Читать книгу: «Medieval Brides»

For Granny

With thanks to John, my first reader,

Den for the Breton Hero,

and Claude at Les Chênes who helped me finish.

Chapter One

Novice Cecily was on her knees in St Anne’s chapel when the shouting began outside. According to the candle clock it was almost noon, and Cecily—who in her former life had been called Lady Cecily Fulford—was in retreat. She had sworn not to speak a word to anyone till after the nuns had broken their fasts the next morning. A small figure in a threadbare grey habit and veil, alone at her prie-dieu, Cecily had about eighteen hours of silence to go, and was determined that this time her retreat would not be broken.

Lamps glowed softly in wall sconces, and above the altar a little November daylight was filtering through the narrow unshuttered window. Ignoring the chill seeping up from the stone flags, Cecily bent her veiled head over her prayer beads. ‘Hail Mary, full of grace, blessed art thou amongst women and blessed is—’

A thud on the chapel door had her swinging round. Another harder one had the thick oak door bouncing on its hinges.

‘Cecily! Cecily! Are you in there? You must let me speak to you! It’s—’

The woman’s voice was cut off abruptly, but Cecily’s prayers were quite forgotten. For though the voice did not belong to any of the nuns, it seemed vaguely familiar. She strained to hear more.

Two voices, arguing, and none too quietly. One belonged to Sister Judith, the convent portress. The other voice, the outsider’s, went up a notch in pitch, touched on hysteria…

Part curious, part anxious, Cecily scrambled to her feet. Not more bad news, surely? Hadn’t the loss of both her father and brother at Hastings been enough…?

She was halfway up the aisle when the door burst open. Lamps flickered, and her blood sister, the Lady Emma Fulford, threw off the restraining arms of the portress and hurtled into the chapel.

One year Cecily’s senior, seventeen year-old Emma was a vision in flowing pink robes and a burgundy velvet cloak. Dropping a riding crop and a pair of cream kid gloves onto the flagstones, she flung herself at Cecily.

‘Cecily! Oh, Cecily, you must speak to me. You must!’

Finding herself enveloped in a fierce embrace that bordered on the desperate, Cecily fought free of silks and velvets and the scent of roses so that she could study her sister’s face. One look had her abandoning her vow of silence. ‘Of course I’ll speak to you.’

Emma gave an unladylike sniff. ‘She—’ a jerk of her head at Sister Judith set her long silken veil aquiver ‘—said you were in retreat, not to be disturbed. That you may at last be going to take your vows.’

‘That is so.’ Emma had been crying, and not just in the past few minutes either, for her fine complexion was blotched and puffy and her eyes were rimmed with shadows. In the four years since Cecily had been brought to the convent she and her elder sister had become strangers, but her sister’s delicate beauty had lived on in her mind. This distraught, haggard Emma made her blood run cold.

Sister Judith shut the chapel door with a thump and stood just inside the threshold. Folding her arms, she shook her head at Cecily, the novice who once again had failed to keep her retreat.

Cecily took Emma’s hand. Her fingers were like ice. ‘Something else has happened, hasn’t it? Something dreadful.’

Emma’s eyes filled and she gave a shuddering sob. ‘Oh, Cecily, it’s Maman…’

‘Maman? What? What’s happened to Maman?’ But Cecily had no need to wait for an answer, for she could read it in Emma’s expression.

Their mother was dead.

Knees buckling, Cecily gripped Emma’s arms and the sisters clung to each other.

‘Not Maman,’ Cecily choked. ‘Emma, please, not Maman too…’

Emma nodded, tears flooding openly down her cheeks.

‘Wh…when?’

‘Three days since.’

‘How? Was it…was it the babe?’ It had to be that. Their mother, Philippa of Fulford, had been thirty-seven—not young—and she had been seven months pregnant at the time of the battle at Hastings. Of Norman extraction herself, she had found the great battle especially hard to cope with. Cecily knew her mother would have taken great pains to hide her emotions, but the deaths of her Anglo Saxon husband and her firstborn son would have been too much to bear.

Many women died in childbed, and at her mother’s age, and in her state of grief…

Emma dashed away her tears and nodded. ‘Aye. Her time came early, her labour was long and hard, and afterwards…Oh, Cecily, there was so much blood. We could do nothing to stem the flow. Would that you had been there. Your time at Sister Mathilda’s elbow has taught you so much about healing, whereas I…’ Her voice trailed off.

Cecily shook her head. It was true that she had greedily taken in all that Sister Mathilda had chosen to teach her, but she also knew that not everyone could be saved. ‘Emma, listen. Maman’s death was not your fault. Once bleeding starts inside it’s nigh impossible to stop…and besides, it’s possible she simply lost the will to live after father and Cenwulf were killed.’

