Medieval Brides. Anne Herries
turned and marched back to the Normans at the fire. She could not catch what he said to them, but it proved effective, for afterwards they did not so much as glance her way.
Returning to her side with her bundle, Maurice dropped it at her feet and remained nearby, rooting through a saddlebag that must belong to Sir Adam. Adam must have asked him to watch over her, but whether that was for her safety or because he did not trust her she could not say. Whatever his reason, Cecily was grateful. Being taken from the convent with so little warning was hard enough. She had no experience of fending off foreign knights.
Was she really going to marry one of them? It did not seem possible. Adam Wymark’s acceptance of her wild proposal seemed to have knocked the sense from her head. She glanced towards the fire, frowning at the two knights as she took a moment to absorb the implications of marrying Sir Adam. Like them, Adam Wymark was her enemy. She chewed her lip. She had offered to take her sister’s place on impulse. A foolhardy move, perhaps, but she had not been certain that volunteering to be Adam’s interpreter would be enough to convince him to take her with him. One thought had been clear: her brother and the people of Fulford must not be abandoned to the enemy. In order to be certain to get home she would have offered to marry the devil himself.
And now he had accepted her. The devil—the foreign devil who had sailed with Duke William and stolen her father’s land. By rights she should fear him as she feared those Norman knights. Yet she felt safe at this end of the hall, in the company of his men. How could that be when only moments ago she had looked at his fellow Franks and had feared…?
‘Sir Adam said to tell you that his plans have changed,’ Maurice said. ‘We will not be returning to Fulford till tomorrow at the soonest.’
‘Oh?’ She was uncertain whether to be relieved or dismayed. It would mean her wedding to Adam Wymark would be delayed, but it would also mean not meeting her baby brother for another day. Thank the Lord that Fulford’s new lord did not fill her with revulsion, as those other knights had done. How curious. Adam Wymark had come with the Normans, and yet he did not revolt her or fill her with fear. He was not like those others. How strange.
Maurice was industriously hauling bedding from a heap at the far end of the hall. More soldiers tramped in. Normans, Bretons…invaders.
‘Maurice, where will I sleep?’
Being in the Palace of the Kings in these circumstances was hideously unsettling, with reminders of how life had changed at every turn. By the Minster, in those few brief moments when she had been alone with Adam, when they had kissed, she had been able to forget about the changes. Adam had seemed a different person then—handsome, smiling and approachable, someone who would take note of her feelings and show genuine concern for her.
By the Minster it had seemed that a small miracle had taken place, and that everything might yet turn out well, but the moment they had crossed the Palace threshold Adam’s demeanour had altered. One word with his captain and his smile had gone. He had glowered, positively glowered across the fire at her.
Were military matters so pressing that they drove all finer feelings from his mind? Or, worse, had he somehow found out about Emma and Judhael’s presence in the city? She prayed not. For if Adam Wymark—Adam—were to challenge her on that subject, she did not know how she would answer him.
The key point, though, and the one she must hold fast to, was that she should get to Fulford to see to her brother’s safety. She must also keep an eye on her father’s people.
Were they the only things that mattered? a little voice wondered as she recalled the warmth of Adam’s smile after they had kissed. A genuine warmth, she would swear. And yet, set that next to the way he had scowled and glowered at her only a few moments ago. But, scowl and glower though he may, she did not fear him. She sighed. Life might have been bleak in the convent, but it had been so much simpler.
‘Maurice, where will I sleep?’ she repeated, inwardly praying there was a ladies’ bower. Given that she was the only woman in the hall, it seemed a faint hope.
Maurice spread his hands. ‘Sir Adam didn’t say. You’d best ask him at supper.’
She rose from her bench. ‘Is there anything I can do?’
The squire shot her a startled look. ‘Do, my lady?’
‘I’m not used to being idle. I’d rather do something.’
‘Such as?’
She shrugged. ‘Anything. Is there an infirmary? I could help there. Or I might be of use in the cookhouse…’
Maurice looked shocked. ‘No, my lady. Sir Adam wouldn’t want you wandering off. Besides…’He rolled his eyes towards the knights hogging the central fire. ‘There’s plenty more like them roving the city. You’d do best to keep your head down, if you see my meaning. You’ll be safe enough here, among Sir Adam’s troop.’
Shifting the bench nearer to the men who were dicing, Maurice indicated that she should take her seat.
Sighing, Cecily settled in for a long afternoon. With something of a jolt she realised she would feel happier if Adam was here in person. While she was still uncertain of what to make of him, she did prefer it when he was around, even if all he did was glower at her.
By the time Adam returned to the Royal mead hall night had long since fallen. Torches chased the shadows away, candles glowed in beaten metal wall sconces, the central fire crackled and spat. The room was filled with the gentle buzz of conversation, the occasional roar of laughter.
Adam’s hair was damp from recent washing, and he was wearing his dark blue tunic, belted at the waist with a chased leather sword belt, and a serviceable brown wool cloak bought from the garrison’s quartermaster. His leather gambeson dangled from his fingers. Slinging it over one shoulder, he rested his other hand on his sword hilt and paused just inside the threshold, searching for Richard and his men and…
No sign of that petite figure in her drab veil and gown. He’d left her alone deliberately, to see what she might do. Where the devil was she? His stomach tightened into several knots. That night’s rations were to blame—not the fact that he didn’t know where she was. He had eaten with the Duke’s commanders in the upstairs solar. Food had been plentiful, but too much bread and ale and oversalted pork after weeks of hunger was not good for a man’s digestion.
He grimaced. Who was he fooling? She was the cause of his indigestion; he wanted to think the best of her. Damn it, how could that have happened already? He’d not known the woman more than a few hours…
Groups of men were clustered in the various pools of light made by the torches. Laughter floated out from under the nearest torch, where men were drinking and dicing. Farther down the hall came the rhythmic scrape, scrape, scrape of a whetstone on steel. A blue spark flashed—a squire sharpening his knight’s sword. From under another torch came a quiet muttering as friends simply talked.
There—there she was. Perched on a bench at the wall at the far end, in an oval pool of light. Brian Herfu, the youngest in his troop, sat next to her, and she was turned towards him, veil quivering as she listened to what he was saying. A string of rosary beads was wrapped round her wrist, and a missal lay on top of her small bundle of belongings. A missal? She could read? Wondering if Cecily could write—that would be a rare and wonderful accomplishment in a wife—Adam started towards them.
Brian had lost his older brother shortly after Hastings, and when Adam saw that the lad’s eyes were glistening with tears he had little doubt but that they were discussing Henry’s death.
Cecily touched Brian’s arm. The movement made the rosary swing gently to and fro. ‘How did Henry die?’ she was asking.
Brian’s dark head bent towards Cecily’s. ‘Blood loss, my lady. A leg wound. He—’
Not needing to hear the rest, Adam turned away. He had been