The Novice Bride. Carol Townend
‘You’d swear that on the Bible?’
Cecily lifted her chin and forced the lie through her teeth—not for honour, which was a cold and dead thing, a man’s obsession, but for her sister’s sake. Emma had been so desperate to escape. ‘On my father’s grave.’ She steadied herself to make what she knew all present would condemn as an improper and an absurdly forward suggestion. But just then the squire turned and sent a lop-sided smile to his knight.
‘It would seem, Richard, my friend,’ he said, ‘that my lady has well and truly flown.’
Cecily caught her breath and blinked at the mailed figure by the wall. ‘You…you’re not Sir Adam?’
‘Not I.’ The knight jerked his head at the man Cecily had mistaken for his squire. ‘Sir Adam Wymark stands beside you, Sister Cecily. I am Richard—Sir Richard of Asculf.’
‘Oh.’ Cecily swallowed. Face hot, she quickly rethought her impetuous plan. Her heart began to beat in thick, heavy strokes, as it had not done when she had considered it with Sir Richard in mind. ‘M-my apologies, S-sir Adam. I mistook you…’
A dark eyebrow lifted.
‘I…I thought Sir Richard was you, being mailed, and you…you…’
Sir Richard gave a bark of laughter. ‘By God, Adam, that’ll teach you to doff your armour. She mistook you for my squire!’
Cecily’s cheeks were on fire, but she did not bother to deny it.
This was not a good start in view of her proposal. ‘M-my apologies, my lord.’ If only the ground would open up and swallow her. Cecily lifted her eyes to Sir Adam’s, noting with relief and not a little surprise that he seemed more amused than angry. Most men, in her limited experience, would view her misunderstanding as a slight. Her father certainly would have done.
‘“Sir” will suffice, my lady.’ He smiled. ‘Duke William has not yet made us lords.’
Emboldened, Cecily rushed on before she could change her mind, thoughts crowding confusedly in her mind. Think of baby Philip, she reminded herself, now Maman is…no more. Imagine him being brought up by strangers with little love for Saxons, let alone for Saxon heirs. Think of Gudrun and Wilf, and Edmund and…
Step by step.
She hauled in a breath, bracing herself for step one. ‘Sir Adam, I have a suggestion…’
‘Yes?’
Cecily twined her fingers together and lowered her head, affecting a humility she did not feel to hide her feelings. Those green eyes were too keen, and the thought that she might be an open book to him was unsettling. ‘I…I wonder…’ She cleared her throat ‘Y-you will need an interpreter, since my sister is not at home. Not many will speak your tongue…and my mother—my late mother—was Norman born.’
Sir Adam folded his arms across his chest.
‘I…I wondered…’ She shot a look at Mother Aethelflaeda. ‘If you would consider taking me? I know the people of Fulford, and they trust me. I could mediate…’
The man her sister had rejected kept silent, while his eyes travelled over her face in the intent way that she found so unnerving. ‘Mother Aethelflaeda would permit this? What of your vows? Your duties to the convent?’
‘I have taken no final vows yet, sir. I am but a novice.’
His gaze sharpened. ‘A novice?’
‘Yes, sir. See—my habit is grey, not black, my veil is short, and my girdle is not yet knotted to symbolise the three vows.’
‘The three vows?’
‘Poverty, chastity and obedience, sir.’
His hand came out, covered hers, and once more those strong fingers wrapped round her wrist. ‘And you would return to Fulford Hall to interpret for me?’
‘If Mother Aethelflaeda will permit.’
Adam Wymark smiled, and a strange tension made itself felt in Cecily’s stomach. Hunger—that must be the cause of it. She had missed the noonday meal doing penance for her missed retreat, and then with Ulf’s wife there had been no time. She was hungry.
‘Mother Aethelflaeda will permit,’ he said, with the easy confidence of a male used to his commands being obeyed.
Not fully satisfied with their agreement, Cecily took another steadying breath. She thought of these warriors terrifying the villagers at home, discovering little Philip. With her parents dead and Emma gone, who else was left to protect them? Fear and stress drove her on.
Now for step two—the steepest step. ‘One thing more, sir…’
‘Yes?’
‘Since my sister has fl—’ swiftly she corrected herself. ‘Has gone, I was wondering…I was wondering…’ Her cheeks flamed. Cecily was about to shock even herself, and for a moment she was unable to continue.
‘Yes?’
Really, those green eyes were most unnerving. ‘I…I…that is, sir, I was w-wondering if you’d take m-me instead.’
‘Instead?’ His brow creased, his grip on her wrist eased.
Cecily tore her eyes from his and studied the floor as though her life depended on it. ‘Y-yes. Sir Adam, I was wondering if you’d be p-pleased to take me to wife in Emma’s stead.’
A moment’s appalled silence held the occupants of the lodge.
Mother Aethelflaeda, shocked out of her pretence that she could not speak French, stirred first. ‘Cecily! For shame!’
Sir Richard gave a bark of laughter.
Adam Wymark loosed her wrist completely and stepped back, slack-jawed, and Cecily was left in no doubt that, whatever he had been expecting her to say, he had not been expecting a proposal of marriage.
For a long moment his eyes held hers—Sir Richard and Mother Aethelflaeda were forgotten. She fought the impulse to cool her cheeks with the back of her hand, fought too the impulse to stare at the floor, the table—anywhere but into those penetrating green eyes. So briefly she must have imagined it his face seemed to soften, then he inclined his head and regained his hold of her wrist.
‘Mother Aethelflaeda,’ he said, turning to the Prioress, who was still spluttering at Cecily’s audacity. ‘I have need of this girl. And, since she has not taken her vows, I take it there can be no objection?’
He had made no mention of Mother Aethelflaeda’s attempt at obstruction. It was beneath him, Cecily supposed. She looked down at the long, sword-callused fingers holding her to his side. Her heart was pounding as though she’d run all the way back to Fulford, and she was painfully aware that Adam Wymark had not deigned to respond to her rash proposal. That, too, was probably beneath him. A man like this—a conqueror who came in the train of the Duke, and was confident enough not to noise his consequence about by lording it over strangers in his chainmail—would not dignify her boldness with a response.
He would not wed her.
He glanced down at her. ‘You are certain about returning with us as interpreter, my lady?’
‘Yes, sir.’ And that was about as much a reply as she was like to get from him, she realised. He wanted her to be his translator.
His lips softened into a smile, and that hard grip slackened. ‘It is well.’
A queer triumph easing her mind and heart, for at the least she would be able to look to her brother, Cecily managed to return his smile.
Mother Aethelflaeda’s bosom heaved, and her jewelled cross winked in the lantern light. ‘Novice Cecily! Have you no decorum? That you, a youngest daughter—a dowerless daughter—one who has spent four years preparing to become a Bride of Christ—that