Emma sniffed. ‘Aye. We were going to send for you. Wilf was ready to mount up. But by the time we realised the dangers it…it was too late.’ Emma gripped Cecily’s hands.

‘It was not your fault.’

‘Nobody’d trained me! Oh, Cecily, if you could have seen her after the messenger came from Hastings. She could not eat or sleep. She wandered round the Hall like a ghost. It was as though, with Father dead, a light went out within her. Father was not an easy man, and Maman was not one to wear her affections openly—’

‘“Displays of sentiment are vulgar, and not suited to a lady,”’ Cecily murmured, repeating a well-worn phrase of her mother’s.

‘Quite so. But she loved him. If any doubted that—’ Emma gave Cecily a penetrating look, knowing that Cecily and her father, Thane Edgar, had crossed swords on more matters than the delaying of her profession. ‘If any doubted that, this last month would have set them right. And Cenwulf.’ Emma’s gaze brimmed with sympathy. ‘I realise you did adore him too.’

‘Maman’s heart was broken.’

Emma gulped. ‘Aye. And twisted.’

‘Because her own countrymen were the invaders?’

Emma squeezed Cecily’s hand. ‘I knew you’d understand.’

‘Lady Emma…’ Sister Judith’s voice cut in, reminding the girls of the portress’s presence by the chapel door.

It was Sister Judith’s duty to give or deny permission for outsiders to enter the convent. Since the order was not an enclosed one, permission was granted more often than not, but never when a nun or novice was on retreat. Hands folded at her girdle, silver cross winking at her breast, the nun regarded Emma sternly, but not unkindly. She had been moved, Cecily saw, by what she had heard.

‘Lady Emma, since you have seen fit to break your sister’s retreat by this conference, may I suggest that you continue in the portress’s lodge? The Angelus bell is about to strike, and the rest of the community will be needing the chapel.’

‘Of course, Sister Judith. Our apologies,’ Cecily said.

Bending to retrieve Emma’s riding crop and gloves, Cecily took her sister’s hand and led her out of the chapel.

A chill winter wind was tossing straw about the yard. Woodsmoke gusted out of the cookhouse, and their breath made white vapour which was no sooner formed than it was snatched away.

Emma drew the burgundy velvet cloak more tightly about her shoulders.

Cecily, who had not touched a cloak of such quality since entering the convent, and in any case was not wearing even a thin one since she was within the confines of the convent, shivered, and ushered her sister swiftly across the yard towards the south gate.

The portress’s lodge, a thatched wooden hut, sagged against the palisade. Abutting the lodge at its eastern end was the convent’s guest house, a slightly larger, marginally more inviting building; Cecily led her sister inside.

Even though the door was thrown wide the room was full of shadows, for the wooden walls were planked tight, with only a shuttered slit or two to let in the light. Since no guests had been looked for, there was no fire in the central hearth, only a pile of dead ashes. November marked the beginning of the dark months, but Cecily knew better than to incur Mother Aethelflaeda’s wrath by lighting a precious candle. If she added the sin of wasting a candle in daylight to the sin of her broken retreat, she’d be doing penance till Christmas ten years hence.

Dropping Emma’s riding crop and gloves on the trestle along with her rosary, Cecily wrenched the shutters open. The cold and ensuing draughts would have to be borne. Emma paced up and down. Her pink gown, Cecily now had time to notice, was liberally spattered with mud about the hem, her silken veil was awry, and the chaplet that secured it was crooked.

‘You rode fast to bring me this sad news,’ Cecily said slowly, as her sister strode back and forth. Now that the first shock was passing, her mind was beginning to work, and she had questions. ‘And yet…if Maman died three days since, you must have delayed your ride to me. There is more, isn’t there?’

Emma stopped her pacing. ‘Yes. The babe lives. A boy.’

Cecily gaped. ‘A boy? And he lives? Oh, it’s a miracle—new life after so much death!’ Her face fell. ‘But so early? Emma, he cannot survive.’

‘So I thought. He is small. I took the liberty of having him christened Philip, in case…in case—’

Emma broke off with a choking sound, but she had no need to add more. Having lived in the convent for four years, Cecily knew the Church’s view as well as any. If the babe did die, better that he died christened into the faith. For if he died outside it, he would be for eternity a lost soul.

‘Philip,’ Cecily murmured. ‘Maman would have liked that.’

‘Aye. And it’s not a Saxon name, so if he survives…I thought his chances better if he bore a Norman name.’

