Читать книгу Medieval Brides - Anne Herries - Страница 19

Rushlight in hand, Cecily toiled up the stairs to the loft room. It was past midnight by the candle clock in the curtained area below, and she could barely keep her eyes open, but at last the inhabitants of Fulford were settled for the night.

Harold and Carl had elected to sleep in the stables, Edmund and Wat were nowhere to be seen, having melted away as soon as the trestles were put up for the night, and the villagers—Father Aelfric and Sigrida among them—had returned to their cottages. Of the Saxons only the household retainers had chosen to remain in the Hall. Gudrun, Wilf, Matty and the two babies were tucked out of sight behind the sleeping curtain, having surrendered the fire to Adam and his men. The newcomers hugged the flames, murmuring over dregs in wine flasks and mead jugs.

Before going upstairs, Cecily had contrived to rock her brother to sleep. Philip’s basket had had to be moved while the bedding was being laid out, and this had disturbed him. Thanks to Gudrun saying, ‘Here, my lady, you always did have a way with babies,’ she had taken him from Gudrun perfectly naturally, and no one had raised so much as an eyebrow. She was pretty confident none of the Franks dreamed she was his sister. It had been good to hold him—though she had had to swallow down some tears at the thought that Philip would never know either his mother or his father. Vowing to give him as much love as she could, she had finally passed him back to Gudrun and gone to seek her own bed.

As she clambered onto the landing, a sudden draught raised goosebumps on her arms. It was turning bitter. Edmund was more than capable of looking after himself, but Wat’s disappearance was a concern. Had he found somewhere warm for the night? His father’s cottage was a ruin—she must remember to see to that on the morrow. Hopefully Wat would be in the stables, with Carl and Harold…

In the loft room both braziers glowed a welcome, and a lighted candle stood on the bedside coffer. Blowing out her rushlight, Cecily warmed her hands at one of the braziers before sinking down onto the bed. She had not dreamed of asking for such comfort—had Adam done so on her behalf?

Lord, but she was tired.

Unpinning her veil, she loosened her hair. Her whole body ached from so much riding—she was not used to it. Wanting to do nothing more than melt into the mattress, she kicked off her boots. Forcing herself back onto her feet, she laid her belt carefully on Emma’s coffer and removed the blue gown. Shaking it out, she hung it on a hook to keep the creases out of it. Vaguely she noticed rush matting underfoot. It had not been there earlier. New? She was too tired to care. Shrugging, she flipped back the bedcovers and, still clad in her—in Emma’s—linen undergown and hose, she slid into bed. Her feet encountered a warm brick. She wriggled her toes. What bliss. Thank you, Matty.

In a few moments Cecily was almost as warm as when she had woken in Adam Wymark’s arms. Had that only been this morning?

Was Adam cold, down in the Hall? Was his pallet hard and lumpy?

She yawned, and her thoughts ran into each other. Home at last, free of St. Anne’s, but how the faces had changed. No Mother, no Father, no Cenwulf, no Emma. And Franks at every turn. Adam’s green eyes took shape in her mind. Smiling, watchful—Fulford’s new lord. Was she really going to marry him? Could tomorrow really be her wedding day?

She woke to a woman’s laughter in the hall under the loft room. Gudrun.

Refreshed by a night on what must be the most comfortable mattress in Christendom, relishing the softness of her pillow, Cecily smiled and stretched. Light was creeping round the edges of the shutter above the bed.

Below, Matty was singing a lullaby, interspersing each verse with a giggle.

A baby gurgled in response. It had to be Agatha. Philip was too young to gurgle like that. Happy, homely sounds, floating up through the cracks in the floorboards. What joy to waken to lullabies and laughter after years of wakening to the cold chime of the Matins bell, to the sterile chant of plainsong.

Smiling, Cecily bounced upright, pushed her hair back from her face and surveyed the loft room with guilty delight. This was hers to enjoy—hers. The boarded floor with its rush matting, the whitewashed walls, the sloping roof, the pottery washbasin, the two braziers—though admittedly they had burned down to ash some time in the small hours.

