Читать книгу Medieval Brides - Anne Herries - Страница 21

‘Gudrun, go away!’ Cecily said later that night, as she laughingly tried to evade the housekeeper’s hands. ‘And you too, Matty. I don’t need either of you!’

The three women were in the loft room. Braziers glowed softly through the dark and candles flickered on the nightstands. On one of the coffers a tray had been set, with a jug of mulled wine, two clay goblets, and a plate of almond cakes. The wine steamed gently, filling the room with the exotic scent of imported spices—cinnamon and cloves from the east.

The rhythmic throb of music filled the Hall below, where Harold and Carl were entertaining the company with drums, accompanied at one moment by Wat on his flute and at another by Sir Richard on his lute. As mead jars and wine flasks had emptied, the boys’ drumrolls had become wilder. Laughter had become more general, and a couple of times Cecily had seen some of Adam’s troopers making efforts to converse with one or other of the villagers without being rebuffed. Peace might not be quite the mad dream that Edmund thought it.

Deciding it was high time she retired, Cecily had excused herself from her husband’s side, and had run the gauntlet of so many meaningful winks and sly remarks that her ears had burned. Everyone had seemed determined to embarrass her, villagers and troopers alike.

Now she glared at her two bridesmaids. They were as intent on disrobing her as she was intent on remaining robed. ‘Go away!’ Didn’t they understand? Circumstances might have forced her to marry someone who was practically a stranger, but she could not, would not, greet Adam Wymark unclothed—even if it was their wedding night.

As a particularly extravagant drumroll and a shout of laughter reverberated round the mead hall, she nipped behind one of the braziers. ‘I’m perfectly capable of undressing myself!’ The warmth of the brazier touched her face and neck, and her veil fluttered dangerously close to the glowing embers. She twitched it aside. ‘I would like some privacy. Go away!’

Deaf to her pleas, Gudrun grinned at Matty. ‘You go left, and I’ll go right.’

Cecily made a dash for the gap between brazier and bed, but Matty second-guessed her and crashed into her. In the tussle, they both toppled onto the bed.

‘Got you!’ Matty’s breath was honeyed with mead. ‘Got you!’

Torn between dismay and laughter, Cecily tried to wriggle free, but by then Gudrun was upon them, and in a trice the three of them were rolling around the bed, crushing dried rose petals into the bedcover. Rose petals? Where had they found rose petals at this time of year? And when had they had time to strew the bedcover with them?

‘Get off, Gudrun, for pity’s sake,’ Cecily got out with a choked laugh. ‘It’s like having a sack of flour on top of me.’

An unholy light flashed into Gudrun’s eyes, and Cecily saw that she was about to be on the receiving end of another lewd comment when the door swung open. Candles guttered and the noise from the Hall seemed to rise.

Adam. He had paused, hand on the door-latch, surveying the three of them with a crooked smile. A dark eyebrow lifted and his smile widened.

Cecily shot into an upright position, fumbling to straighten her veil. Matty and Gudrun jumped off the bed, hastily plumping the pillows, smoothing the covers.

‘Sir Adam?’ Cecily said, with as much dignity as could be expected from a noble lady caught romping on the bed with her maid and the family housekeeper.

He closed the door, muting the sounds of the revels, and came towards her. ‘I thought you were tired.’

‘Tired? Oh…y-yes. I was just g-getting ready…’

Matty giggled, Gudrun made a choking sound, and Cecily wished with all her heart that she had insisted on Gudrun explaining the intimate duties of a new bride.

Her mouth was dry. There Adam stood—tall and achingly handsome, with his dark hair gleaming in the candlelight and a smile in those green eyes. If she was to secure her place as his wife and stay near her brother she must ensure that the marriage was consummated. If it was not consummated, she could be set aside. She swallowed. It would help if she knew a little more about the physical aspects of marriage…

Adam tucked his thumbs into his belt, feeling as out of place in his bedroom as it was possible for a man to be on his wedding day. Her face had been alight with laughter, but the moment he’d come into the room the laughter had vanished. And there she was, blinking up at him like an owl from the bed. From their bed. Her hands were shaking. Her wedding ring glinted in the candlelight with every tremor.