‘It is a good thought to stress Maman’s lineage rather than Father’s,’ Cecily replied. The son of a Saxon thane could not thrive if in truth England was to become Norman, but the son of a Norman lady…

Emma drew close, touched Cecily’s arm, and again Cecily became conscious of the incongruous fragrance of roses in November, of the softness of her sister’s gown, of the whiteness of her hands, of her unbroken lady’s nails. All the mud in England couldn’t obscure either the quality of Emma’s clothing or her high status.

She brushed awkwardly at her own coarse skirts in a vain attempt to shake out some dust and creases, and hide the hole at the knee where she’d torn the fabric grubbing up fennel roots in the herb garden. There were so many holes in the cloth it was nigh impossible to darn.

‘I would have come at once to tell you, Cecily, if I had not had my hands full caring for our new brother.’

‘You were right to put Philip first. Do you think he may thrive?’

‘I pray so. I left him with Gudrun. She was brought to bed a few months since herself, with a girl, and she is acting at his wet nurse.’ The restless pacing resumed. ‘He would not feed at first, but Gudrun persevered, and now…and now…’ A faint smile lit Emma’s eyes. ‘I think he may thrive, after all.’

‘That at least is good news.’

‘Aye.’ Emma turned, picked up her riding crop from the trestle and tapped it against her side. She stood with her back to Cecily, facing the door, and stared at the cookhouse smoke swirling in the yard. ‘Cecily…I…I confess I didn’t really come to tell you about Philip…’

‘No? What, then?’ Cecily made as if to move towards Emma, but a sharp hand movement from her sister stilled her. ‘Emma?’

‘I…I’ve come to bid you farewell.’

Thinking she had not heard properly, Cecily frowned. ‘What?’

‘I’m going north.’ Emma began to speak quickly, her back unyielding. ‘More messengers came, after Maman…after Philip was born. Messengers from Duke William.’

‘Normans? At Fulford Hall?’

A jerky nod. ‘They’ll be there by now.’

Cecily touched Emma’s arm to make her turn, but Emma resisted Cecily’s urging and kept staring at the door. ‘The carrion crows are come already,’ Emma said bitterly. ‘They are efficient, at least, and have not wasted any time seizing our lands. The Duke knows that our father and Cenwulf are dead. In a convoluted message that spoke of King Harold’s perfidy as an oath-breaker, I was informed that I, Thane Edgar’s daughter, have been made a ward of Duke William, and I am to be given in marriage to one of his knights. And not even a man with proper Norman blood in him, like Maman, but some Breton clod with no breeding at all!’

Emma swung round. Her eyes were wild and hard, and the riding crop smacked against her thigh. ‘Cecily, I won’t. I can’t—I won’t do it!’

Cecily caught Emma’s hands between hers. ‘Have you met him?’

Emma heaved in a shuddering breath. ‘The Breton? No. Duke William’s messenger said he would follow shortly, so I left as soon as I might. Cecily, I can’t marry him, so don’t talk to me of duty!’

‘Who am I to do that when I have delayed committing myself to God for so many years?’ Cecily said gently.

Emma’s expression softened. ‘I know. You never asked to be a nun. You follow our father’s will in that. I have often thought it unfair that simply because I was born first I should be the one expected to marry while you, the younger girl, were sacrificed to the Church and a life of contemplation even though you had no vocation.’

‘We both know it was a matter of riches. The Church accepted me with a far smaller dower than any thane or knight ever would. Father could not afford to marry us both well.’

Emma brightened. ‘Think, Cecily. Father is gone; the Church has had your dower, such as it was—what is to prevent your leaving?’

‘Emma!’

‘You were not made to be a nun. I know Father promised you to the Church, but what promise did you ever make?’

‘I swore to try and do his will.’

‘Yes, and that you have done. Four years mewed up in a convent. And look at you.’ Emma’s lip curled as she plucked at the stuff of Cecily’s habit. ‘This grey sackcloth does not become you. I’ll warrant it itches like a plague of lice…’

‘It does, but mortification of the flesh encourages humility—’

‘Rot! You don’t believe that! And look at the state of your hands. Peasant hands—’

‘From gardening.’ Cecily lifted her chin. ‘I work in the herb garden. It’s useful and I enjoy it.’

‘Peasant hands, as I said.’ Emma lowered her voice. ‘Cecily, be bold. You can leave this place.’

Cecily made an exasperated sound. ‘Where would I go? Back to Fulford, to your Breton knight? Be realistic, Emma, what use has this world for a dowerless novice?’ She smiled. ‘Besides, I’m wise to you. You only suggest this as a sop to your conscience.’

