided? Gwenn used to loose hers—’

She risked a glance over her shoulder. ‘Gwenn?’ He was crouching on his haunches, scarcely two feet away, dragging another blanket from his pack.

‘My wife.’

Cecily blinked. ‘You have a wife, sir? But…but—’

‘I have no wife now.’ His lips twisted. ‘Rest assured, little Cecily, you do not marry a bigamist.’

Cecily turned back to the wall and the beetle while she digested this new piece of information about the Breton knight who had agreed to marry her. He had already been married. She sighed, shamefully aware of a bitter taste in her mouth as she wondered if Adam Wymark’s wife had liked his kisses as much as she had done when he had kissed her by the Cathedral. Those kisses had been a revelation to her—those little darts of pleasure shooting along her skin, his ability to make her bones feel as though they were melting, the urge to touch, to stroke, to be stroked—was this what others felt when they kissed? When Ulf and his wife…She bit her lip. No. No. It was shameful, what Adam Wymark had made her feel. He was her enemy.

His wife’s name had been Gwenn. Had he loved her? What had she looked like? And what had happened to her? Had she died or had he put her aside?

In England it was easy for a man to repudiate a woman—even one to whom he was married. It was common practice in Wessex, and there was no reason to suppose matters were arranged any differently in Brittany. A man could have any number of reasons for setting a woman aside—failure to provide the promised dowry, nonconsummation of the marriage, for not producing the required male heir.

She sighed. Would Adam Wymark set her aside if she did not please? If she did not provide him with a male heir? Lord knew she was not providing him with a dowry.

Racking her brains, she could not recall any instances of a woman setting a man aside. Truly, the world was not made for women.

The palace floor tiles were cold, and harder than the straw pallet she had slept on in the convent. As Cecily wriggled deeper into his cloak and tried to get comfortable, she numbered the reasons for making a success of this marriage. There were the villagers and inhabitants of Fulford, and there was Philip, not to mention the pressing need to distract Adam from searching for Emma…

She could like Adam for himself, given half a chance. How much better it would be if she only had that to think about—if the strongest reason for marrying him could be the fact that she actually had a liking for this Breton knight and found him personally attractive. Instead, their dealings must be confused by politics and by her concern for what was left of her family. It was such a tangle.

In her mind’s eye she could see his green eyes gazing into hers, as they had done outside the Cathedral…darkening, softening. She could feel the warmth of his fingers as they had twined with hers, the light touch of his lips; she could hear the huskiness in his voice as he had called her sweetheart and asked her to open her mouth to his…

So much weighed in his favour. If only he had not come to England with Duke William to win lands for himself—if only those lands had not belonged to her father.

Turning her shoulder, she gave him a swift glance. He was shaking out another blanket, making a bed near enough that he could reach her. Near enough and yet not too near. No one can come between us, she realised with a jolt.

He caught her eye and gave her a crooked smile. ‘If you need me, you only have to say.’

Cecily gave him what she hoped was a haughty look to cover a peculiar increase in her heart-rate—why was it he had this effect on her? It was most unsettling. She turned to face him properly. Not because her eyes were hungry for him—most certainly not! No, one simply could not converse peering over one’s shoulder. ‘’ Tis not seemly to lie so close.’

In a trice he was at her side. Drawing one of her hands out of its hiding place in the blue cloak, he brought it to his lips and a frisson of awareness ran all the way up her arm. How did he do that? And why did her body react in such an unpredictable way whenever he came near?

‘My lady, you are my betrothed.’ He gestured around the hall. ‘But if you would prefer some other protector you only have to say the word. I bid you recall that my right to Fulford Hall rests on Duke William’s gift, and is in no wise connected to any union with you.’

She stared past him, her face as wooden as she could make it. The only protector she wanted was looking right into her eyes, but she could not bring herself to admit it. He is your enemy…your enemy. Unaware that her fingers had tightened momentarily on his, she darted a fearful glance towards the fire, towards the knight who had tried to solicit her attention, but he was no longer there.

Her eyes met Adam’s, and for all his hard words she found gentleness in their expression. His pupils were darkening, his smile softening, and she sensed he was waiting for her response. He had washed his hair, she noticed irrelevantly. It was wet and neatly combed, save for one dark lock which fell over his eye. But what could she, a Saxon, say to him, one of Duke William’s knights?

Abruptly, he released her, and pushed his hair back. Jaw tight, he turned away and shifted his belongings a little farther off.