He smiled pointedly at Matty and Gudrun. ‘My thanks,’ he said firmly. ‘We can manage on our own.’

‘But, sir,’ Gudrun said, ‘we’re her bridesmaids. We should disrobe—’

‘You have been fine bridesmaids.’ Dipping into his pouch, Adam handed them each a silver penny. ‘Our thanks to you both.’ He sent Gudrun another direct look and searched for the right English words. ‘Your babe—Philip—is crying.’

Gudrun opened her mouth to reply, but Matty caught her by the sleeve and gave a swift headshake. She towed Gudrun to the door.

Watching them go, Adam tipped his head to one side and said softly, ‘Odd, don’t you think, the way she has given that baby a Norman name?’

Cecily scrambled off the bed in a flurry of activity, shaking out the skirts of her gown and yanking at the bedcover. Rose petals fluttered to the floor. Adam narrowed his eyes, wondering whether his question had discomposed her, but then he noticed the rose petals and thought he understood the reason for her sudden burst of activity. He moved towards the bed. He might have his suspicions about young Philip—about her, indeed—but there was no place for them in this room, not tonight. She was innocent, and she deserved a bridegroom who would take care with her.

‘Cecily?’ Her veil quivered. There were two bright spots of colour on her cheeks. Make light of this, he told himself. She’s as nervous as you are. He smiled. ‘You look like a child who has been caught stealing sweetmeats.’

‘D-do I?’

He caught her hand, tried to pull her close, but she hung back and would not meet his gaze. ‘Cecily? Look at me.’

Slowly she raised her head. ‘Sir?’

Her eyes were as wide as a doe’s. Afraid—yes, she was definitely afraid. Laughing with her bridesmaids had been but a mask. ‘I realise we have not known each other long,’ he said. ‘The marriage need not be consummated tonight.’

Against his instincts, ignoring a most unnerving wave of disappointment, he managed to release her and sat down on the edge of the mattress. Nudging aside the rosemary and lavender posy, he tugged off his boots and tossed them into a corner. In the Hall, someone screeched with laughter, the drums pounded. He had started on his belt when a small hand touched his shoulder.

‘But, Adam…’ the quiet voice was puzzled ‘…if we do not complete our marriage with full—physical—union, it will not be a real one. It could be annulled.’

‘That is true.’

‘Then you…we…we must.’

Her gaze was so earnest that he could not doubt her seriousness. Dropping his belt, he stood up. Even without his boots she only came up to his chest. Little Cecily, his Saxon bride.

‘If it is important to you that we consummate this marriage, then we shall,’ he said, hoping that the only sign of the surge of excitement her words had given him was a slight huskiness in his tone.

‘Yes,’ she said steadily. ‘It is important. This must be a true marriage. Only…’

He found himself staring at her mouth, wondering if it tasted as sweet as he remembered. ‘Only…?’

Dark colour swept into her cheeks and her gaze slid past him. ‘I…I don’t know what to do.’

‘Not part of the convent catechism, eh?’

She gave a shaky laugh. ‘N-no.’

He reached for her wrist and this time she did not pull away. Raising it, he kissed the finger with his ring on it. ‘Let me tell you a secret, Cecily,’ he murmured.

‘Yes?’

‘I’m nervous too.’

Her eyes widened. ‘You? But you’ve been married!’

He lifted his shoulders and ran a hand through his hair. ‘Nevertheless, I am.’

‘I don’t understand.’

Adam had to agree. He didn’t understand it either. He didn’t love her—how could he after so short a time?—but he had not lied. He was nervous.

‘Gwenn and I—’ He stopped. Perhaps it was not quite tactful to mention one’s first wife when one was about to bed one’s second.

But her face was turned expectantly towards his. ‘Gwenn and you…?’

