Читать книгу The Novice Bride - Carol Townend, Carol Townend - Страница 9

Next morning, Adam woke when the day was but a faint streak of light in the east. The guest house floor was unforgiving, and the cold had seeped through to his bones. Grimacing, he stretched, noted that his squire Maurice Espinay was up before him, and that the tantalising smell of fresh baked bread was floating in from the cookhouse.

His stomach grumbled. Hunger had been his constant companion since Hastings—the more so because he did not permit his men to ravage the countryside. Most Norman commanders saw it as their right, but Adam could not see the sense in looting and pillaging a village if one ever planned to rule it. Hopefully, when he and his men were settled, they could leave hunger behind.

AsAdam unwound himself from his cloak, he saw in his mind’s eye the lively dark eyes and the smiling mouth of Gwenn, his dead wife and his love. He thought about her most on waking. In the early days of his grief he had tried to discipline himself not to think of her, but as a strategy that had proved useless. Grief was a sneaky opponent. On the rare mornings he had succeeded in pushing Gwenn’s memory away, the grief had simply bided its time and crept up on him later, when he had not been braced for it. So, sighing, Adam had given himself permission to think about Gwenn first thing, since that was when he woke expecting to find her at his side.

Some mornings were more bearable than others. Even though it was two years since Gwenn had been laid to rest in the graveyard at Quimperlé, there were times when the grief was as fresh as though she had died but the day before; times when it was impossible to believe that never again would he look into those smiling, loving eyes. Ah, Gwenn, he thought, relieved that this looked as though it was going to be one of the more bearable mornings. Today he was going to be able to think of her sadly, to be sure, but without the lance of pain that had so crippled him in the weeks immediately following her death.

Briskly, Adam rubbed his arms to get his circulation going. His stomach growled a second time and his lips curved into a twisted smile. Gwenn was spared further suffering—she was safe beyond cold, beyond hunger—but he most definitely was not. Wryly he wondered what crumbs Mother Aethelflaeda would throw them for breakfast.

Shivering, he washed in the icy brackish water Maurice carried into the guest house in an ewer. Then, after eating a meagre nuns’ breakfast of bread and honey, washed down with small ale of a bitter brewing, he left the lodge with Richard to arm himself for the ride to Winchester and thence to Fulford. His stomach still rumbled. The poppyseed bread had been mouthwateringly good—fragrant and warm from the oven, not the crumbs he had feared being given—but there had not been enough of it. Not nearly enough.

Daylight was strengthening by the minute, and a light frost rimmed the horse trough white. As the two knights walked towards the stable their breath huffed out like mist in front of them. Glancing skywards, Adam noted some low-lying cloud, but thankfully the rain was holding off. Rain played havoc with chainmail, and his was in sore need of an oiling. It was not Maurice’s fault. Emma Fulford’s precipitous flight had left them with no time to pause for such niceties.

Where was Cecily Fulford? he wondered. She should have put in an appearance by now. Prime could not be far off. He conjured up her image in his mind and her blue eyes swam before him, her lips pink and kissable as no novice’s had any right to be—except that she was always worrying at them with those small white teeth. Worrying, worrying. Where had she slept? In a cell on her own? Or in a dormitory full of other novices? Had she been as cold as he? Had she broken her fast with fresh poppyseed bread?

‘We can’t afford to take any risks going through Winchester,’ Adam said, once Maurice had him armed. Their helms dangled from wooden pegs and their long shields were stacked with several others against a partition. ‘I don’t want a seax in my ribs.’

With his mail coif heavy about his neck, he leaned against a stall and watched Richard’s squire, Geoffrey of Leon, do the honours with his friend’s chainmail.

Straw rustled underfoot. ‘Nor I,’ Richard mumbled, emerging red-faced through the neck of the chainmail.

Maurice led the destriers out. Their hoofbeats initially rang loud on the stone flags in the stable, but when they reached the beaten earth in the yard the hoofbeats changed, became muted.

