Читать книгу Medieval Brides - Anne Herries - Страница 18

Cecily had not forgotten her promise to look at Edmund’s broken leg. When she came down from changing into Emma’s gown, she sent for him and asked that he should wait for her outside the Hall, on the bench facing the village green. That way she could take advantage of the last of the daylight and examine him properly.

The air was icy, and on her way out Cecily snatched up the blue cloak Adam had lent her and wound it round her shoulders. She was glad to put it on—not only on account of the cold, but also because Emma’s blue gown revealed far more of her shape than her novice’s habit had done, and she felt very self-conscious.

Outside, Adam’s men were toing and froing from the Hall to the armoury and stables, a constant flow of traffic. And, late though it was, a clanging from the smithy down the road told her that the armourer had been put to work.

As Cecily took her seat next to Edmund on the bench by the Hall wall, a swirl of gold leaves blew past the pillory and came to rest in a drift by the stocks. Adam emerged from the armoury with Sir Richard and started walking back to the Hall.

‘Bloody fiends,’ Edmund muttered, glowering sullenly at the two knights. ‘They took my weapons—even my seax, for God’s sake. A housecarl without a seax. I feel naked, unmanned.’

‘You are alive, Edmund, and that is surely a blessing,’ Cecily murmured. Lightly, she touched his leg, and lifted it onto her knee to begin unwrapping the splint bindings. ‘How long since you broke it?’

Edmund shrugged, and his silver bracelets jingled. ‘Can’t remember, exactly.’

‘Sometime before Hastings, I think you said?’

Another shrug. ‘Must have been—otherwise I would have accompanied your father and Cenwulf.’

‘It should be healing by now.’ Setting aside the splint and bandages, Cecily probed Edmund’s calf. ‘This bone?’

‘Aye.’ He winced.

‘Does it hurt when you bend the knee?’

A scowl between his brows, Edmund nodded.

Puzzled, Cecily watched as Edmund flexed his leg. The bone seemed to have knitted together cleanly enough, there was no scarring, the skin had not been broken, and as far as she could see his movement was not restricted.

Adam and Richard had reached the Hall door, and though she was concentrating on Edmund, Cecily’s sixth sense told her that Adam had paused on the threshold to look her way before following Richard inside. Always he watches me. Always. I must be wary.

Tentatively, Edmund put his foot on the ground. Cecily stood and offered him her arm. ‘Here—try and put your weight on it.’

Edmund’s gaze met hers. ‘Must I?’

‘Yes. I need to see how you do—how otherwise can I help you?’

Biting his lip, Edmund rose and, clutching at her for support, gingerly put the weight on his injured leg. ‘Ah, Sweet Christ, Cecily—it’s agony!’ He fell back onto the bench.

Cecily frowned. Something was not right here. A clean break, as this had been, and well knit together…

‘It shouldn’t be this painful, Edmund. Not after all this time. I cannot think what is wrong. Perhaps you need to rest it awhile longer?’

Retrieving the bandages and splints, she set about rebinding Edmund’s leg. At least he hadn’t gone pale when he’d tried to stand, and there had been no sweat on his brow—a sure sign of trouble. Nor had Edmund complained of feeling sick when he put his weight on his leg, as sometimes happened if breaks did not heal well. The continued pain was a mystery.

‘Best not take any chances. We’ll keep these on,’ she said. ‘Use your crutches, but test it with your weight now and then, and I’ll look at it again in another week.’ She smiled. ‘Perhaps the odd prayer to Saint Swithun might help?’

‘My thanks,’ Edmund said, but he did not smile back.

She made to rise but, bracelets chinking, Edmund stayed her with his hand. ‘Don’t go—not yet,’ he said, in a swift undertone. ‘There’s something we must settle, and quickly, while those bastards are out of earshot.’

‘Edmund?’

‘We must get Philip away from here.’

Cecily raised a brow, and would have responded, but Edmund silenced her with a swift headshake.

‘He should not be at Fulford,’ he said urgently. ‘Not with the place crawling with the bastard’s men. We must get him away.’

Heart sinking, Cecily shook her head. ‘Away? No, Edmund. He’s so small. He must stay here, with Gudrun.’