‘I…we…we grew up together, and fell in love as naturally as breathing. With Gwenn the act was…’ He hesitated, at a loss to explain his relationship with Gwenn to this innocent who had spent the latter part of her life stuck behind the walls of a convent.

Her large eyes were wistful. ‘You loved her,’ she said. ‘Were you nervous with Gwenn?’

He shook his head. ‘She was my first. We learned together.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘I could never be nervous with Gwenn.’

She shifted closer and laid a tentative, work-worn hand on his chest. ‘You were confident she loved you. You knew you wouldn’t lose her love, that she’d never hate you.’

‘Y-yes.’ Nonplussed, and more than a little disturbed, Adam drew back and turned to the wine on the coffer. For a moment he stared blankly at the twist of steam rising from the jug. Cecily had hit the nail on the head. He had been confident of Gwenn’s love. Whereas now…But, no, if followed to its natural, logical conclusion, her reasoning implied that his present nervousness was due to concern that she, Cecily, should not dislike him. Which was, he thought dismissively, ridiculous. He filled a goblet and passed it to her, the fragrance of the spiced wine rising to his nostrils.

Ridiculous. For him this was a marriage of convenience. He had only admitted to being nervous to set her at ease. Yes, he was strongly attracted to her, but his emotions were not involved. Nor did he wish them to be, for emotions were apt to cloud a man’s judgement. The only good thing to come out of Gwenn’s death was that he had learnt to keep his emotions in hand.

‘I won’t hate you, Adam.’ Goblet in hand, she stood before him, slender and straight, a beautiful Saxon princess in a garnet-coloured damask gown. His princess. She raised the goblet to her lips, sipped and offered it to him. ‘Truly I won’t.’

‘I’m glad of that,’ he whispered, ‘because I’m woefully out of practice.’ Setting the goblet aside, he reached for her, positioning her so the warmth of her body was where he wanted it, next to his. Gently, he removed her circlet and veil. ‘Gwenn died two years since.’

Her eyes became even larger. Down in the Hall, the drums speeded up.

‘Yes, there’s only ever been Gwenn. My first and my last.’

‘Your last? You mean you only ever…? I mean you…only…only with Gwenn?’

Nodding, he ran his hand down one shining golden braid. That wayward curl—the one that was always escaping—twined round his finger and he felt his loins begin to throb. ‘Aye, only ever with Gwenn. Until now.’ He bent his attention to unfastening the ribbon on a plait and hoped she wouldn’t see the trembling in his fingers.

Reaching on her tiptoes, she planted a light kiss on his cheek. ‘Thank you for telling me,’ she whispered.

Adam grunted and fumbled with the ribbon. She smelt of desire, warm and womanly. She smelt of all he had thought he had lost. He felt a pang in the region of his chest. He thrust it aside. ‘What’s the English word for this?’

‘Ribbon.’ Her voice sounded almost affectionate. He felt another distinct pang and frowned. No more wine for him tonight.

‘Ribbon,’ he repeated, as the ribbon fell away and the thick tress of hair unravelled. Adam began working on her other braid. More glorious hair unravelled; unbound, it almost reached her knees. He wove his fingers into the golden strands. It was soft, and held the fragrance of summer flowers and herbs. It made his head swim.

‘The candlelight makes your hair gleam like gold—gold silk.’ He had to clear his throat. ‘I saw your hair before.’

‘Did you?’ She was watching him almost tenderly.

‘Aye.’ He lowered his head and nuzzled her ear through her hair. Surreptitiously he inhaled. Rosemary, and underneath it that particular fragrance that he was beginning to recognise as her own. It was far more intoxicating than the spiced wine they had been drinking. ‘I saw it, when you helped that woman in labour. I thought you pretty,’ he added with a lop-sided grin. ‘Too pretty by far to be a nun.’

‘And now I’m your wife,’ she said, impulsively catching his hand and bringing it to her cheek. ‘But how I wish…I wonder…’

‘Mmm?’