She was not going to spend her nights in a dreary cell. She’d spend them here in this large and airy loft. And from tonight—her smile faded and she drew the covers more tightly round her shoulders—from tonight she would share it with Adam Wymark, a Breton who could not even speak her language properly.

His travelling chest was shoved against the wall, where Matty had left it after tidying away his clothes. Only one travelling chest? His hauberk and helmet must be stowed in the armoury, along with his sword and gambeson, or else he had them at his side, for they were not here. What else had Adam Wymark seen fit to bring with him from Brittany?

Clambering to her knees, Cecily reached up to open the overhead shutter. Light poured in. Getting out of bed, she padded across the matting to the travelling chest. The lid was heavy and creaked as it opened. A jumble met her eyes.

A dirty linen shirt, screwed up in a ball; another, frayed at the neck; a pair of braies; two pairs of hose, one with a nasty rent in it and stained with what looked like blood. Shuddering, she set the dirty shirt and bloody hose aside for laundering, thought better of it, and replaced them as she had found them. Near the bottom she found a clean shirt. A tangle of leg-bindings. A crumpled green tunic, a dark blue one. The quality of Adam’s clothing was good—serviceable, but not extravagant. A sheathed dagger. A leather purse, rattling with coins. She set the purse aside unopened, and her gaze fell on a ladies’ eating knife, its hilt set with pretty blue stones.

Catching her breath, Cecily picked up the knife and turned it over. Had this been Gwenn’s? Adam must have loved her. Ill-at-ease, she glanced once more into his coffer. There was little else. More clothes. A small, hard object wrapped in cream linen. But seeing the ladies’ eating knife had somehow stolen her curiosity. She might be marrying Adam Wymark, but she had not earned the right to root through his belongings.

Shoving the knife back where she had found it, Cecily replaced the rest of the clothing and quietly closed the chest.

After a quick wash, Cecily dragged on Emma’s blue gown and hurried downstairs.

Gudrun was changing Philip’s linens in the sleeping area, and Matty was no longer blithely singing lullabies. Her newly appointed maidservant was standing in the doorway, Agatha on her hip, scowling at some activity in the yard.

‘Matty, what’s amiss?’

Matty’s blue eyes were troubled. ‘It’s Lufu, my lady. She came back at dawn, and Sir Adam’s had words with her. Right stern he was, if I understood him right. She’s been put in the stocks, and that sergeant of his has just told their cook to tip pigswill on her.’

‘What? Let me see.’

Matty stood aside, and with a growing sense of disbelief Cecily saw that she spoke no less than the truth. For there, in the middle of the horse-trampled grass of the green, sat Lufu, in the stocks. Cecily clenched her fists. The use of the stocks was a common enough punishment, and humiliating though it was it was mild compared to some punishments. But she had thought, she had hoped…

‘Sweet Jesus!’

‘My lady!’ Matty gasped, turning startled eyes on her.

Normally, Cecily never blasphemed. But the truth was that Cecily had hoped that Fulford had been given a more temperate lord, and she was bitterly disappointed. Clenching her fists, wishing her eyes were deceiving her, she stared at Lufu.

The years had hardly changed her, though at present she was far from the carefree girl who lived in Cecily’s memory. Her broad face was streaked with grime and tears, and her plaits were unwound. Bedraggled brown strands stuck to her cheeks like rats’ tails. Her skirts were hiked up to her knees, enabling her ankles as well as her wrists to be locked in the stocks. Her hose had a hole at one knee, and her veil was nowhere to be seen.

Scattered about Lufu were vegetable peelings, stale ends of bread, rinds of cheese, cabbage stalks, chicken bones, and floor sweepings from the kitchen. Hunched over her imprisoned hands, she was the very image of misery.

Her heart going out to the girl, Cecily caught Matty’s arm. ‘Sir Adam didn’t have Lufu beaten, did he?’ Anger was a cold ball in the pit of her stomach. To think she had thought him considerate—to think that she had hoped Fulford would be governed by a moderate man who might rule with kindness. How could Adam treat Lufu like this?

Matty shook her head. ‘No, but she’s to rest there all morning.’ Her expression lightened. ‘Then she’s to wash and help that Brian with your wedding feast.’