Emma stiffened. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Like it or not, Emma, your duty is at Fulford. You are, as you say, the eldest daughter, born to wed. The people at Fulford need you. Who else will speak for them? And what of our new brother? I’ll warrant Duke William doesn’t even know of his existence. How do you think his knight will react when he finds that Fulford has a male heir after all? No, Emma, your duty is plain and you cannot shirk it. You must return to Fulford and wait for the knight Duke William has chosen for you.’

Emma was very pale; her mouth became a thin line. ‘No.’

‘Yes!’

‘No!’

Cecily shook her head, thinking how little she knew her sister now. Emma was more concerned to avoid marriage with the Duke’s man than she was about her baby brother. ‘Emma, please think of our people, and of Philip. What chance does that tiny baby have when his identity becomes known? One of us should be near, to guard him from harm.’

A pleat formed on Emma’s brow, and her eyes lost their warmth. ‘Save your breath for your prayers. I will not submit to a lowborn Breton, especially one whose hands may be stained with our family’s blood. And even if all the saints in heaven were to plead alongside you, I would not move on this.’

‘Not even for Philip’s sake?’ At Emma’s blank look, Cecily sighed. ‘You must marry this knight. Run away, and at best you condemn Philip to a false life as Gudrun’s son. At worst…’ Cecily let the silence spin out, but she could see her words were having little effect. She looked down at the ashes in the hearth, and poked at a charred log with her boot. ‘What would Father wish, Emma? And Maman? Would she have wished her son to lead the life of a house-serf? Besides, where would you run to?’ She looked up as a new possibility dawned on her. ‘You have a sweetheart, don’t you? Someone you—’

‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ Emma clenched her jaw. ‘Since you are so hot to see our brother safe, then you may return—yes, you! Get you back in the real world and see how you like it. Go to Fulford yourself. Marry the Duke’s precious knight. Then you can see that Philip is safe. You are as much his sister as I.’

Stunned, Cecily stared. Her sister’s suggestion that she, a novice, should consider leaving the convent to marry was shocking indeed. And yet…if she were honest…shock warred with a curl of excitement.

What did he look like, this Breton knight?

‘No…no.’ Cecily’s cheeks burned. ‘I…I could not.’

Emma raised an eyebrow, and a small smile appeared, as though she knew that Cecily was tempted.

‘Emma, I couldn’t. What do I know of men and their ways?’ Cecily waved a hand to encompass the convent. ‘Since I was twelve years old all I have known is the company of women. Prayers, chanting, fasting, growing herbs, healing, doing penance for my sins.’ She gave a wry smile. ‘These things I know. But life outside these walls—it’s a mystery.’

Emma shrugged. ‘You are not entirely ignorant. You must remember something of life at Fulford before you came here. You’ve seen the stallion put to our mares…’

Cheeks aflame, Cecily bit her lip and shook her head. ‘Does…does he have a name, this knight Duke William has chosen for you?’

Emma frowned, wearily rubbing her face. ‘Yes, but I forget. No, wait…it’s Wymark, I think. Sir Adam Wymark…And I give him to you, Cecily, for I do not want him.’

Chapter Two

As soon as they were clear of the forest, Sir Adam Wymark reined in his chestnut warhorse, Flame. They were a couple of hundred yards short of St Anne’s Convent. Though he’d not come this way before he knew it at once, thanks to the cross that topped the tower of the only stone building in the vicinity. Somewhere, a cock crowed.

With a swirl of blue, Adam tossed his cloak over his shoulder and waved his troop—a dozen mounted men—to a halt behind him. Flame snorted and sidled, churning up the mud. Harness clinked. ‘This must be the place,’ he said, addressing his friend, Sir Richard of Asculf.

Richard grunted assent, and both men took a moment to absorb the lie of the land, eyes narrowed while they assessed the likelihood of the troop being attacked. True, they were armed and mounted to a man, but they were the hated invaders here, and they could not afford to relax their guard for a moment—even if, as now, there was not a soul in sight.

Of the men, only Richard and Adam, the two knights, wore hauberks—mail coats—under their cloaks. As for the troopers, the cost of a mail coat put such an item far beyond their reach. Had Adam been a rich lord he would have equipped them with chainmail himself, but he was not rich. However, he did not want to lose anyone, and he had done his best for them, managing to ensure they had more than the basics. Under their cloaks each man wore a thickly padded leather tunic; they each had a conical helmet with a nose-guard; they all carried good swords and long, leaf-shaped shields.