She shrugged. ‘It is foolish, perhaps, but I wonder how it would have been if we had met otherwise. If you had not come with Duke William. If my parents were still living. If…’

He frowned. ‘We cannot change what’s done. If I had not accompanied Duke William I would never have come to Fulford, and you would still be in the convent.’

She heaved a sigh, her expression so woebegone that Adam heard himself say, ‘We could pretend, though, while we are here in our private room. In our bed. We can make believe matters are otherwise.’ He recaptured her wrist. ‘Come here, wife.’

‘I am here. Where else would I go?’

Where, indeed? There was nowhere he wanted her to be save here. She would have been wasted in the convent—wasted. Adam tilted her chin up and pressed his lips to hers, tasting the spicy sweetness of the mulled wine on her tongue. His heartbeat caught up with the pace of the drums, and he felt her body soften in a surrender that was more welcome than he had dared hope for. She reached up, found his shoulders and clung, and when his hands circled her waist she slid hers round his neck.

‘Adam,’ she murmured. ‘My husband.’

Amazement in her tone. And acceptance? Not yet—but one day, God willing. Planting a series of kisses across her cheek, he nipped gently at her ear. She was such an innocent. An innocent who nipped his neck. But an innocent who heated his blood and was wreaking such havoc with his senses that he almost forgot that very innocence and brought his hips more snugly against her. Her breathing changed. Her cheeks were pink.

‘Cecily?’

‘Mmm?’

‘Your lacings? May I?’

Her shy nod gave him permission, and then his fingers were at the ties on one side of her gown, teasing the garnet fabric open. Underneath the heavy damask her shift was light and silky to the touch, her body warm. He must touch her skin. He must…

Finding the lacings on the other side, he loosened them, and tugged impatiently at the material. Had he felt this desperate with Gwenn? Had he felt this needy? It had been too long. He was like a starving man. ‘Lift up your arms.’

Silently, silhouetted in the light of the braziers, cheeks dark with colour, she obeyed him.

The damask whispered and then she was free of it, standing before him like a white lily in a cream undergown with an eye-catching neckline. A white lily who was biting her pretty lips…

He smiled, fighting a losing battle to keep his clasp light as he took her wrist and led her to the bed. Flipping back the covers, he sank down on the mattress, drawing her with him.

‘Adam, m-my shoes.’

It was the work of a moment to tug them off and toss them into the corner along with his boots.

‘I see I have married a tidy man,’ she said with a smile.

‘Maurice despairs.’ Taking her shoulders, he leaned back into the pillows and she fell onto him, her hair, her glorious hair, flowing over his chest.

‘C-can we keep some of our clothes on?’

An objection rose to his lips, but he bit it back because she looked so adorably unsure of herself, gut-wrenchingly innocent—and anyway she was so near him that all he had to do was wind his hand into her hair and bring her head down to his. He did so, and enjoyed a long, long kiss that he never wanted to end. When it did end, he knew he was as flushed as she.

‘Gudrun said I had to be naked,’ she said, swallowing hard. ‘B-but…oh, Adam, I…I can’t.’

He stroked her cheek and looped a length of hair round her ear. ‘You’re shy…’

‘I…I’m sorry. Can we do it if I keep my shift on?’

‘Aye, but, sweetheart, I told you—if you’re not ready, we can wait. The last thing I want is your unwilling body.’

‘No, no—I’m not unwilling,’ she said, and small fingers skimmed over his mouth. ‘Don’t think that. It’s just that…’

‘The convent?’

‘Yes. Lying as we did in the Palace at Winchester, lying as we are now, it seems so…so…intimate. Mother Aethelflaeda…’

‘Is not here. And I will not allow that woman into our bedchamber. So, please, Cecily, leave her back at the convent.’

‘I’ll try.’

‘Good.’ Running his hand down her back and over her buttocks, he pulled up the hem of her shift and found her stockings. He ached to know her skin, every warm, seductive inch of it, could only think about losing himself in her body, but somehow he kept his voice cool. ‘What are these in English?’

‘Stockings.’

‘Stockings,’ he repeated. ‘They’re next. Of course you can keep some of your clothes on, but these will get in the way.’