Gritting her teeth, Cecily strode outside. The sun was dazzling, but not strong enough to ward off the nip in the air. Sigrida was walking up the lane past the churchyard, hand in hand with one of her children, and young Harold was lounging in a barrow by the stable, idly picking his nose. The door to the armoury was open, and someone was moving about inside. Probably him. Further off, down the track, the mill wheel was turning; she could hear the faint rumble of the machinery. Smoke plumed out of the roofs of the Hall and the smithy.

Hall, church stables and armoury were ranged about the green, and the stocks had been deliberately placed at the centre, ensuring that Lufu was on public view, her disgrace and her punishment known to the whole village.

‘Lufu?’ Cecily said, her nose wrinkling at the stench of pigswill.

Lufu raised a tear-streaked face and sniffed. A piece of eggshell was lodged in her hair. ‘L-Lady Cecily? You’ve grown up.’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you home for good?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you are marrying that…that b…Breton lord?’

‘Yes, but he’s a knight, Lufu. Not a lord.’

‘He’s lord of Fulford, though.’

‘Yes, I suppose he is.’

Another sniff. A hopeful look entered Lufu’s eyes. ‘Are you come to let me out?’

‘No, I’m sorry,’ Cecily said, as gently as she could. But she would try—by heaven she would try…

‘But my lady!’ Lufu’s face collapsed and fresh tears spilled down her cheeks. ‘That sergeant of his—a foreigner! What right has he—?’

‘Right of arms,’ Cecily said, tamping down her anger in order to calm the girl—at least until she could get her out of the stocks. ‘And since we cannot argue with that, we would be wise to submit to him.’ She went down on her haunches, bracing herself against the pungent smell of rotting food, and lowered her voice. ‘Listen, Lufu. This may be hard to understand, but I did believe…that is…I did hope that Adam Wymark might be as good a lord as my father was. That may still be true. He may yet be better.’

‘B-better?’

‘He didn’t have you flogged, did he? My father would have done.’

Lufu looked mutinous. ‘No, he wouldn’t. Not Thane Edgar.’

‘Don’t delude yourself. He most certainly would! Why, he sent me to the convent when I—’ She bit off the rest of her sentence. Though her father had treated her harshly, he had done no worse than most men in his position would have done. She took a deep breath. ‘This punishment is not entirely undeserved. You must know you’ve been neglecting your duties. When I arrived yesterday and went to the cookhouse…Lufu, the state of it! It wasn’t fit for pigs to eat food from there, never mind people.’ She eyed the malodorous rubbish around them, and flicked at a brown shrivelled apple peeling. ‘This has all come from your kitchen.’

Lufu flushed, turned her head away, and muttered under her breath.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Nothing. I’m sorry, my lady, but—’ Her voice broke on a sob, and she began crying again, in earnest.

Cecily put her hand on Lufu’s arm. ‘Tell me. Lufu?’

‘I can’t, my lady! I’m sorry, but I can’t!’

A heavy stone lodged in Cecily’s belly. Not another secret to hide from Adam? She kept her voice steady. ‘Calm yourself. You’re already in trouble, why not make a full confession? What is it?’

Lufu gulped. ‘Can’t. Sergeant Le Blanc would take my hand!’

‘Your hand? I think not.’ Cecily smiled. ‘We need our cook to have both her hands.’

Lufu hung her head and her hair flopped forward, screening her face. Her shoulders were hunched. ‘He would, an’ all,’ she muttered. ‘Leastwise Edmund said so.’

Cecily drew back. ‘Edmund? What does Edmund know of the Sergeant’s mind?’

Lufu blew her hair out of her eyes and gave her a sharp look. ‘As much as you know of your betrothed, most like. How long have you known him? A couple of days?’

‘Lufu, none of them would take your hand,’ she said confidently, hoping to God she was right. Lufu folded her lips together and looked away. ‘Lufu, they wouldn’t.’ Impatiently, Cecily took Lufu by the chin and turned her face to hers, forcing her to meet her gaze. ‘I know they wouldn’t.’

Lufu shuddered, and finally whispered, ‘But it’s the punishment for stealing.’

‘For stealing? Heavens, Lufu, what—?’

