Medieval Brides. Anne Herries
woman threw a bowl of slops under Flame’s feet. The destrier didn’t miss a step. They clopped over the cobbles, the rhythm of the hoofbeat tattoo unbroken.
I have to get to the Cathedral, I have to, she vowed, as she jounced past the market cross and several squawking chickens in cages. Head in a whirl, she felt a pang for the peace and solitude of the convent herb garden. Her lips twisted. For years she had longed to be part of just such a bustle and rush, but now she was in the thick of it it made her dizzy and she could not think.
Think, think. How to get to the Cathedral unobserved…?
Adam Wymark wheeled his chestnut into an alley and they entered the Cathedral Close. At once, as though a curtain had been drawn shut behind them, the bustle and rush and noise of the market fell away.
Peace. Thank the Lord, Cecily thought, ruefully acknowledging that there must be more of the nun in her nature than she had realised.
They drew rein outside the long stone building that once had housed the Saxon royal family, the Palace of the Kings. A stone arch framed the thick oak of the palace doorway, impressively carved with leaves and fruit. A flight of steps ran up the outside of the wall, leading, Cecily surmised, to a second floor and the private apartments of her father’s liege lord, the late Harold of Wessex.
Today the Palace of the Kings—the Saxon Kings of Wessex—was bursting at the seams with what looked like the whole of Duke William’s invasion force. Despite her borrowed cloak, Cecily’s blood chilled, and the voice she’d imagined hearing in the market was pushed from her mind.
Was nothing sacred?
Two mailed Norman guards flanked the central doorway. Another pair were stationed on the landing at the top of the outside stairway. And in front of the Palace, on the flagstones, piles of weapons were being sorted by more of the Duke’s men—swords, spears, bows—the booty of war? A distant hammering told her that nearby a smith was hard at work.
Adam Wymark dismounted, stretched, and offered her his hand. His helmed head turned in the direction of her gaze. ‘Not what you’d expected?’
Cecily swallowed, and sought to express the confusion of emotions warring within her. ‘Yes…No…’ She tried again. ‘It’s just that it…it’s our Royal Palace.’
‘Last month it was,’ he said, eyes half hidden by his nose-guard. He reached up to help her down. ‘Today it is our headquarters.’
‘So I see.’ His hands, without his gloves, were red with cold. They rested briefly on her waist to steady her, and for a moment there was not enough air in the courtyard. She stared stolidly at his mailed chest, all too conscious of Adam Wymark’s superior height, of the lithe straightness and strength of the body under the chainmail, of the width of his shoulders. ‘Thank you, sir.’ His proximity was most disturbing.
‘I would think it an honour if you would call me by my Christian name,’ he said softly, for her ears alone.
Astonished, Cecily raised her eyes. He dragged off his helm and pushed back his coif, apparently waiting for her response, apparently meek. Not fooled for a moment, for this man was a conqueror, she swallowed. ‘But, sir, th-that would not be seemly.’
His lips curved, his eyes danced, a hand briefly touched hers. ‘Not seemly? You did propose marriage to me, did you not, Lady Cecily?’
‘I…I…’
His expression sobered. ‘Have you changed your mind?’
Cecily bit her lip. He had made his voice carefully neutral, had posed the question as casually as he would if he had been discussing the weather, so why was he watching her like a hawk? Because that was his way.
‘I…no, I have not changed my mind.’
If only he would not stare like that. It made her hot and uncomfortable. Had he taken her hasty offer of marriage seriously? She had not thought so, yet there was a tension about him, as if her response mattered to him. She could not think why that should be so. She had no dowry and he was already in possession of her father’s lands.
What was the nature of the knight she had offered to marry? Undoubtedly he was physically attractive, but what of his character? What was Sir Adam Wymark? A ruthless conqueror or an honest man upon whom she could rely? Whatever his nature she must agree to marry him if she was to be certain of accompanying him to Fulford. Her newborn brother needed her help if he was to thrive—as did her father’s people, if a repetition of what had happened outside these city walls were to be avoided. Since Emma had refused him, Cecily was left with no choice. With baby Philip and innocent villagers to care for, she was needed at Fulford. Marry him she must. Her heart pounded. Why was there no air?
Around them, the Breton’s men were dismounting and leading their horses round to the back of the palace towards what had been the Kings’ Mews. The squire Maurice took Flame’s reins, and his knight’s helm, and followed the others.
Adam Wymark was looking at her lips. She could not think why he would be doing that unless that was what men did when they were thinking about kissing a woman. Was he? To her horror, Cecily’s eyes seemed to develop a will of their own, and she found herself examining his. They were well shaped and, oddly, looking at them made her pulse quicken. Slowly, they curved into a smile.
A guilty glance back up. Amusement was glittering in the green eyes.
Heat scorched Cecily’s face, and just as swiftly she ducked her head.
‘Lady Cecily, I have business in the garrison, despatches to send, so I must hunt out a scribe. If you would care for refreshment, Sir Richard will attend you until my return.’ He raised her hand, pushed back the hem of the glove with his thumb and pressed a swift kiss to her wrist. Her heart jumped.
‘Th-thank you, sir,’ Cecily murmured, staring at the cobbles as though they were runes that held the secret of eternal life.
‘Adam—my name is Adam.’
Cecily peeped up in time to catch that swift smile before he bowed and marched towards the sentries at the palace doorway. Her mind raced as she watched him go. Think, think. He is the enemy, and he cannot write. Remember that. It might be useful. He cannot write. Cecily could write—her mother had seen to it that both Emma and Cecily were lettered—and in the convent Mother Aethelflaeda had been quick to make use of Cecily’s talent in copying out and illustrating missals for the nuns. But she would not call him back and offer to be his scribe—not when she must go to the Cathedral without him. His eyes were too keen, and if by some miracle she did find Judhael in St Swithun’s she did not think that she could hide it from him.
Sir Adam spoke briefly to the guards by the arched doorway and vanished into the Palace of the Kings. Suddenly cold, Cecily pulled her—his—cloak more tightly about her.
‘My lady?’
She started. Sir Richard was at her elbow.
‘You are thirsty?’
She nodded.
‘Follow me, and we’ll see what the storemaster has to offer.’
It was easier than she had dared hope to escape alone into the Cathedral. Having refreshed herself, she simply asked leave of Sir Richard to visit St Swithun’s tomb, saying she wanted to pray for her family. She said she hoped to find some peace. Neither of these remarks were lies, and she would not think about sins of omission…
Thus it was that an hour later Cecily was walking with Sir Richard across the Close, past New Minster, to the porch of Old Minster. She left him leaning irreverently on a crooked tombstone that dated back to a time before King Alfred.
‘Take as long as you need,’ Sir Richard said.
Inside, the cool dimness of the great Cathedral surrounded her.
Oddly, the large interior was made small by lack of light and the press of an army of pilgrims. It would be hard to pray. And as for peace—why, the Norman garrison was more orderly than St