The nunnery was surrounded by a wooden palisade and tucked into a loop of the river near where it snaked into the forest. The river was swollen, its water cloudy and brown. Cheek by jowl with the convent, on the same spit of land, stood a small village. It was little more than a hotch-potch of humble wooden cottages. Adam wondered which had come first—the village or the convent. He’d put his money on the convent. It was probably filled to the seams with unwanted noblewomen, and the village had sprung up around it to provide them with servants.

As far as he could see, the cottages were roofed with wooden shingles. A clutch of scrawny chickens pecked in the mud in between two of the houses; a pig was scratching its hindquarters on the stake to which it was tied, grunting softly. A dog came out of one of the houses, saw them, and loosed a volley of barks. Other than these animals the place looked deserted, but he was not fooled. The villagers were likely keeping their heads down—he would do the same in their place.

It had stopped raining some half-hour since, while Adam and his troop had been picking their way through the trees. The sky remained overcast, and the wind—a northerly—nipped at cheeks and lips.

Cheek and lips were the only parts of Adam’s head that were exposed to the elements, for his dark hair was hidden by his helm, and the nose-guard obscured his features. Under his chainmail Adam wore the usual leather soldier’s gambeson—a padded one—in addition to his linen shirt and undergarments. His boots and gloves were also of leather, his breeches and hose of finespun wool, his cross-gartering blue braid. For this day’s work Adam had elected to wear his short mail coat, leaving his legs largely unprotected, much to Richard’s disgust. Adam was ready to build bridges with the Saxon population, but Richard, a Norman, had a distrust of them that went bone deep, and thus was mailed top to toe.

The rain-soft dirt of the road which bypassed the convent had been ploughed into a series of untidy ridges and furrows, like a slovenly peasant’s field strips.

‘A fair amount of traffic’s been this way,’ Adam said. He frowned, and wondered if his scout had been right in declaring that his intended bride, Lady Emma Fulford, had come this way too. It was possible that she had kin here—a sister, a cousin. In the aftermath of Hastings confusion had reigned, and his information was sketchy.

The soldier in Adam took in at a glance the fact that the wooden palisade around the convent would offer little resistance to anyone seriously desirous of entering. His scowl deepened as he wondered if Lady Emma was still at St Anne’s. He misliked today’s errand; forcing an unwilling woman to be his wife left him with a sour taste in his mouth. But he was ambitious, and Duke William had commanded him to do what he may to hold these lands. Since that included a marriage alliance with a local noblewoman in order to bolster his claim, then he would at least meet the girl. The good Lord knew he had little reason to return to Brittany. Adam was grimly aware that here in Wessex the people had more cause to hate Duke William’s men than most, for the Saxon usurper, Harold, had been their Earl for well over a decade before he’d snatched the crown promised to Duke William. Local loyalties ran deep. Adam’s task—to hold the peace in this corner of Wessex for Duke William—would not be easy. But he’d do it. With or without Lady Emma’s help.

Misliking the absence of villagers, Adam was torn between fear of a Saxon ambush and the desire not to approach the convent and his intended bride in the guise of robber baron. He signalled to his men to pull back deeper into the meagre cover offered by the leafless trees and shrubs. There were enough of his countrymen using the excuse of uncertain times to plunder at will, and that was one accusation he was not about to have levelled at him. With Brittany no longer holding any attraction for him, he intended to settle here, make it his home. Making war on helpless women and alienating the local population was not part of his plan.

Pulling off his helmet, and hanging it by its strap from the pommel of his saddle, Adam shoved back his mail coif. His black hair was streaked with sweat and plastered to his skull. Grimacing, he ran a hand through it. ‘I’d give my eye teeth for a bath. I’m not fit to present myself to ladies.’

‘Give me some food, rather.’ Richard grinned back. ‘Or a full night’s sleep. I swear we’ve neither eaten nor slept properly since leaving Normandy.’

‘Too true.’ Ruefully, Adam rubbed his chin. He’d managed to find time to shave that morning, but that had been the extent of his toilet.

‘You look fine, man.’ Richard’s grin broadened. ‘Fine enough to impress Lady Emma, at any rate.’

Adam gave his friend a sceptical look, and flushed. ‘Oh, aye. She’s so impressed she’s taken to her heels rather than set eyes on me.’ He swung from his horse and held Richard’s gaze over the saddle. ‘As you know, there’s been no formal proposal as yet. Notwithstanding Duke William’s wishes, I’ve a mind to see if we’d suit first. I wouldn’t marry the Duchess herself if we didn’t make a match.’

Richard stared blankly at him for a moment before saying, ‘Admit it, Adam, you want to impress this Saxon lady.’

‘If she’s not here, it would seem impressing her will not be easy.’

An unholy light entered Richard’s eyes. ‘Ah, but think, Adam. If you do get her safely wed you can impress her all you will.’