Edmund’s gaze was wintry. ‘You think him safe here?’

‘Yes…No…I don’t know.’ Cecily gripped Edmund’s hand. ‘But he needs his wet nurse. And I don’t think Sir Adam would hurt him, if that’s what you mean.’

Her hand was flung aside. ‘Not hurt him? You think a man come here to win lands for himself would spare the real heir? How can you say that when half of southern England is laid waste?’

‘Half of southern England?’ A shiver ran down her spine. ‘What do you mean?’

Edmund flung her a scornful glance. ‘Don’t pretend you don’t know.’

‘Edmund, I don’t know. I have been stuck in a convent these past four years, Mother Aethelflaeda kept us in ignorance. Please explain.’

‘After Hastings, Duke William thought to march to London unopposed. But he thought wrong.’

‘There was resistance?’

‘Yes.’ Edmund’s eyes were bleak. ‘And in retaliation the bastard cut a bloody swathe through the south. Every town and village he came across was fired and put to the sword. Women were raped, children killed—’

Cecily’s hand was at her mouth. ‘No! No, Edmund.’

‘Yes!’ Face tight with hatred, he leaned closer. ‘I am telling the truth! It was not like Winchester. Around London the bastard’s men even burnt the grain in the storehouses, and they killed the animals, ensuring that even if some poor souls did manage to escape they’d starve to death later. Cecily, William of Normandy won’t be happy until every Saxon in England is food for crows.’

Catching Edmund’s arm, Cecily forced herself to speak with calm and conviction. ‘Adam is not like that.’

Edmund snorted.

‘He is not. Use your brain, Edmund. He didn’t kill you, he merely disarmed you! You would have done the same in his place. Adam has hurt no one at Fulford—not even Father’s hounds when they went for him. And he wouldn’t hurt Philip. This I know.’

‘You fool! You blind, stupid…You…woman.’ He gave her a little shake. ‘Adam Wymark wants the land. Philip is your father’s heir. Think, Cecily, think! Face the truth—bloody as it is. The man is a Frank. He killed to get here, and he’ll kill to stay.’

‘He won’t kill Philip—not a baby! A baby couldn’t inherit anyway. Not for years. He would have to be made ward of court or some such.’

Edmund’s expression changed to one of sudden enlightenment. ‘You’re in love with him!’

‘I am not. I hardly know him!’

‘Yes, you are. You want to marry him. I should have known when you rode in like his whore, smiling at him, speaking his language—’

‘It’s my language too. My mother was Norman, or have you forgotten?’

‘You are naught but a collaborator!’ Ignoring Cecily’s gasp of horror, Edmund flicked at the fur-lined cloak. ‘He gave you this, didn’t he?’

‘Yes, but—’ Appalled by Edmund’s venom, Cecily shook her head. ‘Edmund, please don’t. This is not the way forward.’

Edmund brought his face close to hers. His pupils, despite the fading light, were small and dark. Angry. ‘You’re wrong. It is the way. Philip should not be living among murdering Franks.’

Maurice Espinay and Geoffrey of Leon stepped into the yard and Edmund fell silent. His chest heaved, but he held his peace until they had vanished into the stables.

‘I’ll get Philip out of here,’ he muttered.

‘No! Edmund, you have not the right.’

‘I am loyal to the house of Wessex,’ Edmund said. ‘As you father was.’

‘Wessex is a spent force.’ Cecily sighed. ‘Edmund, I have seen the Norman garrison at Winchester, and it would be folly to pit yourself against such might—especially now King Harold is dead and his family have been scattered to the four winds. You are not being realistic.’

‘I am glad your father is gone that he cannot hear you speak such treachery.’ Edmund’s eyes filled with scorn. ‘And I am glad that Judhael cannot hear you. He is fighting hard for the Saxon cause, trying to raise money, trying to rally the troops for one final battle.’

‘Edmund, I do not want to argue with you, but you and Judhael are wrong. The cause is already lost. We would do better to become allies with these men. Can you not see? If resistance around London and the south has been dealt with so ruthlessly, fighting here can only bring more pain, more death, more hardship. Is that what you want for the people of Wessex? That their land should be laid waste too?’

