Medieval Brides. Anne Herries
‘Aye. And the men?’
Maurice nodded.
‘And my lady? You saw to it that she was well fed?’
‘Yes, sir. It was plain fare, but good. She seemed very hungry. I think they must have rationed her at the convent.’
‘Likely you’re right,’ Adam said, glancing across at the slight figure by the wall. Cecily had turned towards Brian and was holding his hand in both of hers. He saw Brian clutch convulsively at the sympathy she offered. ‘Where’s Sir Richard?’
Maurice tried, unsuccessfully, to smother a grin. ‘Went out earlier. Not back yet. He mumbled something about trying to find a proper bathhouse.’
Adam rolled his eyes, the distinction not lost on him. There was nothing wrong with the wash-house next to the palace. In the main the Saxons had clearly used it for doing the royal laundry, but one could bathe there if one had a mind. He had done so, and doubtless countless Saxon princes and lords had also done so before him. Since it was a Royal Palace there were bathtubs. Richard must have other activities in mind.
‘He might not find much favour with Saxon women,’ Adam said.
‘He will if he pays enough,’ came the dry response.
‘Enough, Maurice! You are not his peer, to speak about him with such familiarity.’
‘My apologies, sir.’
Adam looked pointedly at Cecily. ‘You watched her close?’
‘Aye, sir. She hasn’t stirred all evening—except for a visit to the latrines and the wash-house.’
Adam narrowed his eyes. ‘You accompanied her?’
‘Of course. But I didn’t go into the latrine with her, if that’s what you mean. I simply escorted her to the privy and back.’
‘And she met no one?’
‘No one.’
‘And what about the wash-house? Anyone there when she went in?’ Since Adam had paid a visit to the wash-house himself, he knew first-hand how there was room enough for anyone intent on a clandestine meeting to hide behind the great cauldrons or the washtubs.
‘No.’ Maurice looked affronted. ‘I checked the place was empty before she went in.’
Adam started to chew a fingernail, and checked himself. ‘You are certain?’
‘Aye. She went to wash and change her habit, nothing more.’
‘Very good, Maurice.’ Some of the groups under the torches were starting to break up. Men were rolling into their cloaks, eager to bag places close to the fire. ‘We’ll bed down shortly. Who’s watching the horses?’
‘Charles, sir, followed by George.’
‘Good. Stow this and get yourself settled.’ He tossed Maurice his gambeson. ‘I won’t need you again tonight.’
‘My thanks, sir.’
Adam found a blanket in his pack and took it over to where Cecily was sitting. She was so pretty, with those delicate features and huge dark-lashed blue eyes. Gut-twistingly pretty. If only he could be sure she would not betray him…
At his approach, Brian coloured and tugged his hands free. ‘Excuse me, my lady,’ he said. Bowing, he made himself scarce.
‘You will need this,’ Adam said, handing Cecily the blanket. He pointed at the wall. ‘May I suggest you lie there? It’s farthest from the fire, I’m afraid, but you’ll be safer beringed by my men.’
Her cheeks flamed. ‘Is there no ladies’ bower, sir?’
‘We cannot afford such refinements. This is a garrison. You’ll have to bed down by me.’
A guffaw, quickly suppressed, came from one of Adam’s men.
‘B-by you, sir?’
‘I know this cannot be easy, my lady,’ Adam said, deliberately using her title as a means of demonstrating to his men that he wanted them to use courtesy in their dealings with her, ‘but you truly will be safer by me.’
Rising swiftly, Cecily set about ordering her bed. Absurdly self-conscious, she hoped no one could see how her hands were shaking. Within moments she had made a place for herself near the wall, and had removed her veil and wimple. Her heart pounded. Though she kept her back to Sir Adam, she could feel his gaze on her as clearly as she would a caress—on her shoulderblades, her hair. Burrowing into the luxurious fur-lined cloak, she fixed her eyes on the rough wall plaster, focussing on a crack in the render. A shiny black beetle was scuttling into the crack. Though she could not see Adam, she could hear him moving about behind her.
From the sounds she judged that he must be quite near, but she did not like to look. A knight had come in with his wife at supper-time, but apart from that single woman she had seen no other all afternoon. She was adrift in a man’s world, and the rules were very different from those of the convent. Usually Cecily slept on her other side, but that would mean facing Adam, and she felt too vulnerable to face him while she slept, too exposed.
An amused whisper reached her. ‘Do you always sleep with your hair so tightly braided? Gwenn used to loose hers—’
She risked a glance over her shoulder. ‘Gwenn?’ He was crouching on his haunches, scarcely two feet away, dragging another blanket from his pack.
‘My wife.’
Cecily blinked. ‘You have a wife, sir? But…but—’
‘I have no wife now.’ His lips twisted. ‘Rest assured, little Cecily, you do not marry a bigamist.’
Cecily turned back to the wall and the beetle while she digested this new piece of information about the Breton knight who had agreed to marry her. He had already been married. She sighed, shamefully aware of a bitter taste in her mouth as she wondered if Adam Wymark’s wife had liked his kisses as much as she had done when he had kissed her by the Cathedral. Those kisses had been a revelation to her—those little darts of pleasure shooting along her skin, his ability to make her bones feel as though they were melting, the urge to touch, to stroke, to be stroked—was this what others felt when they kissed? When Ulf and his wife…She bit her lip. No. No. It was shameful, what Adam Wymark had made her feel. He was her enemy.
His wife’s name had been Gwenn. Had he loved her? What had she looked like? And what had happened to her? Had she died or had he put her aside?
In England it was easy for a man to repudiate a woman—even one to whom he was married. It was common practice in Wessex, and there was no reason to suppose matters were arranged any differently in Brittany. A man could have any number of reasons for setting a woman aside—failure to provide the promised dowry, nonconsummation of the marriage, for not producing the required male heir.
She sighed. Would Adam Wymark set her aside if she did not please? If she did not provide him with a male heir? Lord knew she was not providing him with a dowry.
Racking her brains, she could not recall any instances of a woman setting a man aside. Truly, the world was not made for women.
The palace floor tiles were cold, and harder than the straw pallet she had slept on in the convent. As Cecily wriggled deeper into his cloak and tried to get comfortable, she numbered the reasons for making a success of this marriage. There were the villagers and inhabitants of Fulford, and there was Philip, not to mention the pressing need to distract Adam from searching for Emma…
She could like Adam for himself, given half a chance. How much better it would be if she only had that to think about—if the strongest reason for marrying him could be the fact that she actually had a liking for this Breton knight and found him personally attractive. Instead, their dealings must be confused by politics and by her concern for what was left of her family. It was such a tangle.
In her mind’s