Читать книгу Medieval Brides - Anne Herries - Страница 15

A rush of tears for her father, her brother and her mother blinded her, and the entrance to New Minster hove into view all blurry. Cecily blinked hard. Glancing over her shoulder to ensure that Adam’s squire hadn’t followed her, she ducked her head and, instead of following a straggle of pilgrims into the dark interior, took a couple of quick steps sideways, darting round between the two massive church buildings.

So far, so good. No sign of Maurice.

Emma and Judhael must have gone to Golde Street, and if they were still there it was vital she spoke to them. But it was equally vital she got there unseen by Adam or any of his troop…

Cecily had been but a child at the time of her last visit to Winchester, and her memory of the city’s layout was sketchy. As far as she could recall Golde Street, where Judhael’s sister Evie lived with her goldsmith husband, was sited in the western quarter, in the lee of the city walls. From Market Street she would try going up the hill towards Westgate.

Pulling the hood of Adam’s cloak up over her veil and wimple, and fastening it tight to obscure her face, Cecily dived into the shade between the two Minsters and turned left.

Quickly, quickly, through the graveyard. Rows and rows of gravestones.

No Maurice. No one following her.

Oh, sweet Lord, she thought, her breath coming fast. Adam must not find out about this. Quickly, quickly, on into Market Street, Another left turn. People setting up stalls, hawkers grabbing her arm…

‘Silk ribbons! Silk ribbons!’

‘Fresh loaves! Baked this morning!’

Shaking herself free, Cecily ploughed on. Up past Staple Street. The crisp air was filled with the bleating of sheep as shepherds with crooks led a flock to the slaughter pens. It’s November, she realised, with something of a jolt. They kill the animals that can’t be over-wintered in November. It felt oddly like an affront to see such a normal everyday sight so soon after the killing of England’s King and the loss of so many men. But the year turned regardless of the falling of kings and men. Everyday life must resume, and the meat would certainly be needed in the cold months to come. A butcher, wearing a sackcloth apron that was dark with blood, stepped out in front of her, and a metallic smell rose to her nostrils. All but gagging, Cecily pressed on.

Sweat breaking out on her brow, she glanced back and caught her boot on a loose cobble. No Maurice, no Adam, and no sign of any of his troops, thank God.

A stone was digging into the ball of her foot; her boot had a hole. Pausing to shake the stone free, she skirted round some night soil a householder had tipped into the gutter in the centre of the street and went on. And then Westgate reared up in front of her, gates yawning wide to let people bound for market into the city. Practically running, Cecily turned into a street that hugged the old Roman walls. Wooden houses, some thatched, others tiled with wooden shingles.

The morning sun was a low dazzle before her. She paused to catch her breath. Golde Street had to be near here: a few yards more, a little further. There! Golde Street. She shaded her eyes against the glare. The street was not as she remembered it when her father had brought her here. The shops had been open for business then, and bustling with trade. Now it looked like the Sabbath. The shopfronts had wooden bars nailed across the shutters, giving the impression that the shopkeepers had no intention of opening this side of the Day of Judgement. Where was everyone? Had trading ceased since Duke William’s invasion?

A girl sat on a threshold, suckling a baby. An old woman hobbled towards her, coming from the well with a bucket in hand, water slopping over the rim. A dog lifted its leg on the corner of a house. But where were the goldsmiths, the merchants, the customers?

And there, at the end of the street by the well, what was happening there? A group of men—Normans, to judge by their attire and by their priest-like shaved heads—were clustered round a barrel, staring at a scroll of parchment that was weighed down with stones. One man was leaning on a stick—no, it was a measuring rod. A measure? What was going on? Surely there was no room for more houses?

White stone markers had been laid out at intervals along the street, but Cecily could see no rhyme or reason in their placing. Half a dozen men wearing leather aprons and toolbelts that named them builders and carpenters stood close by. Their long hair proclaimed them to be Saxon, and their sullen, slouching posture told her they were to labour unwillingly.

Cecily hurried on—on past a wheelbarrow spilling ropes and tackle onto the ground. Leofwine’s house had been about here…

Yes—this was it! Leofwine’s shop was barred, like the others, but, undeterred, she banged on the door. At the southern end of the street there was a rumble of wheels and four yoked oxen rounded the corner. They were hauled to a halt. A plough team? In Golde Street? The world had run mad.

‘Leofwine! Evie!’

A bolt shot back with a snap, the door opened a crack. ‘Yes?’

‘Leofwine, you might not remember me—’ she began in English. ‘Your wife’s brother, Judhael—’

A hand shot out, caught the sleeve of her habit and hauled her unceremoniously into an ill-lit room. The door slammed, the bolt snapped back and she was shoved against the wall with such force that her head cracked against an oak upright. For a few seconds the workshop whirled about her.