Edmund reached for his crutches. ‘Perhaps the cause is not as lost as you imagine.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You’ll see.’

The hairs rose on the nape of her neck. ‘There’s something else, isn’t there? You know something else. Edmund, what—?’

Edmund’s lips formed a smile, but there was little warmth in it. ‘You’ll find out soon enough.’

‘Tell me!’

‘I have said too much already. You are but a woman, and a blind one at that. You have been out of the world so long you cannot possibly understand.’

Cecily clenched her fists, but Edmund’s face was rigid. For the sake of peace, she held her tongue.

Thus it was that that evening yet another worry was louring like a thundercloud over Cecily’s thoughts. Was Edmund about to attempt something rash? Were others involved? She went to the cookhouse to help Brian Herfu get Harold and Carl in hand and the cloud was large in her mind. It did not shift when she went to the stables to feed her father’s wolfhounds, and even her delight in the fact that Lightning and Greedy knew her and nuzzled her did not dislodge it. It hung over her still just before supper when, back in her father’s mead hall, she had the trestles put up for the evening meal.

But most of all the cloud shadowed her mood when she stood at Adam’s elbow for the saying of Grace. It was awkward, being next to the man who had taken her father’s place, but her fears concerning Edmund pushed the awkwardness aside, as they pushed aside everything else. By now she had quite forgotten that this was the first time that Adam had seen her in secular clothing, and thus missed the swift appraisal he gave her, and the accompanying nod of satisfaction.

Around the board, faces from Cecily’s childhood glowed in the firelight. At the other end Father Aelfric stood next to Sigrida—the boy and girl whose heads barely reached the trestle must be their children. There was the old reeve Godwin and his wife Aella, whose poor hands were gnarled and twisted with arthritis. There was Gudrun and Wilf and Wat; there was the miller and his wife with Matty…even Edmund swayed in on his crutches at the last moment. True, Edmund was wearing an expression belligerent enough to cramp every muscle in her stomach, but he was there. Everyone was present save Lufu and her mother’s maid, Marie. The riddle of Lufu’s whereabouts had yet to be solved, and Marie had been escorted to the convent.

Cecily looked at the familiar faces and blinked away a mist of tears. So it had been on feast days in her father’s time, with all welcome in the Hall. True, there was clear division at the table, with Cecily being the only Saxon at the top. Flanked by Adam and Sir Richard and surrounded by troopers, she was cut off from her fellow countrymen, who sat further down the board, near the door. It would hardly be a relaxing meal, with Adam’s men having their swords to hand, but at least Saxons and Franks were under one roof, breaking bread together. It was a start. The beginning of peace? She hoped so.

‘How did you do it?’ she whispered to Adam, as Father Aelfric coughed and signalled quiet for Grace.

‘Mmm?’

‘Get the villagers in here.’

‘Father Aelfric told them of our betrothal. They have come to see you, my lady.’ Adam’s eyes met hers, a slight frown between his brows. ‘They honour you, and will take their lead from you.’

Cecily bowed her head for Grace. Would that that were so, she thought, bitterly aware that it was likely to be a mixture of fear and curiosity that had brought everyone to the Hall that evening. Earlier, she had asked every Saxon she had seen if they knew where Lufu might be, and she had got nowhere. People knew, but now that Cecily was about to ally herself with Adam they had closed ranks against her. Even Gudrun and Matty had not let her winkle anything out of them. And Edmund had called her a collaborator. Did the entire village share his views?

Grace having been said, Adam took her hand. ‘My lady,’ he said, and with a formal bow saw her seated. As he took his place next to her on the top bench, his thigh brushed hers.

Cecily flicked back her veil. Absurdly conscious of the physical contact with Adam, slight though it was, she made to edge away, but a slight pressure on her wrist brought her eyes up.

He gave his head a slight shake. ‘I need you close.’ His quiet murmur barely reached her above the scraping of benches and the buzz of conversation. ‘They need you close. If we act in harmony it will go better for everyone’s sake.’

Was that a threat? What would Adam do to the villagers if she did not openly support him? If it was in their interests that she smile at him, then smile at him she would, trusting that her father’s tenants would know her for a peacemaker rather than a collaborator. His watchful eyes ran over her face. She had the distinct sense that he was holding himself in check, that he was waiting for her to make some move. Had he overheard her conversation with Edmund? Was he capable of understanding it?

