Medieval Brides. Anne Herries
the world that she had left behind—her father’s world. She shivered. Her father’s world was a warrior’s world, a noisy, messy, intemperate world, where real battles were fought and blood was spilled.
And that, she reminded herself, as she stared at the altar cross shining in the light of a single candle, was why she was returning. Someone had to look out for her baby brother and her father’s people. It had been a wrench to leave the world outside the convent walls and, though she had no great love for life at St Anne’s, she did not expect her transition back into it would be easy.
In the way of warriors, one warrior in particular—one from across the sea—kept pushing his way to the forefront of her mind. Wincing, she recalled her proposition to him—worse, she recalled that he had ignored it. Something about Sir Adam disordered her thoughts. But she was going to have to overcome her fear of that if she was to be of use to Philip and the people of Fulford.
Cecily’s thoughts remained tangled, and all too soon she was interrupted by Maude, come to tell her that it was time they served the convent’s unlooked-for guests with their evening meal.
The soldiers—about a dozen—sat round a hastily erected trestle in the guest house. The instant Cecily walked through the door she registered that SirAdam was sitting next to Sir Richard, on a bench at the other end of the table. Deliberately, she kept her gaze elsewhere.
Tallow candles had been hunted out of storage and stuck in the wall sconces. They guttered constantly, and cast strange shadows on the men’s faces—elongating a nose here, the depth of an eye socket there. A sullen fire hissed in the central hearth, and clouds of smoke gusted up to the vent in the roof, but several weeks of rain had seeped into both thatch and daub. It would take more than one night’s fire to chase away the damp.
The men were talking easily to one another and laughing, seemingly perfectly at ease having found some shelter in their new country. Their voices, masculine voices, sounded strangely in Cecily’s ears after years of being attuned only to women. Her hands were not quite steady. A fish out of water, she did not know what to expect. It was most unsettling. Shooting them subtle sideways glances, she tried not to stare at the shaved cheeks and short hair which made boys of them all. But some of them were young in truth—and surely too young to shave? She wondered how much of their manner was simply bravado.
Moving about the table as unobtrusively as possible, Cecily set out tankards of the ale that was usually served with meals. It was too chancy to drink water straight from the well. She continued to avoid Sir Adam’s gaze.
More than anyone else at the convent, she had no good reason to welcome him and his troop, but Mother Aethelflaeda’s parsimony was shaming. Did he set his poor welcome at her door? She hoped not, because she dared not court his dislike—not when she was reliant on him to take her to Fulford.
The sisters had beeswax candles aplenty in the chapel—why couldn’t they have brought out some of those? Beeswax candles burned more evenly, and gave off a pleasant scent that was a world away from the rank stink of tallow. It wouldn’t have hurt to be more hospitable. Tallow candles were used mainly by the peasantry; they were cheap, and they spat and sputtered and gave off cloying black smoke. The room was full of it. To make matters worse, the Prioress had had all the dry wood bundled into the sisters’ solar and had insisted they used green wood for the guest house fire. The result was inevitable: a spitting fire and yet more smoke.
Sir Richard coughed and waved his hand in front of his face. ‘It’s worse than the Devil’s pit in here,’ he said. He spoke no less than the truth.
Cecily shot a covert look across the trestle at Sir Adam. He was leaning on his elbow, quietly observing her. He murmured noncommittally to his friend, his eyes never leaving her.
Flushing, she ducked her head and hurried over to the cauldron of pottage. She concentrated on ladling out the broth into shallow wooden bowls and tried, unsuccessfully, to ignore him. To think that she had proposed marriage to him…What must he think of her?
‘Where’s Tihell?’ Sir Richard murmured.
Intent on her ladling, Cecily missed Sir Adam’s swift headshake. ‘Oh, just a small errand.’
Sir Richard lowered his voice further, and Cecily thought she heard her sister’s name. She strained to hear more, but Sir Adam’s response was inaudible, and out of the corner of her eye Cecily thought he briefly touched his forefinger to his lips.
Maude slapped the mouldering cheese and several loaves of that morning’s baking on the trestle.
Sir Richard took a sip of his ale and grimaced. ‘Saxon swill,’ he muttered. ‘Never wine. Even mead would be better than this.’
Aside from Sir Richard’s comments about the lack of wine, Cecily heard no other complaints. But when she put a steaming bowl of broth before Adam Wymark she distinctly heard his stomach growl. Acutely aware of the lack of meat in the pottage, and the fact that they had been ordered to offer novice’s portions, which would not fill her stomach, let alone that of a tall, active man like Sir Adam, Cecily finally met his gaze.
‘Mother Aethelflaeda’s generosity knows no bounds,’ he said dryly, breaking off a hunk of bread and dipping it into his bowl.
‘Mother Aethelflaeda bade me tell you that our order has been impoverished by the warring,’ Cecily said. ‘She conveys her apologies for the simplicity of our food.’
‘I’ll lay odds she also said that since we are God-fearing men we will not mind Lenten fare instead of a meal.’
Sir Adam’s assessment was so close to the truth that Cecily was hard put not to smile. Demurely, she nodded. ‘Aye, sir. Mother Aethelflaeda also said that in the case of you and your men such fare would be especially apt, as every man who fought at Hastings should do a hundred and twenty days’ penance for each man that he has killed.’
He stared at her, chewing slowly; Sir Richard choked on his ale; a man-at-arms guffawed.
A dark eyebrow lifted. ‘Did you know that His Holiness the Pope did bless our cause over that of your Earl Harold the oath-breaker?’ Sir Adam asked.
‘I did not.’
‘No, I thought your Prioress would keep that interesting titbit to herself.’ He reached for the cheese platter, and eyed the cheese for a moment before sliding it away, untouched. ‘Tell me, Lady Cecily, do all the nuns eat this…this…fare?’
‘We novices do, sir—save for the cheese.’
‘You call this cheese?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Unexpectedly, a grin transformed his face. ‘You save that for special guests, eh?’
Cecily hid a smile. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Do all in your order eat like this?’
Thinking of Mother Aethelflaeda’s chickens, roasting on the spit, Cecily was careful to avoid Maude’s eye, but her burning cheeks betrayed her.
‘Aye,’ he murmured. ‘A proud Saxon lady that one. One who would deny us what she may. I could swear I smelt chicken earlier.’
Cecily shot him a sharp look, but he met her gaze blandly.
Mumbling a reply, Cecily beat a hasty retreat and returned with relief to ladling out the pottage.
By insisting that Maude hand out the remaining platters she managed to avoid talking to Sir Adam for the rest of the meal. Out of the corner of her eye she watched him converse with Sir Richard. Not long after that, as soon as she decently could, Cecily murmured her excuses and left the new Lord of Fulford to bed down for the night. She had a few hours left in which to accustom herself to the idea of placing herself at the mercy of the man who had come to take her father’s lands. She prayed that it would be long enough.
What had she done?