Medieval Brides. Anne Herries
be evil.’
‘Fear is contagious,’ Cecily murmured.
Matty paused for a moment, head tilted to one side. ‘Aye, maybe it is, an’ all.’ She shrugged. ‘Anyhow, Wilf came back with the mended cart, and Sir Adam and that friend of his—the other knight…’ She coloured and gave Cecily a coy look.
‘Sir Richard?’
‘Aye—him. They’re talking to Wilf.’ Matty giggled. ‘Or rather, they are trying to. They sound right funny when you come to think of it.’
Listening with half an ear, refraining from pointing out that were Matty to attempt to speak Norman French or Breton she would probably sound just as amusing, Cecily randomly pulled a gown out of her sister’s clothes chest. It was periwinkle-blue, of fine worsted, with silken side lacings and cream embroidery at the neck and hem. A length of cream and blue braid lying under the gown was evidently intended for a matching girdle. She also unearthed a linen undergown, and a new pair of hose. New hose—what luxury. Heavens, Emma’s clothes were so beautiful they were positively immoral…
‘You’ll need a maid,’ Matty said eagerly, moving to the bed and beginning to strip it, efficiently separating dirty linens from woollen blankets. ‘He said you would need one. At least that’s what I think he was trying to say. May I be your maid, Lady Cecily. May I?’
‘Mmm?’ Absently, Cecily shook out the blue gown, and though she knew it was vanity—yet another sin to chalk up on her account—she couldn’t help but notice how well it draped. After the harshness of her convent habit, the fabric was soft as thistledown. Would he like her in it? Would he think her pretty? Not that that mattered, of course.
The scent of lavender filled the air, and with it the realisation that Emma must have put bunches of dried flowers amongst her things. Emma. Tears pricked at the back of her eyes. Where was Emma? Could she find happiness with Judhael? Would he look after her? Overwhelmed by conflicting emotions, Cecily covered her face with her hands. She wanted to scream. Was she hysterical? One moment she was hoping Sir Adam thought her pretty—how trivial!—and in the next breath she was fighting back tears. Was that what hysteria was?
Matty was clattering out onto the landing to the linen closet, still talking, and by the time she returned with an armful of fresh linen Cecily had herself in hand. ‘Gudrun said to change the sheets,’ Matty said. ‘Oh, do say I can be your maid, my lady. Marie’s entering the convent, so she won’t do. And Gudrun’s got too much to do with running the Hall and with the babies.’
‘I’m not sure I’d know what to do with a maid.’
Matty’s face fell. ‘Oh, but you must have one—you’re to be lady here! I know I’m only the miller’s daughter, and there’s much I don’t know about being a lady’s maid, but I can learn. I want to learn. Oh, please, Lady Cecily—let me be your maid.’ Her blue eyes met Cecily’s, clear and quite without guile. ‘I’d like to do more than hoist sacks of grain for my father my whole life.’
‘That’s honest,’ Cecily said, smiling. ‘And, since I happen to think hoisting sacks of grain is not a job for a girl, I agree—you can be my maid. It would seem that neither of us knows exactly what that might entail, so we shall learn together.’
Matty gave a little skip. ‘Thank you, my lady, you won’t regret it.’
‘I trust not. First, let me help you with that bed, and this mess that Sir Adam has created, and then you can help me change. It’s time I went back to the cookhouse to see whether either of your brothers has the makings of a cook.’
Cecily had not forgotten her promise to look at Edmund’s broken leg. When she came down from changing into Emma’s gown, she sent for him and asked that he should wait for her outside the Hall, on the bench facing the village green. That way she could take advantage of the last of the daylight and examine him properly.
The air was icy, and on her way out Cecily snatched up the blue cloak Adam had lent her and wound it round her shoulders. She was glad to put it on—not only on account of the cold, but also because Emma’s blue gown revealed far more of her shape than her novice’s habit had done, and she felt very self-conscious.
Outside, Adam’s men were toing and froing from the Hall to the armoury and stables, a constant flow of traffic. And, late though it was, a clanging from the smithy down the road told her that the armourer had been put to work.
As Cecily took her seat next to Edmund on the bench by the Hall wall, a swirl of gold leaves blew past the pillory and came to rest in a drift by the stocks. Adam emerged from the armoury with Sir Richard and started walking back to the Hall.
‘Bloody fiends,’ Edmund muttered, glowering sullenly at the two knights. ‘They took my weapons—even my seax, for God’s sake. A housecarl without a seax. I feel naked, unmanned.’
‘You are alive, Edmund, and that is surely a blessing,’ Cecily murmured. Lightly, she touched his leg, and lifted it onto her knee to begin unwrapping the splint bindings. ‘How long since you broke it?’
Edmund shrugged, and his silver bracelets jingled. ‘Can’t remember, exactly.’
‘Sometime before Hastings, I think you said?’
Another shrug. ‘Must have been—otherwise I would have accompanied your father and Cenwulf.’
‘It should be healing by now.’ Setting aside the splint and bandages, Cecily probed Edmund’s calf. ‘This bone?’
‘Aye.’ He winced.
‘Does it hurt when you bend the knee?’
A scowl between his brows, Edmund nodded.
Puzzled, Cecily watched as Edmund flexed his leg. The bone seemed to have knitted together cleanly enough, there was no scarring, the skin had not been broken, and as far as she could see his movement was not restricted.
Adam and Richard had reached the Hall door, and though she was concentrating on Edmund, Cecily’s sixth sense told her that Adam had paused on the threshold to look her way before following Richard inside. Always he watches me. Always. I must be wary.
Tentatively, Edmund put his foot on the ground. Cecily stood and offered him her arm. ‘Here—try and put your weight on it.’
Edmund’s gaze met hers. ‘Must I?’
‘Yes. I need to see how you do—how otherwise can I help you?’
Biting his lip, Edmund rose and, clutching at her for support, gingerly put the weight on his injured leg. ‘Ah, Sweet Christ, Cecily—it’s agony!’ He fell back onto the bench.
Cecily frowned. Something was not right here. A clean break, as this had been, and well knit together…
‘It shouldn’t be this painful, Edmund. Not after all this time. I cannot think what is wrong. Perhaps you need to rest it awhile longer?’
Retrieving the bandages and splints, she set about rebinding Edmund’s leg. At least he hadn’t gone pale when he’d tried to stand, and there had been no sweat on his brow—a sure sign of trouble. Nor had Edmund complained of feeling sick when he put his weight on his leg, as sometimes happened if breaks did not heal well. The continued pain was a mystery.
‘Best not take any chances. We’ll keep these on,’ she said. ‘Use your crutches, but test it with your weight now and then, and I’ll look at it again in another week.’ She smiled. ‘Perhaps the odd prayer to Saint Swithun might help?’
‘My thanks,’ Edmund said, but he did not smile back.
She made to rise but, bracelets chinking, Edmund stayed her with his hand. ‘Don’t go—not yet,’ he said, in a swift undertone. ‘There’s something we must settle, and quickly, while those bastards