Hand hard on her chest, Leofwine held her immobile. A seax winked in his other hand, and she felt the cold prick of steel at her throat.

‘L-Leofwine?’

‘Who the hell are you?’

Leofwine’s eyes were like ice. Cecily would never have known him for the carefree goldsmith who had married Judhael’s sister Evie five years earlier. ‘It’s Cecily—Cecily Fulford. Leofwine, don’t you remember me?’

‘Can’t say as I do.’

Cecily’s eyes were adjusting to the gloomy interior. Behind Leofwine a three-legged stool stood before a scarred workbench, the surface of which glittered with flecks of silver and gold. Fine chisels and pliers were lined up in racks on the wall, there were delicate hammers and tweezers, and to one side a miniature anvil. It looked as though it had been some time since Leofwine had been at work. A crucible lay on its side in the far corner, next to a small brick furnace. Several sets of long metal tongs hung from hooks on the adjoining wall.

A skirt swished, and something dark moved at the back of the workshop, by the door that led to the private family chamber. A white face appeared. ‘Evie!’ Cecily cried, almost choking as Leofwine pressed the point of his blade into her throat. ‘Come out! Please, speak for me!’

Skirts rustled. Leofwine slackened his grip and scowled over his shoulder. ‘Well, Evie? Is this yet another Fulford woman come to put us in peril?’

Cecily looked an appeal at Evie. There were tight lines around the girl’s eyes, and she clutched protectively at her belly, her large belly, with both hands. Evie was heavy with child.

‘Evie, you remember me, don’t you? It’s Cecily—Cenwulf’s sister.’

More rustling of skirts as Evie came to stand close. She tipped her head to one side, examining Cecily’s profile, raising her hand to draw back the edge of the novice’s veil. Slipping her fingers under Cecily’s wimple, Evie extracted a long strand of yellow hair. Then she nodded and stepped back.

‘Aye.’ Her sigh was heavy. ‘It is Cecily Fulford. The likeness to Cenwulf is remarkable. If you think back, Leo, Cecily was the sister they sent to the convent…’ Briefly, Evie touched the wooden cross at Cecily’s breast. ‘Both this and her habit attest that she speaks true. This can be none other than Cecily of Fulford.’

Leofwine’s seax vanished. Taking Cecily by both arms, he shook her so her teeth rattled.

‘Listen, Cecily of Fulford, I don’t know why you have come visiting, and to be frank I do not care. I want you to leave. Evie and I have enough to contend with without your family stirring things up for us.’

Manhandling Cecily to the door, he reached for the latch.

‘A moment, please.’ Cecily bit her lip and gestured apologetically at Evie. ‘I…I’m sorry, but I saw my sister Emma at the Cathedral yesterday, talking to Judhael. I thought they might have come here.’

Evie and Leofwine gazed blankly at her.

‘Did they?’

Leofwine set his teeth, unlatched the door, and attempted to shove Cecily into the street.

‘Did they? Evie?’ Resisting Leofwine with all her might, Cecily felt the words tumble out. ‘I would have talked to them if I could, but it…it was not possible. I only want to know Emma is well…that she is not alone. Do you think she’s with Judhael, Evie?’

Evie turned her head away, chewing her lower lip.

‘Evie? Please…’

Evie spun back, and with little more than a swift headshake stopped Leofwine ejecting Cecily into the street. ‘Cecily…my lady…in the past your family were more than good to mine. Would that we could help you…’ again her hand rested upon her belly ‘…but we have our own family to consider—’

‘Aye,’ Leofwine all but growled. ‘Years without her quickening, then now, of all times, when the saints have deserted us and the world is in turmoil…’

‘Babies choose their own times,’ Cecily murmured, and sent Evie a warm smile. ‘I am happy for you.’

Evie inclined her head. ‘I thank you. But you must see how difficult it is for us. I will tell you what I told Emma—’

‘So she did come here. I knew it!’

‘Evie—’ Leofwine’s face darkened ‘—be wary.’

Evie placed a hand on her husband’s arm. ‘Think, love. Since Judhael told us less than nothing of his plans, there’s not much we can tell. But we can at least put her mind to rest on one score. Emma is with Judhael, Lady Cecily.’

‘They have left Winchester?’

‘I believe so.’

‘But you don’t know where they’ve gone?’

‘No—and we will have no part in any scheme of yours. As we will have no part in any of Judhael’s. I told both him and your sister as much. We are ordinary working people, my lady, and even at the best of times we walk a tightrope. Now—’ she lifted her shoulders ‘—we have to tread even more carefully.’

Cecily’s shoulders drooped, and she scrubbed wearily at her forehead. ‘I’m sorry. Perhaps I shouldn’t have come. I’d hoped to see Emma—to convince her that flight is not the only road open to her, to persuade her to come back to Fulford with me.’

‘She’ll never do that. Not while a Norman is suing for her hand.’