‘That blue becomes you,’ he murmured unexpectedly, ‘and I’m glad you have shed that wimple at last.’

Startled by his compliment, self-conscious all over again, Cecily dipped her head in acknowledgement and extended her hand to him. She was still wearing her convent boots, but he had obviously not noticed. However, she would play the formal part he had allotted her, even if she could not mask that slight trembling of her fingers. Adam raised her hand to his lips. Butterflies. One small kiss and he had butterflies dancing in her stomach. How did he do that?

Breaking eye contact, Cecily realised their interplay had been noted. At the far end of the table Gudrun’s face had relaxed. Matty gave a little giggle and dug her mother in the ribs. Wat grinned. She didn’t look at Edmund.

Something thudded against the door. Heads turned as Brian Herfu booted it open and carried in the chickens on a huge serving dish. The flames in the hearth rocked like marigolds in a breeze. Brian hefted the dish onto the trestle with a thud and went back out into the dark yard.

Spit-roasted chickens glazed with onions. The chickens were so tender that the meat was falling off the bone. Cecily’s mouth watered. By the look of it, Adam had understated Brian’s talents in the kitchen. The young man was a miracle-worker.

Sliding a platter into place, so that they could both reach it, Adam dropped a trencher of bread on it, apparently intending to share his food with her. Cecily had never observed this custom herself, but her French mother had taught her that it was part of formal etiquette in France that a knight should share his food and drink with his lady. As an overt statement of their union on the morrow, it couldn’t be more clear.

Tonight, Adam’s every move was designed to prove their unity. He honoured her because it was in his interests to do so.

The door banged again. Lamps and torches flickered as Harold staggered in with a round of white cheese and a bowl of cobnuts. Moments later Brian returned with a dish of steaming dumplings, which he set on the hearth to keep warm. Apple dumplings. Cecily could smell fruit and cinnamon. Carl carried in mead and ale, the jugs so full their contents slopped over the rims, and flasks of red wine appeared on the trestle.

Sir Richard sighed with pleasure and reached for a flask. ‘Adam ordered this in Winchester for you, my lady,’ he said. ‘He thought you would like to try it—it’s sweeter than most.’

‘My thanks.’ Adam had bought wine with her in mind?

The smell of the glazed chicken mingled with that of the apple dumplings, and after the meagre convent fare Cecily was hard put to it not to fall on the food like a ravening wolf. ‘Brian Herfu is more than a good cook,’ she observed.

‘Aye.’ Adam’s stomach growled. ‘Like most of us, he is more than just a soldier.’ He speared a joint of chicken on the end of his knife and eased it onto their trencher. ‘Would you have gravy, my lady?’

‘Thank you.’ Cecily stole a glance at Edmund, sitting at the far end of the trestle, below Adam’s men. As Adam spooned gravy onto their meat, Edmund’s scowl deepened.

What should she do about Edmund? She could not warn Adam that Edmund had plans for Philip, for not only would that reveal that Philip was no more the housekeeper’s child than she was, but it would also betray the fact that Edmund’s loyalties still lay with Wessex and put him in danger. And in any case Edmund had not actually told her anything. He had not trusted her with details.

Adam’s stomach rumbled a second time. With a grimace, he abandoned formality and, cutting a generous portion of chicken breast, nudged it to her side of the trencher. ‘For pity’s sake eat, my lady,’ he said. ‘I’m near fainting for want of real food.’

‘It’s Friday,’ Cecily muttered, assailed by guilt even as she picked up her knife. ‘By rights we should be serving fish.’

Reaching for the wine cup, Adam shook his head. ‘I thank God for this chicken. In any case, as I recall you should not even be eating fish—didn’t Mother Aethelflaeda impose a fast upon you as penance?’

‘Aye, bread and water. I feel guilty to be eating so well.’

‘Don’t—those years are gone.’ He leaned close, eyes serious. ‘Tell me truthfully…you are glad to be free of the convent?’

Was that doubt she could read in his eyes? Could her wishes be important to him? It did not seem likely, yet he had asked, so she answered honestly. ‘Yes, sir, I am glad.’

