Medieval Brides. Anne Herries
brown eyes searched hers and then, apparently satisfied with what they saw, bent back over the saddlebag. ‘Good, because SirAdamwould string me up if anything happened to you.’
‘Oh. Yes. I…I shall only be in the Minster. At prayer.’
‘Very good, my lady.’
Swinging the cloak about her shoulders, Cecily hurried outside, praying that Maurice had believed her, and praying also that he didn’t have instructions to follow her.
It was bright, if chill in the Palace courtyard. The sky was patchy with cloud, and a low winter sun was throwing long shadows through them. A couple of Duke William’s knights were putting their horses through their paces, ready to turn the courtyard into a tiltyard as they wheeled their mounts and prepared to charge. Lance-tips gleamed. The horses’ breath hung in the air, and their hooves struck sparks on the cobblestones as they champed at their bits, impatient for the signal.
Scurrying swiftly past, Cecily almost jumped out of her skin as someone barked out, ‘Roderick, get that beast out of here!’ The garrison commander. ‘If you must play at tourneying—’ the commander’s face was suffused with anger ‘—get round to the practice field. I’ll have no mêlée in the garrison forecourt.’
Glancing over her shoulder at the door of the Palace—no sign of Maurice, thank the Lord—Cecily quickened her pace. In a moment she was through the Palace yard and out of the gates, staring up at the two Minsters.
So, Adam’s whereabouts that morning was a mystery. No matter. She had no wish to see him, for she had business of her own to attend to.
Family business—Saxon business—and he would definitely not approve.
A rush of tears for her father, her brother and her mother blinded her, and the entrance to New Minster hove into view all blurry. Cecily blinked hard. Glancing over her shoulder to ensure that Adam’s squire hadn’t followed her, she ducked her head and, instead of following a straggle of pilgrims into the dark interior, took a couple of quick steps sideways, darting round between the two massive church buildings.
So far, so good. No sign of Maurice.
Emma and Judhael must have gone to Golde Street, and if they were still there it was vital she spoke to them. But it was equally vital she got there unseen by Adam or any of his troop…
Cecily had been but a child at the time of her last visit to Winchester, and her memory of the city’s layout was sketchy. As far as she could recall Golde Street, where Judhael’s sister Evie lived with her goldsmith husband, was sited in the western quarter, in the lee of the city walls. From Market Street she would try going up the hill towards Westgate.
Pulling the hood of Adam’s cloak up over her veil and wimple, and fastening it tight to obscure her face, Cecily dived into the shade between the two Minsters and turned left.
Quickly, quickly, through the graveyard. Rows and rows of gravestones.
No Maurice. No one following her.
Oh, sweet Lord, she thought, her breath coming fast. Adam must not find out about this. Quickly, quickly, on into Market Street, Another left turn. People setting up stalls, hawkers grabbing her arm…
‘Silk ribbons! Silk ribbons!’
‘Fresh loaves! Baked this morning!’
Shaking herself free, Cecily ploughed on. Up past Staple Street. The crisp air was filled with the bleating of sheep as shepherds with crooks led a flock to the slaughter pens. It’s November, she realised, with something of a jolt. They kill the animals that can’t be over-wintered in November. It felt oddly like an affront to see such a normal everyday sight so soon after the killing of England’s King and the loss of so many men. But the year turned regardless of the falling of kings and men. Everyday life must resume, and the meat would certainly be needed in the cold months to come. A butcher, wearing a sackcloth apron that was dark with blood, stepped out in front of her, and a metallic smell rose to her nostrils. All but gagging, Cecily pressed on.
Sweat breaking out on her brow, she glanced back and caught her boot on a loose cobble. No Maurice, no Adam, and no sign of any of his troops, thank God.
A stone was digging into the ball of her foot; her boot had a hole. Pausing to shake the stone free, she skirted round some night soil a householder had tipped into the gutter in the centre of the street and went on. And then Westgate reared up in front of her, gates yawning wide to let people bound for market into the city. Practically running, Cecily turned into a street that hugged the old Roman walls. Wooden houses, some thatched, others tiled with wooden shingles.
The morning sun was a low dazzle before her. She paused to catch her breath. Golde Street had to be near here: a few yards more, a little further. There! Golde Street. She shaded her eyes against the glare. The street was not as she remembered it when her father had brought her here. The shops had been open for business then, and bustling with trade. Now it looked like the Sabbath. The shopfronts had wooden bars nailed across the shutters, giving the impression that the shopkeepers had no intention of opening this side of the Day of Judgement. Where was everyone? Had trading ceased since Duke William’s invasion?
A girl sat on a threshold, suckling a baby. An old woman hobbled towards her, coming from the well with a bucket in hand, water slopping over the rim. A dog lifted its leg on the corner of a house. But where were the goldsmiths, the merchants, the customers?
And there, at the end of the street by the well, what was happening there? A group of men—Normans, to judge by their attire and by their priest-like shaved heads—were clustered round a barrel, staring at a scroll of parchment that was weighed down with stones. One man was leaning on a stick—no, it was a measuring rod. A measure? What was going on? Surely there was no room for more houses?
White stone markers had been laid out at intervals along the street, but Cecily could see no rhyme or reason in their placing. Half a dozen men wearing leather aprons and toolbelts that named them builders and carpenters stood close by. Their long hair proclaimed them to be Saxon, and their sullen, slouching posture told her they were to labour unwillingly.
Cecily hurried on—on past a wheelbarrow spilling ropes and tackle onto the ground. Leofwine’s house had been about here…
Yes—this was it! Leofwine’s shop was barred, like the others, but, undeterred, she banged on the door. At the southern end of the street there was a rumble of wheels and four yoked oxen rounded the corner. They were hauled to a halt. A plough team? In Golde Street? The world had run mad.
‘Leofwine! Evie!’
A bolt shot back with a snap, the door opened a crack. ‘Yes?’
‘Leofwine, you might not remember me—’ she began in English. ‘Your wife’s brother, Judhael—’
A hand shot out, caught the sleeve of her habit and hauled her unceremoniously into an ill-lit room. The door slammed, the bolt snapped back and she was shoved against the wall with such force that her head cracked against an oak upright. For a few seconds the workshop whirled about her.
Hand hard on her chest, Leofwine held her immobile. A seax winked in his other hand, and she felt the cold prick of steel at her throat.
‘L-Leofwine?’
‘Who the hell are you?’
Leofwine’s eyes were like ice. Cecily would never have known him for the carefree goldsmith who had married Judhael’s sister Evie five years earlier. ‘It’s Cecily—Cecily Fulford. Leofwine, don’t you remember me?’
‘Can’t say as I do.’
Cecily’s eyes were adjusting to the gloomy interior. Behind Leofwine a three-legged stool stood before a scarred workbench, the surface of which glittered with flecks of silver and gold. Fine chisels and pliers were lined up in