Cecily met Evie’s gaze, thankful that the poor light hid the hot colour that rushed into her cheeks. ‘Adam Wymark is from Brittany, not Normandy.’

Evie shrugged. ‘What’s the difference? Breton, Norman—marauders all. Your sister will have none of them.’

Cecily swallowed. She had heard similar words from Emma’s own lips. And if Judhael was Emma’s lover, Emma’s flight was all the more understandable. ‘Emma need have no fear of Adam Wymark. Not now,’ she said. ‘Evie, if you should see her again, I’d like to leave a message—’

‘No,’ Leofwine broke in curtly. ‘No messages.’

‘A few words only—should you chance to meet her.’ Suddenly it was vital that Emma knew of Cecily’s betrothal to Adam. ‘Please tell her that the Breton knight has agreed to marry me in her stead.’

Evie’s jaw dropped. ‘You, my lady? You’d marry one of them?’

Cecily lifted her head. ‘Aye. I am returning to Fulford. Please tell her.’

‘You’re mad. Being cooped up in that convent’s sent you mad.’

‘You may have something there,’ Cecily said quietly. ‘I loathed it.’

Evie’s face softened, and impulsively she took Cecily by the hand. ‘You poor thing. It must have been bad to make marrying one of them a better choice.’

‘Adam Wymark is not an evil man,’ Cecily said, knowing it to be the truth, but wondering how she knew this.

‘No?’ Evie patted her hand, her face the image of disbelief. ‘You poor thing.’

‘He’s not!’

Another pat. ‘I’m sure he is not.’

But Cecily intercepted the look Evie sent her husband, and she knew that Evie did not believe her. In Evie’s mind all the Duke’s men had souls as black as pitch. But life was not that simple. It would be easier if it were, for then she would not feel so guilty. It was as if, merely by talking to Leofwine and Evie, she was somehow betraying Adam. But there was no time to examine her guilt—which was misplaced anyway—she had a newborn brother and the villagers of Fulford to look to. They must come first.

‘If you please, I will leave now.’

Leofwine gave her a mocking bow and pushed open the door. A stream of sunlight rushed into the room. Momentarily blinded, Cecily picked up her skirts and stepped over the threshold.

‘Don’t fear for your sister, Lady Cecily,’ Evie called. ‘Judhael will look after her.’

Cecily nodded, though she had to push aside a nagging memory of the cold, almost callous expression on Judhael’s face when he had been talking to Emma in the Minster.

‘He will—I swear it.’ Evie smiled through the doorway and opened her mouth to say more, but Leofwine swung the door shut and cut off her words. The bolt scraped home.

Hunching into her cloak, Cecily glanced swiftly to left and right. At the southern end of Golde Street the sullen workmen were receiving their orders from a crop-headed Norman overseer in a scarlet tunic. The overseer’s shoulders were wrapped in a purple velvet cloak the emperor of Byzantium would have been proud to call his own. The booty of war, perhaps? By comparison the Saxon workmen were dull, in their brown and grey homespun. At their backs, the oxen were being roped to a series of metal grappling hooks that glinted menacingly in the sun.

Not that way. Turning on her heel, Cecily retraced her steps, hoping to be back before any of Adam Wymark’s company marked her absence. If questioned, she had a story ready, may the Lord forgive her for the lie: she would say she had been visiting Nunnaminster, the nunnery founded by KingAlfred’s Queen Ealhswith.

In the sunless alley running along one side of Leofwine Smith’s workshop, Adam Wymark and his captain exchanged glances. They were standing under the eaves, two men who had stood still and silent for some time, cloaks firmly wrapped about them to ward off the chill.

‘My apologies, Tihell, I should not have doubted you,’ Adam murmured, a grim set to his jaw. Since Félix Tihell, like him, came from Brittany, he was speaking in his native Breton. ‘Emma Fulford must have come here. You say you saw her leave the city afterwards?’

‘Aye, sir. She left by the Hyde Gate—the one that bypasses the abbey.’

An overwhelming surge of emotion was building inside Adam. It had been building from the moment he had heard Cecily in the workshop. Struggling to contain it, for a cool head was needed here, he lifted a brow. ‘So the Lady Emma does go north?’ He was furious: he wanted to tear the workshop apart plank by plank; he wanted it never to have existed. Cecily Fulford had come here. Cecily Fulford was a devious, lying witch. Damn her—damn her and her betraying blue eyes—damn her to hell.

‘So I believe.’

Adam’s hands were curled into fists. He forced them to relax. ‘I wonder…We thought that before and were wrong. Was Lady Emma on her own or did she have an escort?’

‘One Saxon man accompanies her—a groom, I think. I’ve a man tracking them. Told him to send word back to the garrison from her next stopping place.’

‘Good lad.’ Adam scowled at the workshop’s rough wooden planking. It was green with damp. ‘You say that the man who lives here is a goldsmith?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Why should both Fulford ladies come here? What is the connection?’