Cecily felt the loss of him like an icy draught. He was only a yard away—the seemly distance she had asked for—yet now he had retreated, perversely she wanted him closer. She did not face the wall again. It was comforting to be able to see him in the gloom. And now was not the time to wonder why this should be so, any more than it was the time to wonder about the extraordinary effect he had on her senses. Later she would think about these things, when she had slept…

The floortiles grew harder, and colder. Fingers and toes were turning into icicles, goosebumps rose on the back of her neck. Cecily shrank deeper into his cloak.

The hall was quietening. One by one torches were doused, save a couple by the door and a lantern or two hanging from the rafters. Shadowy figures hunched around the hearth, faces shiny in the firelight. The knight who had so discomposed her might have gone, but her unease remained, and a low murmur of voices ran on, broken occasionally by a crack of laughter. Male laughter, predatory male laughter. Duke William’s men.

Cecily’s eyelids closed, but her nerves were stretched tight as a bowstring. She had had four years in the convent, with scarcely a glimpse of a man, and suddenly she was sleeping with a roomful. What penance would Mother Aethelflaeda impose for that?

A mild commotion near the door had her eyes snapping open. A drunk staggered in, held upright by two companions. Drawing in a shaky breath, she stole another look in Adam’s direction. He was lying on his side, head on his hand, watching her. His face was in shadow, but she thought his eyes were cool.

‘Be at peace, Cecily,’ he said softly. ‘If you mean to make me a good wife, you will want for nothing.’

His long, sword-callused fingers lay relaxed on his blanket a few feet away. Never had so short a distance seemed so large.

‘I want…’

‘Yes?’

‘Don’t leave me here alone,’ she whispered. ‘Tonight—that’s all I want.’ Tentatively, she reached across the ravine.

Warm fingers closed on hers. ‘Be loyal to me and I will never leave you. But fail me…’ His voice trailed off.

A cold knot made itself felt in Cecily’s stomach even as she clung to his hand. Did he know about Emma?

But the contact must have soothed her, for very soon after that her eyelids closed of their own accord and sleep took her.

Some time later, she stirred and came slowly back to consciousness.

Warm. Warm.

What a delightful, impossible dream. She had not been warm at night in winter since entering the nunnery. Giving a comfortable little moan, she wriggled closer to the source of that warmth. Willing the dream to continue, she tried to slide back into sleep, but instead came more awake.

Her breath caught. Adam. It was he who was giving her his warmth. She was lying next to—no, her head was pillowed on Adam’s bicep, and her nose was pressed into the warmth of his ribcage. His scent surrounded her: alien, male, seductive. And until yesterday absolutely forbidden. She had her arm over his chest, which rose and fell gently under her palm.

Warm, so warm.

Fully awake, she readied herself to pull away if he made the slightest movement. Lying in a man’s arms like this was so far beyond unseemly that Mother Aetheflaeda would have had her drummed out of the convent for even imagining such a thing.

Carefully, she lifted her head. Yes, he was asleep. She allowed herself to relax. His arms were linked loosely about her, and at some point he must have wrapped the blankets round them both. The warmth—oh, dear God, the warmth. One could marry a man for the warmth alone, she thought with a wry smile.

In the dim light of a glass hanging-lamp that had miraculously survived the Normans’ depredations, she studied his face. He was a joy to look upon—particularly now, when he was unconscious of her gaze. Usually she felt too shy. Dark eyelashes lay thick on his cheek. She gazed at the high cheekbones and the straight nose and frowned, for she longed to touch, to stroke, but such longings were surely sinful—and in any case she did not want to wake him.

Staring at him like this was a secret, private pleasure. She had not been outside the convent a day, but already she was learning that other men did not draw her gaze in the same way. Adam Wymark muddled her thoughts; he muddled her senses. He disturbed her, but it was by no means unpleasant…

A dark shadow was forming on the strong jawline, telling her that Adam’s beard, were he to grow one, would be thick and dark as his hair. How often did he have to shave to keep his cheeks smooth, in the Norman fashion? His lips were parted slightly in sleep—beautifully shaped, firm lips—lips that could…

He stirred, turning his head and nuzzling her. That stray lock of hair fell across his face.

Repressing an impulse to nuzzle him back, Cecily lifted her palm from his chest and lightly stroked his hair out of the way. Then she replaced her hand on his broad chest and slowly lowered her head back onto that warm bicep. Softly.