‘A baconflitch. I hid it. After they—’ Lufu jerked her head at the armoury ‘—rode up the first time. Was going to take it to Gunni’s shelter, up on the downs.’

‘Gunni?’

‘My man. He’s a shepherd, my lady. His summer shelter is way up on the downs, near Seven Wells. He took himself off there when these foreigners arrived. I thought Saxon meat should go to Saxon men. But now…’ Her voice rose to a wail. ‘If Sir Adam really is to be lord here, he’ll take my hand!’

‘He will not.’ Cecily spoke with as much emphasis as she could muster. ‘He may not even need to know you have taken the bacon, but you must tell me where you have hidden it.’

Lufu’s expression brightened. ‘You will speak for me?’

‘I will. Provided, of course, you swear not to neglect your work in future?’

‘I won’t, my lady, never again! I swear!’

‘To say that Thane Edgar’s armoury is a disappointment would be to understate the case,’ Adam said.

Richard grunted agreement.

Adam eyed the Saxon weaponry that Maurice had laid out on the workbench for his inspection: a rusty hauberk, the links of which were coming apart; a couple of cracked shields; a sword so clumsy that it would have taken a giant to wield it—the list ran on. True, there were a couple of dozen arrows, but they were unfletched, and the two bows were of ashwood and not yew. He picked up one of the bows, weighing it in his hand. Some idiot had left it in the damp—it was warped and would be impossible to sight.

Sighing, Adam met Richard’s sympathetic gaze. He thrust the bow at his friend and took up the other, which seemed equally twisted. Without a word, they set about stringing them.

Nocking one of the unfletched arrows, Adam stepped outside the armoury and drew the bow, sighting along the arrow. ‘God’s blood!’ he said, exasperated at the wanton waste of what had once been a reasonable practice weapon.

‘No good?’ Richard murmured, and, drawing his own bow, pointed it round the edge of the Hall towards the green, where the bedraggled cook was sitting amid her vegetable peelings.

‘You’d not hit an ox at five paces with this,’ Adam said, unnocking his arrow.

‘Hmm.’ Testing the drawing power of his bow, Richard sighted it at the mead hall roof ridge.

Cecily hurtled round the corner and stormed straight for them, skirts lifted out of the mud, veil flying. To his great annoyance, Adam’s heart lurched just at the sight of her. Hell, had he ever mooned over Gwenn like this? He did not think so. But then he had known Gwenn all his life, and no one, not even the little novice, could ever replace his Gwenn. As she stalked up to him his gaze sharpened. A blind man could sense the fury in her—it was rolling off her in waves. So, Cecily Fulford kept a temper hidden beneath all that golden beauty, did she? Interesting.

Matty hurtled round the corner, running to keep up. The girl took one look at Richard, aiming the bow at the roof-ridge, and squealed.

Richard grinned and lowered the bow. ‘My apologies, Mistress Matty.’

‘My father never permitted weapons of any sort to be drawn near the Hall unless it was an emergency,’ Cecily said stiffly, a pleat in her brow. ‘He said accidents happen without our help.’

Adam made a non-committal noise. He couldn’t argue with that. She was slightly out of breath, and he had to make a conscious effort to keep his eye on her face, not the enticing shape of her breasts. That blue dress…it revealed so much more of her than her old habit.

Cecily looked directly at him, blue eyes cold as the sky above them. ‘The practice field is at the back of the stables, Sir Adam. We walked directly into your line of fire.’

Sir Adam. Had he done anything in particular to incur her wrath? he wondered. Or was she was only now showing the natural anger that she must feel against the Duke’s regime? ‘It’s overrun with sheep,’ Adam said, more defensively than he intended. ‘But in any case you weren’t in our firing line, because we weren’t going to fire. The arrows are not fletched and the bows are impossible to sight.’ He gestured towards the door. ‘I had hoped to find something worth saving in here.’