‘As yet, I don’t know,’ Tihell said. ‘Could you make out what they were saying?’

‘No, damn it. My English is not yet up to it. Yours?’

‘Sorry, sir. Mine is no better. I caught a name or two—Emma, Judhael, your Lady Cecily…’

‘My Lady Cecily.’ Adam’s tone was bleak.

‘What will you do, sir?’

‘Do?’

Tihell peered round the corner of the workshop and looked meaningfully down the street, the way Cecily had gone. ‘About her. I doubt she was exchanging recipes for pancakes.’

Adam’s mouth twisted. ‘Hell’s teeth, Tihell—’

‘Will you report her to the garrison commander?’

Adam stepped out into the street and stood, hands on hips, staring towards Westgate, but in truth he saw nothing. ‘Hell’s teeth,’ he repeated. ‘One minute I’d swear she was the sweetest girl in Christendom, and the next I wonder if I’ve contracted to marry a viper.’

Tihell was eyeing the shuttered window and the closed door of the workshop. He leaned a broad shoulder testingly on the wood. ‘You want to see inside, sir?’

Adam held up a hand. ‘No—no need for that as yet. It would give the game away.’

‘Sir?’

‘You and I know that the Fulford ladies have been here, but I don’t want our knowledge proclaimed from the rooftops.’

‘Sir?’

Lowering his voice, tamping down the irrational anger that was burning inside him, Adam leaned closer. ‘We play a waiting game, Tihell. Watch, pretend to know less than nothing, and we may draw them out. Don’t mention Lady Cecily’s visit here to the men, will you?’

‘No, sir.’

Clenching his teeth against the pitying look his captain sent him, Adam started off up the street.

Tihell kept pace alongside. ‘On the other hand, sir,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘it may not be as bad as it looks.’

‘Rebels are known to be in the area,’ Adam said curtly.

‘Yes, sir, I know. But Lady Cecily is not necessarily—’

Adam checked. ‘You seek to advise me? Out of your great wisdom?’

‘No, of course not. It’s just that I…Will you report her to the commander?’

‘Since we didn’t understand above a word of what was said, we’ve no proof of what she’s up to either way. Anyway, what’s it to you if I do report her?’

His captain shrugged. ‘Nothing. But she does have a way with her.’

‘Oh?’

‘No need to look daggers at me, sir, but she does have a way with her, and you can’t deny it. I’ve seen you watch her. And young Herfu told me that last night you and she—’

‘Tihell, you’re on thin ice. An old friendship can only be tested so far.’

‘Yes, sir.’

They continued in silence for a pace or two.

‘Sir?’

Adam sighed. ‘Captain?’

‘Herfu likes her. And Maurice. Already.’

‘And I. That’s the hell of it,’ Adam said softly.

‘She seems kind—genuinely kind,’ Tihell went on, as they reached Westgate and started down the hill behind a man rolling a barrel towards the market. ‘No foolish airs and graces. Will you hand her over to the commander?’

Adam made a dismissive movement. ‘Damn it, man, can’t you sing another tune?’

His captain flushed. ‘My apologies, sir.’

‘Listen, Tihell—listen carefully. Rather than see Lady Cecily put in some dank cell when we’ve no solid proof of her disloyalty, I intend to take her back to Fulford. I can keep better watch over her there—if she is in contact with the Saxon resistance, she will act as bait.’

‘You intend to use her?’

‘I do indeed. Lady Cecily will draw them out. If I handed her over to the garrison commander Duke William’s cause would not be advanced one whit. Watch her and we may uncover an entire nest of vipers—’

‘But, sir, there is another possibility…’

‘Something warns me that you’re about to tell me what that might be.’

Tihell gave him an earnest nod. ‘There might be a perfectly innocent reason for Lady Cecily’s visit to Golde Street.’

Adam stared. ‘It seems that Herfu and Maurice are not her only conquests. You also seek to be her champion.’

Tihell kicked a chicken bone into the gutter and would not meet his eyes. ‘Don’t rush to judgement, sir, that’s all,’ he muttered. ‘If she is disloyal, time will tell.’

‘We’re all fools,’ Adam said slowly.

‘Sir?’

‘Have done, man, have done. I’ve a mind of my own and have already decided on Lady Cecily’s fate.’

‘Aye, sir.’

Adam smiled. ‘Perhaps another commission will put a stop to your philosophizing?’

‘Sir?’

‘When the troop leaves for Fulford I want you to stay behind. Wait for your man to send word, and then get on Lady Emma’s trail yourself.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And be wary, Tihell. I don’t want to lose you.’

‘Sir.’

‘Then, regardless of what you discover, we shall rendezvous in three days’ time, at the garrison. Noon. You can give me your report then.’

‘Yes, sir.’