It might be sinful, but they had come together thus in sleep. His warmth, and the long, strong length of him next to her was so delicious she did not care if it was a sin. And in truth it did not feel wicked or depraved, which surely sin always did? It was comforting to lie thus with Adam. It was…cosy. The palace floortiles might be hard, but she would lie on nails if it meant she could awaken again like this.

Someone coughed. Belatedly, Cecily was reminded of the others in the Old Palace. Normans for the most part—men who had used Duke William’s disagreement with King Harold as an excuse to come to England to plunder in the wake of the Duke’s conquest, men whom Cecily had cause to fear. Adam Wymark had come with them. This she could not deny. But now, lying at the side of the hall, wrapped in his arms, she felt safer than she had ever felt. The irony was not lost on her.

Snuggling closer, safe in the arms of the enemy, breathing in the comfort of his forbidden, alien scent, Cecily slid back into sleep.

Some time before dawn someone slipped stealthily into the hall and found a place among Adam’s men. Stirring in Adam’s arms, so full of sleep that she didn’t realise he was still holding her, Cecily lifted her head from his chest.

Sir Richard. Returning from whatever business had kept him last eve. With a sigh, she let her head fall back, and sleep took her again.

At cock crow, gentle fingers were playing in her hair, loosening her braid. Green eyes smiled into hers. ‘Good morning, betrothed,’ he murmured.

‘G-good morning.’ Cheeks hot, Cecily steeled herself to ignore the dark warmth of his gaze. He was looking at her lips, with no trace of the coldness of manner that she had noticed on their arrival at the palace. Her chest constricted, and she thought of the kisses they had shared outside the Cathedral. Breathless. His look made her breathless.

Catching her braid, Adam gave a small tug and realigned her body against his. ‘A good-morning kiss,’ he whispered. His lips met hers, warm and soft. Lazily, his tongue outlined her mouth.

For a moment, hazy with sleep, Cecily let the disordering pleasure wind through her—then she stiffened. What was she doing? She had to keep her wits about her.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘For shame, Sir Adam. Remember where we are! And in any case we are not wed that we should lie this close.’

Eyes laughing, he pulled her tight against him, so she could feel the length of his strong, lean body from breast to thigh. Despite herself, she gloried in it—she actually ached with wanting to press even closer. He seemed to sense it, for under cover of the cloak and blankets his hand ran lightly down her back and came to rest possessively over one of her buttocks.

She gasped. Never had she been touched so intimately.

‘Damn the conventions,’ he said with a grin. ‘No one knows what we’re about. They can’t see.’

Cecily’s loins felt as though they were melting. She longed to run her hand over that broad chest and discover the feel of his skin. Biting her lip, she strove to hide such a sinful reaction. Did Judhael make Emma feel this way? If so, she was beginning to understand why her sister might take Judhael as a lover—even though it was a sin and she risked giving birth out of wedlock.

Adam’s touch filled her with wanton longings. He was yet a stranger to her, so she could not fathom why her senses swam when he kissed her, but swim they did. Why, she could almost believe the man would turn Mother Aethelflaeda wanton! The image of Adam with the Prioress was so ludicrous a gurgle of laughter escaped her.

‘What now?’

She shook her head. ‘Nothing—I…I was just thinking of you and Mother Aethelflaeda.’

A dark eyebrow twitched. ‘Me and Mother Aethelflaeda?’ Shaking his head, not understanding, he ran his hand back up her spine and loosed a shiver of delight through her body. He pushed his fingers into the hair at the base of her plait. ‘One more kiss,’ he muttered, tipping her face to his.

‘Remember where we are…’

‘That’s Mother Aethelflaeda speaking, not you.’ Smiling, he pressed a firm, all too brief kiss on her mouth. ‘But have no fear, little Cecily, you’ll not lose your maidenhood in a room full of soldiers.’

‘Adam!’ She thumped at his chest with her fist. ‘Someone will hear!’

He caught her hand, toying with her fingers. When he caressed her palm with his thumb, the tingle raced to her toes. ‘Relax, sweetheart. I’ve better plans for you—if you will be my true and faithful wife.’

His reference to her being a true and faithful wife gave her pause. Hadn’t he said something similar last night?

‘Sir…?’

‘Mmm?’ Idly he ran a finger down her cheek and throat to the neck of her gown.

When his fingers lingered, her pulse raced. She wanted to run. She wanted to stay. She struggled to keep her mind clear. ‘Your wife—Gwenn…?’

His hand stilled. An arrested look came into his eyes, as though for a moment he could not recall having had a wife. ‘Mmm?’