‘Maurice?’ Adam leaned through the stable door. ‘Commandeer a pillion saddle from the Prioress.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And don’t take no for an answer.’

‘No, sir.’

‘Put the saddle on Flame, when you find it. Oh, and Maurice—?’

‘Sir?’

‘Charge Le Blanc with guarding our rear on the road, will you? You can keep watch ahead. If anyone attacks, it’s possible they’ll do it in Winchester.’

He ducked back into the stable. Lady Cecily Fulford. He was glad she was to accompany them. Her presence would be invaluable—and not just for her help with the language. Where was the girl? Impatient with himself for letting musings on Cecily Fulford’s whereabouts distract him from the business at hand, Adam rolled his shoulders so his chainmail sat more comfortably. He trusted that she had not changed her mind about going with them…he wanted her to go with them, he realised. Purely as an interpreter—nothing more, naturally. She would be most useful.

Richard reached for his sword belt. ‘I agree we should keep a sharp lookout, Adam, but I disagree about Winchester being a point of possible ambush. The Duke’s men already have it garrisoned. And the streets are far too narrow—any fighting would mean the certain death of women and children, not to mention damage to property. I don’t think the Saxons would risk that—’

Adam shook his head. ‘You’re forgetting, Richard—Winchester’s the heart of Wessex. Harold and his kin have made it their capital for decades: there’s a great cathedral, royal palaces—loyalty will be at its strongest in the city. No, we’ll watch our backs most diligently when we pass through there.’

Richard grunted and buckled on his sword. ‘You’re the one in command.’

Adam smiled and clapped Richard on the shoulder. ‘My thanks for your support, my friend. Without it I…Suffice it to say I’ll not forget it.’

‘Heavens, man, you’re the hero who rallied the Breton cavalry. All I did was inform the Duke of your actions.’ He shrugged. ‘Besides, I have plenty of lands in Normandy already. My time here will come. I’d as lief support you as anyone.’

‘My thanks.’ Adam frowned out into the courtyard. ‘Any sign of my lady Cecily?’

‘Your lady, is she?’ Richard grinned. ‘Will you wed her in her sister’s place?’

‘If I can’t track down the sister I just might.’

‘I suppose one Fulford wench is as good as another?’

‘This one may be better, since she has offered herself to me.’

‘Adam, you don’t have to wed either of them if they don’t please. The Duke gifted Fulford Hall and the lands to you unconditionally. All you had to do was swear fealty to him. You hold title to them now.’ He tilted his head to one side and looked thoughtfully at Adam. ‘In fact, you might do better to look elsewhere, since the novice has no dower. Marrying her won’t fill empty coffers.’

Adam nodded. ‘That’s true. But it would help my cause at Fulford if I were to wed one of Thane Edgar’s daughters.’

‘Then take the little novice, Adam, since she has offered. I can see that she appeals…’

Aye, damn her, she more than appeals, Adam thought as he went to find her and hurry her along. He could wish that she didn’t appeal—he needed to keep his heart whole. He had given his heart once before, to his beautiful dark-eyed Gwenn. Pain sliced through him, hitting him off-guard. Never again. Never would he put his happiness in the hands of one woman.

Speaking of women—where had that novice got to? If they were to reach Winchester by noon, as he had planned, they must leave at once. He had urgent despatches for the Duke, and he did not think Novice Cecily would enjoy it if they had to gallop the entire way to the city.

The herb garden behind the chapel was reached via an arch through a high wattle fence, and it was there that Adam found her. He paused under the arch, watching her slight form as she made her way up one of the turf paths between the beds. Lady Cecily Fulford, Saxon noblewoman. Her footprints left tracks in the melting frost.