‘Th-they will?’

‘They will.’ He slid his hand up her leg and dealt with the fastenings. Ignoring the gasp of breath as his fingers trailed over her stomach, he drew off her stockings. One. Two. ‘Me next,’ he said, clearing his throat. Taking her hand, he set it against the cross-gartering at his calves. Her lightest touch was a torment. Already he was hard and ready for her. Praying the eagerness of his body would not repel her, he swallowed and asked, ‘And the English word for this?’

‘Cross-gartering.’

‘Cross-gartering,’ he said, trying out the words. ‘Cecily?’

‘Mmm?’

‘We don’t need cross-gartering either.’

‘Oh.’ She moved to unwind his leg-bindings, and as she did so her breasts shifted to peep out of the low-cut shift. Adam groaned, and leaned forwards to press a swift kiss on the scented warmth of her breast. She made a small sound, part-gasp, part-sigh. Her fingers stumbled over his bindings, then resumed.

‘That’s it, Princess.’

‘Princess?’

Adam’s cheeks burned. ‘That’s what you look like out of your convent habit—a princess, a Saxon princess.’ Taking his leg-bindings from her, he dropped them onto the floor, and reached for her hips. ‘My princess.’

He kissed her nose and her mouth and her body melted into his. Pressing closer, he let her feel the desire his body felt for hers. She moaned. Innocent, yes, but not cold. A maid, but not an ice maiden.

Taking one small hand, he pushed it under his tunic to the ties of his hose. ‘Help me. We definitely don’t need my hose or my braies.’ Her cheeks went scarlet, but she tugged at the ties of his hose and pushed the fabric of both garments down.

Adam sat up and made a point of lifting the hem of his tunic.

‘W-we don’t need that?’

‘No. Too hot,’ he said. ‘It is a furnace in here.’ He held up his arms, and after a brief pause she hauled his tunic up and over his head.

She drew back, eyeing his shirt. It was now his only remaining garment, as the shift was hers. Wrapping her arms across her chest, she frowned at him. ‘Adam, you agreed we’d keep some clothes…’

With a grin, Adam turned away long enough to blow out the candle on the bedside coffer. ‘Blow out your candle, if you please.’

Still frowning, she pinched out her candle, and became at once a shadowy figure, vaguely outlined by the soft glow of the braziers. Her hair gleamed pale gold through the dark.

Adam swallowed down a lump, and guided her hands to his shirt. ‘Cecily, we really don’t need this…’

Her breath came out in a shuddering sigh, and there was another pause during which Adam could hear the drums below, could feel the blood pounding in his veins. His manhood ached.

She tugged off his shirt.

‘And now you,’ he whispered. ‘Let the darkness clothe you, Princess.’

Moving closer, he brought his head to hers, raining kisses on her forehead, her cheeks, her mouth, quickly, quickly, hoping that in her innocence she would be distracted and not notice how his hands were running down over her hips, nor how they were tugging at the silk undergown, lifting…

‘There,’ he said, a note of triumph in his voice, as finally the silk undergown joined his tunic and shirt on the rush matting. ‘That didn’t hurt, did it?’

‘N-no. But, Adam!’ She gave a shaky laugh. ‘You promised!’

He silenced her with a kiss, and brought his naked body to hers. As flesh met flesh, both of them gasped. Trembling in his eagerness, Adam eased her onto her back. ‘Oh, Cecily, the feel of you—so soft, so…’

In the glow of the braziers Adam could see more of her than she most likely realised. Her skin was creamy, her breasts high and firm. Her eyes looked dark, dazed. She was the most beautiful creature in the world. Burying his face in her neck, he let his hand drift down over her breast. Immediately her nipple peaked under his fingers.

‘Adam!’

Her voice contained shock, but no displeasure. And that nipple was a temptation he could not resist. Smiling, he kissed a path down her shoulder and over her breast, so that he could take it deep into his mouth.