‘For the sake of the food, of course,’ he said, his mouth lifting up at one corner.

Forgetting herself, Cecily smiled back. ‘Naturally for the sake of the food.’

He set the cup down with a clunk. ‘You must test me now.’

‘Test you?’

‘My English. We will converse in English.’

‘As you wish.’

He gestured around the Hall. ‘This is Fulford Hall,’ he said, in clear but heavily accented English.

‘Yes, that is good.’

‘My name is Adam Wymark. I am a Breton knight. You are the Lady Cecily of Fulford. You are Saxon and you are my betrothed. We will be married tomorrow before Advent commences.’

‘Begins. Yes, very good,’ Cecily said, astonished at Adam’s swift progress. She lowered her eyes to hide a growing sense of alarm. Had he overheard her conversation with Edmund? She prayed not. He had only begun to learn, so his understanding must be poor, mustn’t it?

‘Wilf and Father Aelfric have been trying to teach me,’ Adam said, reverting to Norman French. ‘You see, like Herfu, I am not just a soldier, I am also a linguist.’

‘I see that.’ Saints, the one thing Cecily did not need was a husband with a swift turn of mind…

‘Now, this is where I will need your help,’ he continued. ‘How do you say, “I hope our marriage will be a successful one”?’

Successful, she noted, with a ridiculous pang she immediately dismissed. He had said successful. Not happy or loving, but successful. Nevertheless, she repeated his phrase for him in English.

Adam repeated the words after her.

‘Very good,’ she said, genuinely impressed. Heaven help them, Adam did indeed have a good brain.

As though she had spoken this last thought aloud, Adam looked meaningfully down the board to where Edmund leaned on his elbow, chewing a drumstick. A dark brow lifted. ‘And how do you say, “I will not tolerate disloyalty of any kind from anyone, be they serf, or soldier or…”’ his gaze shifted back to her ‘“…or even my wife.”?’

Cecily lifted her chin. He must have overheard her conversation with Edmund! He must have understood it! Calm, Cecily, calm. That is not possible. Adam had been too far away and Edmund had spoken quietly.

‘Well?’ he urged. ‘How do you say that in your tongue?’

Stumbling over the words, Cecily told him.

And, haltingly but clearly—oh, yes, very clearly—with his green eyes boring into her, Adam repeated the words after her.

He would not tolerate disloyalty. A piece of meat stuck in her throat. Blindly, she reached for the wine cup.

The wine was indeed smooth, but Cecily hardly tasted it. Her head felt as though it would burst, there were so many secrets and so much to hide from him.

Adam was leaning on the table, addressing Sir Richard, but the words flowed over her. Adam had a quick mind, and, as he had just warned her, he was not only a soldier. If she did not tread warily he would be bound to discover at least one of her secrets. He had too much charm—especially for an enemy. It was dangerous. She was not used to dealing with men and she had no defences against charming ones—even, it seemed, when Duke William had sent them. Adam tempted her to lower her guard, and in those unguarded moments her liking for him was growing beyond her wildest imaginings. He pleased her eyes too much. That was part of the trouble. She wanted to smile at him and watch him smile back. And then there were the butterflies.

She took another sip of wine, the wine Sir Richard said he had bought with her in mind, and her head throbbed.

In the wake of Hastings how could Lady Cecily Fulford and Sir Adam Wymark possibly have a successful marriage? How could she ever be his loyal wife?

Adam’s warning about disloyalty robbed the chicken of its flavour. He observed her continuously—outwardly content, smiling whenever their glances chanced to meet, the perfect knight, giving his lady the best cuts of meat, ensuring their goblet was filled with the sweet red wine. But unspoken threats hung over her head, and the fear that he was merely biding his time, waiting for her to make a mistake, was fast becoming a certainty.

On the other hand there was the wine…

From Sir Richard’s comment she surmised that Adam’s taste was for a sharper brew, but in this, as in every outward sign, he had deferred to her. It was a sham, though. It must be. A sham he kept up for the sake of the villagers. His quiet warning had been a timely reminder. She would not forget it. She wanted peace as much as he. In that, at least, they shared a common goal.