How tiny she was. He’d noticed yesterday that she barely reached his shoulder, but today, in the garden, she looked smaller still. She was clad in her novice’s habit and veil, and that thin cloak. Perhaps that was all she had—but it wasn’t much considering she was a thane’s daughter, an aristocrat. What would she think, he wondered, if she knew that he did not have a drop of noble blood in his veins? Would she turn tail, as her sister had done? Would she lift that little nose of hers and…? Certainly she would not have made that impetuous proposal if she knew of his humble origins. But…Impatiently, he shook his head. Such thoughts were pointless.

Being the end of the year, nothing in the herb garden was growing: the twiggy remnants of some herb poked out of the ground here; brown, frost-scorched root-tops wilted there. Adam was no gardener, but he could see that this garden had been carefully laid out and tended. In the centre stood a gnarled and leafless apple tree. A small bundle lay at its foot.

Lady Cecily had yet to see him. Hardly breaking step, she bent to pull some red hips off a straggling briar and tucked them absently into the folded-back sleeve of her habit. It was a nun-like gesture. She moved on; she straightened a stake.

Watching how she gazed at the sleeping plants, Adam saw love for the garden in every line of her body, in the caressing way her fingers trailed over a rosemary bush, a bay tree…He shifted his stance against the fencing, struck with an uncomfortable thought. Was his desire to take this woman with him as his interpreter pure selfishness? Was he standing in the way of a true vocation? Watching her in this garden he had second thoughts, but yesterday—yesterday in the lodge—he had not gained that impression.

No, he was not doing wrong to take her. There was no love lost between Cecily Fulford and the Prioress, and no sign of a great vocation either. Cecily Fulford might love this garden, but she did not love the convent. She had asked to go with him, which in itself was something of a mystery. There would be other gardens. For his part, he must be on his guard, lest his attraction to her person made him forget that she must have her reasons for suggesting she married him. And not for one moment would he forget the pain that loving could bring—that aching void after Gwenn had died. Not even for beauty such as Lady Cecily’s would he go courting that a second time. He would wed Cecily Fulford if she agreed, with gladness, but this time he would think of it as a business transaction. He would keep his heart out of it.

A robin landed on a branch of the apple tree. Pushing himself away from the arch, Adam cleared his throat and called her by her secular name—her true name. ‘Lady Cecily?’

The robin took flight; she turned and, seeing him, took a hasty pace back. His chainmail—she misliked it. He had been right to remove it yesterday.

Her cheeks were white as alabaster. He saw her swallow. ‘Y-you are ready to leave, Sir Adam?’

‘Aye.’

‘I also am ready. I said my farewells yesterday.’ She came towards him via the apple tree, resting her hand on the bark as she retrieved the bundle.

He took it from her, noting that she was careful to avoid contact with his fingers. ‘This is everything?’

She nodded, eyes wary, still absorbing his changed appearance. Did she fear him? Or, worse, hate him? Adam wanted her to think kindly of him, but since he had arrived in her life as a conqueror he acknowledged the difficulties. No, he was not so naïve as to think that Cecily Fulford had proposed because she liked the look of him. She must have some ulterior motive in mind. Seeing Fulford Hall again? Caring for her father’s people? Escaping from the convent?

He glanced at her mouth, at the rosy lips turned up to him, and wondered at a world that would see such beauty wither unseen behind high convent walls. Madness—it was nothing less than madness. Those lips were made for kissing, and he—out of the blue a shocking thought took his breath—he wanted to be the one doing the kissing…

Abruptly, he looked away. What was happening here? One moment he was missing Gwenn, and the next…His mind raced. Perhaps he should not have kept himself faithful to Gwenn’s memory. Richard had warned him that celibacy turned men’s minds. Perhaps Richard was right.

This girl was a novice, for pity’s sake, an innocent. He must control himself. He might be aware of her in a carnal sense, and she might have asked him to marry her, but he would be damned if he would accept until he had discovered her true motives.

‘You haven’t the weight to handle one of our horses on your own,’ he said in commendably cool tones. ‘Would you be content to ride pillion behind one of the men? Our saddles are fashioned for battle, but if we can’t find a pillion saddle I am sure we can put something together.’