‘Adam!’ Her hands were in his hair, stroking, caressing, holding him to her. She liked it. She liked it…One small hand was sliding under his armpit, tugging him back up, urging his mouth back to her.

‘Adam…’

Her mouth opened under his and she continued to move restively under him. Her scent filled his nostrils, more intoxicating than any wine, and her hands slid down his sides. When she pressed him to her, and thrust her hips instinctively at him, Adam heard himself moan. ‘Sweetheart, yes…’

‘Show me, Adam. Show me what to do.’ Her hand was inching round to his front, but it was too much, too soon. He felt ready to burst. If he was not careful it would be over in seconds. Catching her hand, he eased away and set it back on his waist.

‘Adam?’

‘Not yet, love,’ he muttered, quivering with tension. ‘You will spoil it.’

‘Adam?’ Her breath caught and she turned her head away, her voice small. ‘You don’t like me touching you?’

Gently he brought her head round and kissed her. ‘No—on the contrary, I like it too much. You…you excite me.’

In the dim light of the braziers her eyes went wide. ‘I do?’

Clearing his throat, he gave a shaky laugh. ‘Too much, I fear. You unman me, Cecily.’

‘I…I don’t understand.’

‘Here.’ He kissed her cheek and her collarbone. ‘This first time, let us start with me pleasuring you.’

There were questions in her eyes, but he settled his lips at her breast and ran his fingers over the silky skin at her sides and down her thighs. They parted at his lightest touch, and when his fingers found her secret woman’s place she made a sound that was part-gasp, part-moan.

‘That’s…Oh! Adam, that’s…Yes, that. Adam, don’t stop, please…’

She was making tiny incoherent sounds—sounds that made him think he could wait no longer. Gritting his teeth, fighting his own instincts—instincts that were prompting him to roll onto her and push himself deep, deep inside—Adam kissed, he stroked, he teased, he caressed. He kept reminding himself that his bride was innocent, that she was a virgin, but it was hard for him to remember because she was panting, her breath coming in short gasps, and all the while she clung to him.

‘Adam—Adam, please.’

His innocent wife’s nails were gouging holes in his arm and shoulder, and then it happened. Her breath stopped and her whole body went tight as a bow. Under his fingers the warm flesh throbbed.

She let out a sigh and her body went slack. ‘Adam, wh…what was that?’

‘Pleasure, I hope.’

Another soft sigh. ‘Pleasure indeed.’ She gave his shoulder a gentle bite and licked it.

He groaned, utterly lost. The musky scent of her arousal filled his consciousness. In all the world there was only Cecily and himself. When her hands started to explore his body again, Adam could wait no longer. ‘Now?’

‘Mmm…yes!’

He moved over her, positioning himself carefully, with his weight on his elbows. She writhed. ‘Stop, Princess, stop. When you do that—’ Gritting his teeth, Adam rested his forehead against hers. ‘It is too much. You must hold still—please hold still. I am trying not to hurt you.’

She smiled at him through the dusky light, and as he readied to push she pressed a series of kisses to his mouth, took hold of his hips.

‘Careful, love. Steady, or you’ll—’

Another smile, and she pulled him to her. Inside. He was inside. It felt like coming home. He moved once, twice, before he remembered: innocent, she was innocent. Somehow he froze and managed to lift his head. ‘You moved. I hurt you.’

‘Only for a moment.’ Under him her hips were busy, pressing towards him, moving away, finding her natural rhythm. ‘Can we move again? Together?’

Innocent no more. His convent bride. Heart thudding, Adam buried his head in her neck and rocked his body back and forth. Someone moaned—both of them moaned. ‘No pain?’

‘No pain. I think—if you move again—there might be more pleasure.’

Heart singing, he kept moving. Back, forth, back, forth, the rhythm already perfect. ‘That…pleases?’

‘Don’t…stop.’

Her breath was coming fast. His matched it. The tension was building. It was building too fast. But it had been a long time for him, and she was…she was not helping him slow down. She was covering his face in kisses, nipping at his ear, moaning. His innocent bride. He could not last very long at this rate. One more push, perhaps two, maybe three…

Beneath him, Cecily went rigid. Her insides gripped him. ‘Adam!’