Adam touched her arm. ‘My lady?’

His green eyes softened as he looked down at her, and in the flare of the torchlight they were dark with promise. It is a lie. It is a lie. ‘Sir?’

‘Something is troubling you?’

‘Aye,’ she admitted, before she could stop herself.

His hand slid gently over hers, and she repressed the urge to cling. Chastising herself for her weakness, Cecily gazed at the long, sword-callused fingers, at the bitten nails, at his warrior’s hand. A hand that had raised a sword against her people and yet had only ever touched her with careful, gentle consideration. Adam Wymark had a touch that, were he a Saxon Thane chosen for her by her father, might be called loving. She frowned.

‘You are thinking about tomorrow?’ he asked, nodding at Brian Herfu to remove the first course. At the far end of the board Harold and Carl scrambled to their feet. Dishes clattered.

‘I…’ Cecily racked her brain for a worry that she might give him—one that would not involve betraying anyone’s trust. ‘I…Wh-where will everyone sleep tonight?’

Adam’s brow cleared, and his fingers squeezed hers. ‘That is all that concerns you? I thought…’He shook his head. ‘No matter.’ He waved his arm about the hall. ‘Surely they will sleep here?’

‘Saxon alongside Frank? They will not like it.’

Stiffening, he released her hand and sat back. Saints, he had thought she was referring to their marriage. She stole a glance at him from under her eyelashes. His expression was remote, but for an instant he had looked…hurt. Surely she had not that power over him? No, it was merely his pride that was injured…

She kept her voice light. ‘Tell me, when you first arrived here, how many of my father’s people slept in the Hall?’

He shrugged. ‘Not many, I own. But I could not say precisely, since I took the loft room.’

On her other side, Richard stirred. He had been gazing at Matty, at the other end of the trestle. Setting his cup down, he smiled and winked in her direction. Matty flushed like a rose. Sir Richard grinned. ‘I can see at least one Saxon I wouldn’t mind bedding down with.’

‘Sir Richard!’ Cecily glared. She knew very well what Sir Richard’s absence from the Palace hall in Winchester had meant, and she wasn’t about to have him treat the womenfolk of Fulford in like manner. She opened her mouth to say as much, but Adam’s hand stayed her.

‘No, Richard,’ he said, firmly. ‘That girl is not for you.’

Richard looked down the board at Matty. Matty smiled shyly back. Her fear of the newcomers seemed to have vanished like morning mist.

‘No?’ Sir Richard said softly, holding Matty’s gaze. ‘You might have to tell her that. The wench has been casting sheep’s eyes at me all evening.’

Cecily huffed. Indeed, Sir Richard was not wrong—she could see for herself that Matty was encouraging him. Stupid girl—did she have no sense? Cecily must warn her about the dangers of trying out her wiles on men like Sir Richard Asculf.

‘Sir Richard,’ she said, ‘Matty is very young. She is only fourteen.’

‘She is enchanting. My sister Elizabeth was married at thirteen,’ he said, utterly unrepentant.

‘I do not think it is marriage you have in mind with Matty, Sir Richard. Leave her alone.’

Richard shrugged. ‘As you wish.’ Putting his hand on his heart, he caught Matty’s gaze, and with a ridiculous expression of yearning on his face he shook his head.

Cheeks aflame, Matty tossed her head. Adam gave a snort of laughter.

‘It’s not funny!’ Cecily said, glowering. She caught at his sleeve, and murmured, ‘He will leave her alone, won’t he?’

‘Be calm. He said as much. Richard is a man of his word.’

‘Good, because otherwise Matty can sleep with me.’

‘My lady,’ Sir Richard said, his eyes sparkling with good-natured mischief. ‘Your maid’s virtue is safe. I can see she is innocent. I will sleep at this end of the Hall, with our men. Adam can keep his eye on me.’

‘Truly?’

‘Truly.’

There was no malice in his face, nothing of the marauding conqueror. Cecily nodded. ‘My father’s people may sleep at the bottom end of the Hall, behind the curtain.’

‘Who would you put in charge?’ Adam asked. ‘Edmund or Wilf?’

‘Wilf.’

‘Very well. Wilf can see to the sleeping arrangements.’