‘Oh, no,’ Cecily said. She felt her cheeks grow hot. ‘That is…I couldn’t…’

Before entering the novitiate Cecily had been taught to ride pillion, as all ladies were. But it had been over four years since she had ridden—pillion or otherwise—and she did not think she still had the knack. Would she be riding astride? Or side saddle? Either way filled her with alarm. To ride astride behind one of these…these invaders would surely be seen as unseemly—and yet if she rode side saddle she’d be in the mud in no time…

His dark brows came together. ‘You do not like horses?’

‘Oh, no—I do like them. But I am woefully out of practice. And yours are so large. Could I take Mother Aethelflaeda’s pony?’

‘I asked, but she refused to lend it.’ Briefly his green eyes lit up. ‘No doubt she thinks I’ll mince it and feed it to the dogs.’

‘But, sir—’

He turned and, brushing her protests aside, ducked under the arch. ‘We’ll find something suitable.’

With a scowl, Cecily followed, her eyes fixed on Adam’s mail-clad back. Ride pillion behind one of his men? No, no, no. It was one thing to race across the downs with her brother Cenwulf as a child, but then she had been riding her own gentle Cloud, not clinging to one of Sir Adam’s men astride a hulking great warhorse. And she would certainly not—her cheeks positively flamed—perch behind him, the strange Breton knight who had come to lay claim to her father’s lands.

The yard was a mill of armed and mounted men. Harness jingled as the destriers tossed their heads and stamped great dints in the earth. With their helms on, Cecily could not recognise any of the men and boys from the previous night. All were terrifying alien beings, with loud voices and metal weapons that gleamed in the morning light. They looked prepared for anything.

Her heart thumped. Was she really going with these foreigners? She must be mad. For a moment the coward in her had the louder voice, urging her to remain safely in the convent. What if her countrymen attacked them? Of all in their party she would be the only one with no chainmail or gambeson to keep her safe, and it would take but one arrow from a Saxon bow to put an end to her. A cold lump settled in her belly, like yesterday’s porridge.

‘Cecily! Cecily!’ Maude’s voice cut across the general clamour, and then her friend was beside her, hugging her, eyeing Sir Adam and his men askance. ‘Are you sure this is wise?’ Maude hissed, veil quivering.

Adam Wymark turned his head—he had not yet mounted. His mail coif was pulled up, but Cecily knew that he could hear them. She thought of her newborn brother, an orphan with no other family to fend for him, and she nodded.

‘Don’t they frighten you?’ Maude whispered, pressing a small sacking-wrapped bundle into Cecily’s hands.

Stiffening her spine, Cecily ignored the question and glanced at the sacking. ‘What’s this?’

‘Healing herbs. I took them from the infirmary—horehound, poppyseeds, woundwort and suchlike…You grew them, dried them—I thought you should have them. I knew you’d never take them, but you don’t know how your mother’s store cupboard stands.’

Cecily’s eyes widened. ‘Maude, you shouldn’t have. What if Mother finds out? She’ll beat you for stealing.’

‘Who’s to tell? I certainly won’t, and since you won’t be here…’

Cecily shook her head, smiling. ‘My thanks. I may well need them.’

Adam Wymark threw his mount’s reins at a man and strode towards them. His black hair was no longer visible under the mail coif, but his green eyes remained the same—not harsh or mean, but enquiring—and with a lurch in her belly Cecily realised she did not hate him. Of all the men the Norman Duke could have sent to Fulford, he was probably the least offensive. Why, the good Lord knew how harsh and unreasoning her own father had been at times. It seemed possible that Sir Adam was more temperate—she would watch and reserve her judgement.

With a wave of his hand, Sir Adam indicated his troop. ‘My men are at your disposal, my lady. With whom do you ride?’