A heartbeat later her name was torn from him in a rush of joy.

By mid-morning the following day Cecily was in the cookhouse, breaking her fast with a thick wedge of Lufu’s latest batch of wholewheat bread. She was sinfully late rising—again.

Still glowing as a result of the carnal love she had discovered with Adam during the previous night, she smeared a wedge of bread with honey and sat on a three-legged stool to warm her toes by the central cooking fire. Who would have thought one of William’s knights could be so gentle? He’d made it beautiful for her. Carnal love. The love that Mother Aethelflaeda had railed against. With Adam it was…She sighed, aware that the colour in her cheeks owed as much to the memory of her wedding night as it did to Lufu’s cooking fire. Even with so much horror between them Adam had made it beautiful. Recalling how he’d overcome her reluctance and had winkled them out of their clothes, down to the last stitch, she hid a smile behind her bread.

‘My lady?’

‘Oh! Sorry, Lufu, what did you say?’ Really, she must try to give more than half an ear to the girl.

‘I was talking about Brian, my lady. He’s a miracle-worker. Not bad—for a foreigner…’

The cookhouse was indeed improved beyond recognition. Logs and kindling were stacked high to one side, ready for use. Well-scoured pots and pans hung in neat array on the walls; the workbenches and tables had been scalded; months of dirt had been scrubbed away; the floor was clean.

‘I’m glad he was helpful.’

‘Aye. He had those useless miller’s boys jumping about and no mistake.’

‘Where are they this morning?’

‘Gone to see to the slaughtering. Brian said it was long overdue.’

Cecily stared. Brian was in the right. The slaughtering was long overdue—it was not for nothing that November was known as the month of blood. She had observed as much to Adam upon their arrival back at Fulford. ‘Evidently there really is more to Brian than soldiering,’ she murmured, recalling something Adam had said.

The rumble of cartwheels sounded on the track outside. Bread in hand, Cecily left the fire to look through the cookhouse door. A moth-eaten mule was drawing a heavily laden cart towards the mead hall, its hooves cutting through the last shreds of mist which clung to the ruts in the road.

Lufu joined her in the doorway, wiping her hands on a cloth. Saucepans and ladles hung from the sides of the cart, clanging as the cart swayed and rattled over the bumps. ‘Tinkers?’ Lufu clucked her tongue. ‘That poor mule could do with a good feed—just look at its ribs.’

But Cecily only had eyes for the man and the woman hunched into their cloaks on the cart. ‘Not tinkers, Lufu. It’s Evie and Leofwine!’

‘Evie?’

‘Judhael’s sister, from Winchester.’ Dropping her half-eaten bread on the workbench, Cecily hurried out. The cart was filled to breaking point—bedding, a travelling chest, a couple of trestles and a tabletop, stools, several bundles. Whatever could be wrong? It looked as though Evie and Leofwine had brought their entire house with them apart from the four walls. She reached them as they drew up in front of the Hall.

Evie had been crying; her eyelids were puffy and swollen. One hand was clinging to the side of the cart, the other was folded over her belly, as though protecting her unborn child. Her cheeks were pale as parchment, her lips had a blue tinge to them, and she was shuddering with cold.

In his beard, Leofwine’s mouth was one grim, taut line. He nodded curtly in her direction. ‘Lady Cecily.’

‘Evie, Leofwine—be welcome,’ Cecily said, damping down her curiosity.

Evie looked mournfully across and let out a little sob as Leofwine swung down from the cart and came to stand directly in front of Cecily. ‘Are we welcome, Lady Cecily? Are we?’

‘But of course. Why would you not be?’

Evie sniffed and two large tears rolled down her cheeks. ‘I told you, Leo. I told you she’d see us right.’ She swayed in her seat, her pallor alarming.

‘Come inside, both of you,’ Cecily said. ‘Wilf will see to the mule. Wilf? Wilf!’