Medieval Brides. Anne Herries
he?’ Anger was a cold ball in the pit of her stomach. To think she had thought him considerate—to think that she had hoped Fulford would be governed by a moderate man who might rule with kindness. How could Adam treat Lufu like this?
Matty shook her head. ‘No, but she’s to rest there all morning.’ Her expression lightened. ‘Then she’s to wash and help that Brian with your wedding feast.’
Gritting her teeth, Cecily strode outside. The sun was dazzling, but not strong enough to ward off the nip in the air. Sigrida was walking up the lane past the churchyard, hand in hand with one of her children, and young Harold was lounging in a barrow by the stable, idly picking his nose. The door to the armoury was open, and someone was moving about inside. Probably him. Further off, down the track, the mill wheel was turning; she could hear the faint rumble of the machinery. Smoke plumed out of the roofs of the Hall and the smithy.
Hall, church stables and armoury were ranged about the green, and the stocks had been deliberately placed at the centre, ensuring that Lufu was on public view, her disgrace and her punishment known to the whole village.
‘Lufu?’ Cecily said, her nose wrinkling at the stench of pigswill.
Lufu raised a tear-streaked face and sniffed. A piece of eggshell was lodged in her hair. ‘L-Lady Cecily? You’ve grown up.’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you home for good?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you are marrying that…that b…Breton lord?’
‘Yes, but he’s a knight, Lufu. Not a lord.’
‘He’s lord of Fulford, though.’
‘Yes, I suppose he is.’
Another sniff. A hopeful look entered Lufu’s eyes. ‘Are you come to let me out?’
‘No, I’m sorry,’ Cecily said, as gently as she could. But she would try—by heaven she would try…
‘But my lady!’ Lufu’s face collapsed and fresh tears spilled down her cheeks. ‘That sergeant of his—a foreigner! What right has he—?’
‘Right of arms,’ Cecily said, tamping down her anger in order to calm the girl—at least until she could get her out of the stocks. ‘And since we cannot argue with that, we would be wise to submit to him.’ She went down on her haunches, bracing herself against the pungent smell of rotting food, and lowered her voice. ‘Listen, Lufu. This may be hard to understand, but I did believe…that is…I did hope that Adam Wymark might be as good a lord as my father was. That may still be true. He may yet be better.’
‘B-better?’
‘He didn’t have you flogged, did he? My father would have done.’
Lufu looked mutinous. ‘No, he wouldn’t. Not Thane Edgar.’
‘Don’t delude yourself. He most certainly would! Why, he sent me to the convent when I—’ She bit off the rest of her sentence. Though her father had treated her harshly, he had done no worse than most men in his position would have done. She took a deep breath. ‘This punishment is not entirely undeserved. You must know you’ve been neglecting your duties. When I arrived yesterday and went to the cookhouse…Lufu, the state of it! It wasn’t fit for pigs to eat food from there, never mind people.’ She eyed the malodorous rubbish around them, and flicked at a brown shrivelled apple peeling. ‘This has all come from your kitchen.’
Lufu flushed, turned her head away, and muttered under her breath.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Nothing. I’m sorry, my lady, but—’ Her voice broke on a sob, and she began crying again, in earnest.
Cecily put her hand on Lufu’s arm. ‘Tell me. Lufu?’
‘I can’t, my lady! I’m sorry, but I can’t!’
A heavy stone lodged in Cecily’s belly. Not another secret to hide from Adam? She kept her voice steady. ‘Calm yourself. You’re already in trouble, why not make a full confession? What is it?’
Lufu gulped. ‘Can’t. Sergeant Le Blanc would take my hand!’
‘Your hand? I think not.’ Cecily smiled. ‘We need our cook to have both her hands.’
Lufu hung her head and her hair flopped forward, screening her face. Her shoulders were hunched. ‘He would, an’ all,’ she muttered. ‘Leastwise Edmund said so.’
Cecily drew back. ‘Edmund? What does Edmund know of the Sergeant’s mind?’
Lufu blew her hair out of her eyes and gave her a sharp look. ‘As much as you know of your betrothed, most like. How long have you known him? A couple of days?’
‘Lufu, none of them would take your hand,’ she said confidently, hoping to God she was right. Lufu folded her lips together and looked away. ‘Lufu, they wouldn’t.’ Impatiently, Cecily took Lufu by the chin and turned her face to hers, forcing her to meet her gaze. ‘I know they wouldn’t.’
Lufu shuddered, and finally whispered, ‘But it’s the punishment for stealing.’
‘For stealing? Heavens, Lufu, what—?’
‘A baconflitch. I hid it. After they—’ Lufu jerked her head at the armoury ‘—rode up the first time. Was going to take it to Gunni’s shelter, up on the downs.’
‘Gunni?’
‘My man. He’s a shepherd, my lady. His summer shelter is way up on the downs, near Seven Wells. He took himself off there when these foreigners arrived. I thought Saxon meat should go to Saxon men. But now…’ Her voice rose to a wail. ‘If Sir Adam really is to be lord here, he’ll take my hand!’
‘He will not.’ Cecily spoke with as much emphasis as she could muster. ‘He may not even need to know you have taken the bacon, but you must tell me where you have hidden it.’
Lufu’s expression brightened. ‘You will speak for me?’
‘I will. Provided, of course, you swear not to neglect your work in future?’
‘I won’t, my lady, never again! I swear!’
‘To say that Thane Edgar’s armoury is a disappointment would be to understate the case,’ Adam said.
Richard grunted agreement.
Adam eyed the Saxon weaponry that Maurice had laid out on the workbench for his inspection: a rusty hauberk, the links of which were coming apart; a couple of cracked shields; a sword so clumsy that it would have taken a giant to wield it—the list ran on. True, there were a couple of dozen arrows, but they were unfletched, and the two bows were of ashwood and not yew. He picked up one of the bows, weighing it in his hand. Some idiot had left it in the damp—it was warped and would be impossible to sight.
Sighing, Adam met Richard’s sympathetic gaze. He thrust the bow at his friend and took up the other, which seemed equally twisted. Without a word, they set about stringing them.
Nocking one of the unfletched arrows, Adam stepped outside the armoury and drew the bow, sighting along the arrow. ‘God’s blood!’ he said, exasperated at the wanton waste of what had once been a reasonable practice weapon.
‘No good?’ Richard murmured, and, drawing his own bow, pointed it round the edge of the Hall towards the green, where the bedraggled cook was sitting amid her vegetable peelings.
‘You’d not hit an ox at five paces with this,’ Adam said, unnocking his arrow.
‘Hmm.’ Testing the drawing power of his bow, Richard sighted it at the mead hall roof ridge.
Cecily hurtled round the corner and stormed straight for them, skirts lifted out of the mud, veil flying. To his great annoyance, Adam’s heart lurched just at the sight of her. Hell, had he ever mooned over Gwenn