Huffing out a breath, she stepped past and poked her head into the armoury. Leaning on the doorjamb, bow in hand, Adam watched her look at the piles of his men’s arms arranged on the left, and the meagre selection left behind by Thane Edgar on the right. He had dealt gently with her thus far, on account of the grief she must be feeling. He knew that she had had some time to come to terms with the loss of her father and her brother, but the grief she must feel for her mother was fresh, the wound very recent, and he had been trying to respect that. She had such a fragile, delicate appearance. But at this moment, with a muscle jumping in her jaw and her fists clenched, she looked as though she could take on the world and emerge victorious. She was magnificent in her anger. He wondered what she would do if he kissed her. Hit him, most likely.

‘My father,’ the magnificent girl said, slowly and with great clarity, as though she were a queen talking to peasant, and a simpleton at that, ‘will have taken the best weapons with him to support our King Harold.’

Yes, she would definitely hit him.

Behind him in the yard, Richard was talking to Matty in French, his voice light and teasing. Matty muttered something about not understanding him, and then her voice faded as she moved off—probably back to the Hall or to the stables, where her brothers were meant to be mucking out the horses.

Chest still heaving, Cecily picked up a Saxon arrow-head, testing the point with her forefinger. ‘I expect Father armed as many of the home guard as he could,’ she said, still in that insultingly slow voice, edged with anger.

‘Aye.’ Adam shifted. He ought to get her out of here. An armoury was no fit place for a bride on her wedding day, and he did not want her dwelling on her father and fighting—not today. ‘Did you wish to speak to me, my lady?’

‘Yes, about Lufu.’

He tapped the bow against his side. ‘The girl Le Blanc put in the stocks?’

She stiffened. ‘Your sergeant put her there?’

‘Yes.’

‘But I thought you—’

‘I did try to reason with the girl, but since you were lounging abed and could not interpret for me there was little understanding between us.’ He lifted his shoulders. ‘I left it to Le Blanc to decide on the actual punishment.’

‘So you blame me because your man put her in the stocks?’

‘Not at all. I merely state what happened.’

She searched his eyes for a moment, and Adam wondered what she saw there. A liar? A hated invader? But there was no telling, and after a moment she looked down and began fiddling with the arrowhead, turning it over in her fingers. The anger, he sensed, was leaving her. She sighed. ‘So you did not order her put there?’

‘No, but I should say that I do not question Le Blanc’s decision.’ Stepping towards her, Adam put his finger under her chin and lifted her face to his. ‘You want me to release her?’ he asked softly.

‘Please,’ she said quietly. ‘Lufu is repentant. She wants to make amends.’ Moving out from under his hand and past him to the doorway, she checked the position of the sun. ‘It’s almost noon. If you let her out now, she can help Brian with the supper.’

Cecily Fulford looked delightful in her sister’s gown—so delightful that she almost stole his tongue. A Saxon girl—no, the Saxon girl, the one he was about to marry. That scattering of freckles across her nose was begging to be kissed. That wayward blonde curl was asking to be tugged. If he leaned forward and…But some of that anger still lingered in her eyes, and it checked him. He fought the impulse to take her hand—for this was neither the time nor the place, not with Richard grinning at him like an ass, not with the miller’s boys so close in the stables, the men in the yard…

‘…and they can use the baconflitch to add flavour. If, that is, you like smoked bacon, sir?’ Cecily finished, looking expectantly up at him.

‘Baconflitch? What? What did you say?’

‘I found a side of bacon. Lufu wants to use it for our wedding supper, if you agree.’

He could resist no longer. What harm? They were about to be married. As he took her hand he had the pleasure of watching her cheeks bloom with colour.

Richard snorted. Turning his shoulder on his fellow knight, Adam crowded Cecily back into the armoury and out of sight of prying eyes. She was still clutching the arrowhead. Gently, he removed it and placed it on the workbench. He set down the bow. ‘I thought there was no meat, cured or otherwise?’ He rubbed his thumb over her fingers.

‘Oh. No.’ For a moment she would not look his way, but Adam was so intent on watching her lips that he scarcely noticed. Then she smiled as prettily as he could wish. ‘So I thought, sir. But this morning it…it came to light.’

‘Came to light? Where?’

‘It had…been put into safekeeping.’

The light dawned. Lufu. So that was what they had been talking about by the stocks. And Cecily—with her blue eyes no longer cold, but full of pleading—she did not want Lufu punished further. Hell, neither did he. A resentful Saxon would not advance his cause here. ‘You may order her release,’ he said, keeping hold of her hand. ‘As long as you’re confident she won’t poison my men.’