Adam scowled and turned away, muttering. He pulled on Flame’s saddle girth to loosen it.

‘Don’t tell me, Adam,’ Richard went on quietly, ‘that you hope to find love again. You always were soft with women…’

Silently Adam turned, and led Flame under cover of the trees at the edge of the chase. He threw the reins over a branch. Richard followed on horseback.

‘Stop your prodding, man, and do something useful,’ Adam said after a moment. ‘Help me with my mail.’

Not above squiring for his friend, Richard dismounted. Dead leaves shifted under their feet. ‘You do, don’t you?’ Hands at his hips, Richard continued to needle him. ‘Not content with Gwenn, you still want to marry for love…’

‘My parents wrangled through my childhood,’ Adam said simply, as he unbuckled his sword and tossed it over. ‘I’d hoped for better.’

‘Be realistic, man. You and I know we come to add teeth to William’s legitimate claim to the English throne. What Saxon heiress would take you or me willingly? They’re more like to name us murderers—of their fathers, brothers, sweethearts…’

Adam shrugged. ‘Nevertheless, I had hoped to win some regard.’

Richard shook his head, watching, amused, as Adam struggled to do the impossible—get himself out of his hauberk unaided. ‘You’ve turned dreamer. That knock on the head you took when we first arrived has addled your brain. And why in the name of all that’s holy do you want to take that off? Those pious ladies in there—’ Richard jerked a thumb in the direction of St Anne’s ‘—those sweet Saxon ladies you so want to impress, would as soon stick a knife between your ribs as parley with the Duke’s man. Especially if they knew you were the knight who rallied his fellow Bretons when their line broke…’

‘Nevertheless,’ Adam repeated, ‘Emma Fulford may be in there, and I do not choose to meet my lady mailed for battle.’ He stopped wrestling with his chainmail and gave Richard a lopsided grin. ‘And, since it was your testimony that won me Fulford Hall, you can damn well help me. Get me out of this thing, will you?’

‘Oh, I’ll squire you, but don’t blame me if you end up on a Saxon skewer.’

Adam raised his arms above his head and bent. Richard gripped his mail coat and heaved, and the mail slithered off, leaving Adam in his brown leather gambeson, marked black in places where the metal rings had chafed. Breathing a sigh of relief, Adam straightened and rolled his shoulders.

‘You’ll keep on your gambeson?’ Richard advised.

‘Aye, I’m not that much of an optimist.’

Without his helm and mail coat, Adam looked more approachable. Instead of a hulking metalled warrior who kept his face hidden from the world, there was a broad-shouldered, slim-hipped young man, with long limbs and unruly dark hair. With his open countenance and striking green eyes he made a stark contrast to Richard in his full mail and helm. Reaching for his sword belt, Adam refastened it. His fingers were long and slender, but criss-crossed with scars, and his right palm was callused from long bouts of swordplay.

‘Glad to see you’ve kept some sense.’

‘Enough to know we can’t afford to alienate these women more than they are already. The Lady Emma must consent to marry me. Remember, Richard, we need a translator, if nothing else. Neither of us knows more than a dozen words of English.’ Adam smiled at his fellow knight. ‘You’ll await me?’

‘Of course.’

‘Keep the men and the horses out of sight while I scout around. There may be no-one abroad now, but that’s not surprising. It’s possible the villagers got wind of our arrival and have hidden. I’ll shout if I need you.’

Face sobering, Richard nodded. ‘At the least sign of trouble, mind.’

‘Aye.’ Saluting, Adam twisted his blue cloak about his shoulders and strode purposefully out of the trees and onto the path that led into the village.

The road between the houses was a mess of muddy ridges. Old straw and animal bedding had been strewn across it, but had not yet been trampled in—proving, if proof were needed, that the village was not utterly deserted; earlier that day someone had tried to make the path less of a quagmire.

A rook cawed overhead and flew towards the forest. Adam glanced up at the clouds and drew his cloak more securely about him, thankful for the fur lining. More rain was on the way. Cautious, aware that his lack of English would betray him if he was challenged, he paused at the edge of the village. The tracker in him noted the line of hoofprints that he and his men had left at the edge of the woodland. Where he and Richard had dismounted their destriers had sidled, and their great iron hoofs had obliterated other tracks, which had also come from the direction of the wood.