‘W-with whom?’ Cecily bit her lip as all eyes turned on her. What was more unsettling? The thought of riding pressed against Sir Adam, or the thought of riding with one of his men? ‘S-sir, I…I…’

Maude, who spoke French, had watched this exchange. She stepped forward, a stubborn set to her jaw that Cecily recognised from one of the many times she had seen Maude wilfully disobey one of their order’s rules. ‘Lady Cecily should not be riding with a common soldier, sir.’

Afraid for her friend, Cecily caught Maude’s sleeve. ‘Maude, no!’

Sir Adam looked thoughtfully down at Maude, and said with pleasant deliberation. ‘You are in the right—though my men would no doubt not thank you for naming them “common”…’He sighed heavily. ‘And here I was thinking that, in God’s eyes at least, all men are equal.’

‘They are, sir,’ Maude said, hastily backing down. ‘Indeed they are.’

‘Ah, well, that is good. Because I am a common man, and Lady Cecily is to ride with me.’

Catching sight of a suspicious gleam in his eyes, a twitch of his lips, Cecily frowned. To be sure there was an edge to his voice, but he was laughing—the wretch was making fun of them…

‘Say your farewells,’ he said, and stood aside to allow Maude and Cecily to embrace.

Then, taking her by the wrist as he had done the previous evening, he led her to where a man—no, he was a boy—was holding his destrier, the magnificent chestnut. Cecily bit her lip. She’d never ridden anything half that size.

‘Don’t fear him.’

‘I…I don’t.’

‘Here…’ He drew her level with the horse’s head. ‘His name is Flame. Let him see you, smell you. He won’t hurt you if he knows you’re with me. You can touch him. I’ve never known him bite a woman.’

She shot Adam Wymark a startled look, but it was impossible to tell whether he was teasing or not. ‘He bites men, then, sir?’ In battle, she supposed, this destrier would do anything its master asked of it. It was a sobering thought.

‘Go on—stroke him.’

Tentatively, Cecily reached out and patted the great arched neck, murmuring softly, as though the warhorse were one of her father’s ponies. Thus she had petted her own Cloud before coming to St Anne’s. Cloud had gone back with her father to Fulford as novices were not allowed ponies. What had happened to her? This horse’s chestnut muzzle, she discovered, was just as soft as Cloud’s had been.

‘Warm velvet,’ she murmured.

‘That’s it—let him know you’re not afraid,’ said the man at her side. He still had a firm grip on her wrist.

‘I’m not afraid,’ Cecily said, pulling away from the fingers on her wrist.

A brief smile lit those disturbing eyes and he released her, turning away to reach something down from behind the saddle—a saddle which was not the chevalier’s saddle she had noticed the day before. Somehow he had contrived to find one suitable for carrying a lady pillion.

She frowned. ‘You planned to have me behind you all along…’

Ignoring her remark, he handed a blue bundle to her. ‘Here—you’d best borrow this.’

His cloak, and the finest Cecily had held in an age. Of rich blue worsted, lined with fur. Carefully, so as not to startle the chestnut, Cecily unfolded it. So heavy, so warm, so sinfully sensual. You could bury your face in it and….

Momentarily speechless at such thoughtfulness, she blinked up at him, confused by the contradictions he presented. A foreign knight who had come to take her father’s lands and yet who considered her comfort.

He shrugged and turned away to pull something else from his pack, the faintest colour staining his cheekbones. ‘My mother would have had that thing you’re wearing for dish-clouts years ago,’ he said gruffly. ‘You’d best borrow these too. They’ll be overlarge for you, but better than the nothing that the convent has seen fit to provide you with.’

Gloves. A warrior’s pair, to be sure, but again of the best quality, carefully cut, the stitching perfect, lined with sheepskin.

‘B-but, sir—what of you?’

‘My gambeson is padded, Lady Cecily. Your need is greater.’

Cecily draped the cloak about her, almost moaning in delight as its warmth settled about her shoulders. The fabric held within its folds an elusive fragrance: sandalwood, mixed with a scent particular to the man to whom it belonged. Tentatively, Cecily inhaled. Her cheeks grew warm, and under cover of tugging on his gloves she ducked her head to escape his gaze.