The questions were piling up in her head. What had happened to Gwenn? Had he had her set aside? Did he have children? The questions were burning into her soul, for the answers would reveal much about his nature.

Was she marrying a man who would set his wife aside the first time she crossed him? Clearly Adam Wymark could charm the finches from the trees if he had a mind, but how would he react if he found out about her newborn brother? How would he react if he knew she had concealed the fact that she had seen Emma yesterday? How would he react if he knew Cecily had seen her with one of her father’s housecarls in the Minster and—?

A cold fist gripped her heart. She knew where Emma and Judhael had gone! Why had she not realised before?

Hastily lowering her eyes, for Adam’s keen gaze was on her, and he seemed to possess an uncanny ability to read her mind, she let her thoughts run on. Judhael’s sister, Evie, had married one of Winchester’s goldsmiths—Leofwine. Judhael would take Emma to his sister’s house, to Evie and Leofwine…

This was yet another secret to keep from Adam. She hid a groan. Another secret—as if she were not already the keeper of more secrets than anyone in Christendom.

If Adam discovered any of them, how would he react? So far he had shown her only his gentle side, but he was the Duke’s man. Would he reject her out of hand? His trust would certainly be forfeit.

Taking in a breath, Cecily raised her eyes and forced a smile. She would have to be very circumspect if he was not to find her out. She could not risk being set aside—not if she was to succeed in her aims.

‘What happened to Gwenn?’ she asked, and immediately wished she hadn’t, because his face became hard.

‘I do not wish to speak of her.’

Easing himself back, Adam rolled away and out from under the blankets. Cecily was left to follow him with her eyes as he stretched his long body and combed his dark hair with his fingers. Then, without so much as a backward glance, he snatched up a cloak and strode towards the morning light that was creeping through the main door of the hall. It was as though, Cecily thought with a pang, they had never spent the night in each other’s arms; it was as though they had never kissed, had never agreed to marry.

Adam Wymark, my betrothed. A Breton knight, the Duke’s man. He was once married to a woman named Gwenn, of whom he will not speak. What will he do if he discovers the secrets I am hiding from him? Will he ever love me? And why, Cecily thought with a grimace, should I be so concerned about that?

Breakfast was taken in the Old Palace hall. Small ale, warm bread and a creamy white cheese that—luxury of luxuries—showed no sign of mould.

Afterwards, Cecily picked up the blue fur-lined cloak and draped it over her arm. She had not seen Adam since he had left at cock crow.

‘Maurice?’

‘My lady?’ Maurice was sitting cross-legged on the floor, to all intents and purposes occupied in restitching a saddlebag.

‘Where is Sir Adam?’

‘He is…elsewhere in the city, on the Duke’s business.’

She fiddled with the girdle of her habit. ‘Did he say when he will return?’ Not for some hours, she hoped.

‘No, lady.’

‘I’m going to the Minster. If he asks after me, please tell him.’

Maurice glanced up. ‘You won’t go farther, my lady?’

‘No…no.’ Liar. Liar.

Maurice’s brown eyes searched hers and then, apparently satisfied with what they saw, bent back over the saddlebag. ‘Good, because SirAdamwould string me up if anything happened to you.’

‘Oh. Yes. I…I shall only be in the Minster. At prayer.’

‘Very good, my lady.’

Swinging the cloak about her shoulders, Cecily hurried outside, praying that Maurice had believed her, and praying also that he didn’t have instructions to follow her.

It was bright, if chill in the Palace courtyard. The sky was patchy with cloud, and a low winter sun was throwing long shadows through them. A couple of Duke William’s knights were putting their horses through their paces, ready to turn the courtyard into a tiltyard as they wheeled their mounts and prepared to charge. Lance-tips gleamed. The horses’ breath hung in the air, and their hooves struck sparks on the cobblestones as they champed at their bits, impatient for the signal.

Scurrying swiftly past, Cecily almost jumped out of her skin as someone barked out, ‘Roderick, get that beast out of here!’ The garrison commander. ‘If you must play at tourneying—’ the commander’s face was suffused with anger ‘—get round to the practice field. I’ll have no mêlée in the garrison forecourt.’

Glancing over her shoulder at the door of the Palace—no sign of Maurice, thank the Lord—Cecily quickened her pace. In a moment she was through the Palace yard and out of the gates, staring up at the two Minsters.

So, Adam’s whereabouts that morning was a mystery. No matter. She had no wish to see him, for she had business of her own to attend to.

Family business—Saxon business—and he would definitely not approve.