Attention sharpening, Adam retraced his steps along the road. Yes—there, leading out from under the tracks he and Richard and his troop had made. Two other sets of hoofprints. Smaller horses. Ponies, not destriers. Animals such as an Anglo-Saxon lady and her groom might ride…

The tracks led straight as an arrow to the convent gate and vanished. No tracks came out, implying that unless there was another gate his lady would seem to be still at the convent…

Just then, a bolt was drawn back and the convent gates shifted. Adam darted behind the wall of the nearest house. The door in the palisade yawned wide, and out slipped a nun. Peering round the wall, Adam caught a glimpse of a dark habit, a short veil and a ragged cloak. The nun, who was carrying a willow basket covered with a cloth, headed for the village, hastening to one of the wood-framed houses. Behind her, the convent gate clicked shut and bolts were shot home.

By skirting the dwellings at the margin of the wood Adam was able to keep the nun in sight, and when the slight figure knocked at a cottage door he was in position himself behind the same cottage. It was a matter of moments to find a crack in the planking where the daub had fallen away…

Inside, the cottage was similar in style to many peasants’ dwellings in Adam’s native Brittany: namely one large room with a fire in a central hearth. The smoke wound upwards, and found its way out through a hole in the roof. To one side of the fire a hanging lamp illuminated the scene. A string of onions and some dried mushrooms dangled from the rafters. By twisting his head, Adam could just make out a rough curtain that hung across one end of the room. The curtain was made out of sackcloth, crudely stitched together. Behind the curtain someone—a woman, if Adam was any judge—cried out in pain.

At the nun’s knocking there was a scrape of curtain rings, and out strode a lanky young man with a back bent like a bow and a face that was creased into a worried frown. On seeing his visitor, the young man’s brow cleared as if by magic. ‘Lady Cecily, thank God you got my message!’

That much Adam could understand, though the young man’s accent was thick.

The nun moved to set her basket down on the earthen floor and stretched her hands out to the fire for a moment, flexing her fingers as though they were chilled to the bone—which they well might be, since she had no gloves. ‘Is all well with Bertha, Ulf?’

Whoever lay behind the curtain—presumably Bertha—gave another, more urgent groan, and two small children, a girl and a boy, came out of the shadows to stand at the young man’s side.

‘My apologies for not coming at once,’ the nun said, moving calmly towards the recess.

‘Lady Cecily, please…’ The lanky young man took her unceremoniously by the hand to hurry her along, proving by his mode of address and familiarity that St Anne’s Convent was no enclosed order.

Odd though, Adam thought, that the nun should be addressed as ‘Lady’. Doubtless old habits died hard, particularly if this man had known her before her profession and had been her vassal.

A series of panting groans had Lady Cecily whisking out of Adam’s line of sight, deep into the curtained area. ‘Bertha, my dear, how goes it?’ he heard.

A murmured response. Another groan.

Then the nun again, her voice soft, reassuring, but surprisingly strong. Adam made out the words ‘Ulf’ and ‘light’, and another word he did not know, but which he soon guessed when Ulf left the recess and hunted out a tallow candle from a box by the wall. Then the Saxon for ‘water’, which he knew.

Ulf dispatched the girl and boy with a pail, returned to the curtain, and was gently but firmly thrust away, back into the central room. The curtain closed, and the young man took out a stool and sat down, hands clasped before him so tightly Adam could see the gleam of white knuckles. Ulf fixed his gaze on the closed curtain and chewed his lips. Each time a groan came forth from behind the curtain he flinched.

Despite the gulf that yawned between them, Adam knew a pang of fellow feeling for the man. Had his Gwenn not died early on in her pregnancy this would no doubt have been his lot, to sit on a stool tearing his hair out, waiting for her travail to be ended. Well, he was spared that now. His pain was over. Richard might tease him about wanting to find love in his new bride, but Adam was not so ambitious. Affection, yes. Respect, by all means. Lust—why not? Lust at least could be kept in its place. But love?

Ulf had started chewing on his nails, a look of helpless desperation in his eyes as he kept glancing towards the recess.

Love? Adam shook his head. Never again. He had had enough pain to last him several lifetimes…

The hour wore on. More groans. Panting. A sharp cry. A soft murmur. And so it continued. Ulf twisted his hands.

The girl and the boy returned with a pail of water and were directed to set it in a pot by the fire.

More groans. More panting.

Adam was on the point of withdrawing to fetch Richard and seek entry to St Anne’s when a new sound snared his attention. The cry of a newborn baby.

‘Ulf!’

The nun Cecily appeared at the curtain, all smiles. In her role as midwife she had discarded cloak, veil and wimple, and had rolled up her sleeves. For the first time Adam had a good look at her face.