‘She won’t do that.’ Her brow cleared. ‘Lufu used to be a good cook. I don’t expect that’s changed. If my people learn they can trust you, they will serve you well.’

My people. Here she was, pretty and charming when she wanted to be, and yet always there was this shadow between them, this division. My people. Not your people, even though England’s new ruler had given them into his charge. Would it always be so? My people. Cecily Fulford was about to become Cecily Wymark, but would she ever say our people and mean it?

They stood staring at each other by the armoury door, and even as she made to pull away Adam was hunting out an excuse to keep her with him. He had a thousand things to do before their wedding at three o’clock, but he would happily put them off simply for the sake of her company.

‘About Edmund…’ he opened at random, and then wished he had not, for her face closed. He was instantly on the alert, though he took pains not to appear unduly concerned.

‘Edmund? Why, he’s just one of my father’s housecarls—the most fortunate, since he is alive.’

Adam let her pull free. ‘I mistrust the man. I pray you will inform me if he lets fall anything that might work to my—to our—disadvantage.’

Was it his imagination, or had she gone a shade paler? Her fingers had certainly curled into fists. As though she was aware that he had noticed, they slowly uncurled.

‘You disarmed him?’

‘Indeed.’

‘H-has he done anything since then to rouse your suspicions?’ she asked.

Adam folded his arms across his chest. ‘Not unless you call flirting with one of the village matrons suspicious,’ he admitted. ‘Though I expect her husband might have his objections.’

A look of puzzlement crossed her face and she looked away. ‘A mother with a babe? Not Gudrun, surely?’

‘No.’

‘Then who?’

‘Couldn’t say. I’ve not learned everyone’s names yet. She met him when she came to draw water from the river. Lives down beyond the mill, near the tumbledown cottage.’

‘Lady Cecily!’ Gudrun stepped into view round the corner of the Hall, carrying baby Philip over her shoulder. Matty was trailing after with the other baby, Agatha, on her hip.

Philip. What an odd name for a Saxon housekeeper to choose. It was so very Norman. Adam glanced at Agatha. It was odd, too, how close in age the two babies were…almost as if…He shot a look at his bride-to-be. There was some mystery here, and Cecily was in on it, but…

Cold fingers whispered over the back of his neck. His bride was relieved at the interruption. Yes, something was afoot—but she was not about to take him into her confidence. He sensed no hatred in her—disquiet, yes, mistrust, possibly, but no hatred. Inwardly he smiled. His little novice’s heart was too full of charity for hatred. And she disliked lying to him. And sometimes…sometimes…

Bustling over, Gudrun dropped a brief curtsey. ‘Lady Cecily, we need you in the Hall.’ Her homely face sobered. ‘Shall we be using your mother’s best linens on the trestle tonight? I…I wasn’t sure if you’d think it right, in the circumstances.’

‘I shall come at once,’ Cecily said, lifting the baby from Gudrun. Lovingly, she stroked his cheek and began to sway to and fro, rocking him.

‘And there’s the matter of your gown too, dear,’ Gudrun continued, a pleat between her brows. ‘Which will you wear? That blue one is far too plain, and it’s so big it drowns you.’ The housekeeper glanced sidelong at Adam and took Cecily’s arm. ‘You must excuse us, sir, but I need Lady Cecily’s help. Lady Philippa would not have wanted—’ She flushed. ‘I…I’m sorry, my lady, I know it’s awkward, but your mother would have wanted to see you gowned as a princess on your wedding day, however unhappy the circumstances.’ She flashed an inscrutable look at Adam. ‘I need to measure her up, sir, so I can alter her sister’s clothes.’ Barely taking the time to draw breath, Gudrun tugged at Cecily’s arm. ‘Will you come? We can’t manage without you.’

‘I’ll take my leave, sir,’ Cecily said, hugging the baby to her, rocking, rocking.

Adam nodded a dismissal. ‘Till three o’clock, my lady. By the church door.’

Attention fully on the babe, she murmured her assent and followed Gudrun back to the Hall.