He clapped on his helm and with a clinking of harness and chainmail, and a creaking of leather, mounted. ‘Help Lady Cecily, will you, Maurice?’ With the reins in one hand, he held out the other towards her.

Maurice—the lad was clearly his squire—bent and cupped his hands. Cecily stepped up, took Sir Adam’s hand, and a moment later was seated behind him. Astride.

Too high. It was far too high. And her legs were showing almost to her knees, revealing her pathetically over-darned grey stockings. Wondering if one could die of mortification, Cecily clutched at Sir Adam’s pack, at her own meagre bundle which was strapped next to his, at the side of the saddle—anywhere but at the mailed knight who shared the saddle with her. With one hand she snatched at the skirts of her habit, trying to pull it down over her legs.

He nudged the horse with his heels and they turned towards the gate. Almost unseated, she squeaked a protest.

The helmed head twisted round. ‘My lady, it will not kill you to hold onto me, but it may well kill you if you don’t. You must get proper purchase.’

He was right. But Cecily had never in her life sat so close to a man who was not related to her. Thanking God for the chainmail that would surely keep him from feeling the press of her body against him, and thankful that his men seemed to be ignoring the shocking sight of her legs, she surrendered to the inevitable and gripped his sword belt firmly—a shocking intimacy that would have had Mother Aethelflaeda in a swoon.

‘That’s it, my lady.’ He waved his troop on and they trotted through the gate and onto the high road, just as the chapel bell began summoning the nuns to Prime.

Jostled and juddering on the back of Adam Wymark’s destrier, Cecily looked down at the ground passing beneath them and hung on desperately. Craning her neck to look through the troop of horse-soldiers following them, she could make out Maude, waving by the gate. Cecily had no hand spare to wave back, but she found a smile and hoped that Maude would see it.

‘Fare thee well, Maude.’

The convent bell rang out. Maude glanced over her shoulder, spoke briefly to someone behind her in the convent yard, leaned her weight into the great doors and pushed them shut, nipping inside herself at the last moment.

Cecily did not know why, but she kept her eyes fixed on those closed gates for as long as she could, finally losing sight of them when they clattered over the bridge and took the road that led into the forest.

The ride to Winchester from St Anne’s could have been accomplished in two hours at full stretch, but Adam, conscious of the tension in the girl perched behind him on the saddle, didn’t push it. True, he wanted his despatches to reach Duke William in London as soon as possible, but wording them would not be easy, and he could use the time to compose his thoughts and justify the decision he had made.

The horses forged on through a dense, largely leafless woodland. Overhead, twisted branches formed a black latticework against the grey backcloth of the sky. The rain held off. On the ground, leaf-litter muffled their hoofbeats; briars curled like coiled springs by the wayside. Glossy rosehips and stale blackberries hung from spindly twigs.

Keeping a wary eye out for Saxon rebels, they passed a series of holly bushes, bright with red berries. They had dark leaves in abundance—good cover for those preparing an ambush. Glancing at Le Blanc, Adam saw he was already alert to the dangers as he waved two men out of line—one to watch the right hand, one the left.

They rode on.

Aware that ahead of them lay a barren stretch of downland before they gained the city, Adam found himself wondering not about how Tihell, his captain, was faring on his mission to find the missing Lady Emma, not about rebellious Saxons, not even about the wording of the letters he intended to send from Winchester, but about Cecily Fulford herself. What was going through her mind?

He couldn’t begin to imagine what her life had been like in the convent, but of one thing he was certain: it would have been restricted in the extreme. She might once have been a horsewoman, but it did not appear that the Prioress gave leave for any of the novices to exercise the pony in the stable. Any riding skills that Cecily Fulford had once possessed had to be rusty. For the first mile or so through the forest her demeanour confirmed this. She held herself stiffly, jouncing up and down behind him like a sack of wheat.