She was uncommonly pretty, with large eyes, rosy cheeks and regular features, but it was her hair that made him catch his breath. The nun Cecily had long fair hair which brightened to gold in the light of the fire and the hanging lamp. Nuns’ hair was usually cropped, but not this one’s. A thick, bright, glossy braid hung down one shoulder. Unbound, he guessed it would reach well below her waist.

A feeling of pure longing swept through Adam, and he frowned, disconcerted that a nun should have such a powerful attraction for him. But attract him she did, in no uncertain terms.

Impatiently, almost as if she knew Adam’s gaze was upon it, the nun Cecily tossed her braid back over her shoulder and held her hand out. Adam had no difficulty in guessing the meaning of her next words.

‘Come, Ulf. Come and greet your new son.’

Face transfigured with relief, Ulf all but staggered through the gap in the curtains and pulled it closed behind him.

The golden-haired nun—God, but she was a beauty, especially when, as now, she was smiling—spoke to the children by the hearth. She must have asked something about food for the elder, the girl, nodded and showed her a loaf and a pot of some broth-like substance.

The nun smiled again and, taking up her wimple and veil, set about re-ordering her appearance. Adam watched, biting down a protest as she set about hiding all that golden glory from the world.

By the time she had finished, and had flung her flimsy cloak about her shoulders, Adam had turned away, irritated by his reaction to her. Picking his way along the narrow track behind the wooden houses, he headed back to his troop.

He had learned nothing about the whereabouts of his errant fiancée, the Lady Emma Fulford, but more about his need to master the English tongue. Best he think on that—for a fine lord would he be if he couldn’t even converse with his people. As Adam approached the margin of the forest, he shook his head, as if to clear from his mind the persistent image of a slender nun with a glorious golden fall of hair.

Chapter Three

A grey dusk was beginning to fall when at length Adam and Richard rode openly to the convent gate. Mentally cursing the short November day that meant he and his men would likely have to beg a night’s refuge at the convent, Adam raised a dark eyebrow at his friend.

His heart was thudding more loudly than it had when they’d waited for the battle cry to go up before Caldbec Hill, though he’d die before admitting as much. A man of action, Adam had been trained to fling himself into battle. This foray into the domain of high-born ladies was beyond his experience, for his own background was humble and his Gwenn had been a simple merchant’s daughter. He was unnerved, yet he knew his future in Wessex hung on the outcome of what happened here as much as it had when he had rallied his fellow Bretons at Hastings.

‘I can’t persuade you to doff your mail, Richard?’ Adam asked. He was still clad only in his leather gambeson and blue fur-lined cloak. ‘You’ve no need to fear a knife in your ribs. This is holy ground. There’s sanctuary of a sort.’

Richard shook his head.

‘You will terrify the ladies…’

‘I doubt that,’ Richard said, dismounting. ‘Nuns can be fearsome harpies—as I know to my cost.’

Adam banged on the portal. ‘How so?’

Richard shrugged. ‘My mother. When my father set her aside to marry Eleanor, Mother moved herself and her household to a nunnery back home. Took my sister Elizabeth with her. When I visited them, Elizabeth told me the whole. Believe you me, Adam, ungodly things go on in holy places.’

Momentarily distracted, Adam would have asked more, but just then the window shutter slid back, and he found himself gazing at the wizened face and brown eyes of the portress. The nun’s face was framed with a wimple that even in this fading light Adam could see was none too clean.

‘Yes?’ she said, eyeing him with such blatant misgiving that Adam felt as though he must have sprouted two heads.

‘Do you speak French, Sister?’

‘A little.’

‘I’ve come on the Duke’s business. I need to speak with your Prioress.’

The brown eyes held his. ‘When you say Duke, do you mean the Norman bastard?’

Adam drew in a breath. It was true that William of Normandy was a bastard, his mother being a tanner’s daughter who had caught the eye of the old Duke, but few dared hold his birth against him these days. It was shocking to hear such a word fall so casually from a nun’s lips. He shot a look at Richard.

‘Told you,’ Richard muttered. ‘There’ll be little holiness here, and little courtesy either. They hate us. The whole damn country hates us.’

Adam set his jaw. The Duke had charged him with seeing to it that the peace was kept in this corner of England, and, hard though that might be, he would do his utmost not to let him down. ‘We’ll see. It was their high-born King Harold who was the oath-breaker, not our lord, bastard though he may be.’ He gave the nun a straight look. ‘Duke William is my liege lord, and I must speak with your lady Prioress.’

The brown eyes shifted towards the clouds in the west, behind which the sun was lowering fast. ‘It’s almost time for Vespers. Mother Aethelflaeda will be busy.’

‘Nevertheless, Sister—’ Adam made his voice hard ‘—I will speak with the Prioress at once. I’m looking for my Lady of Fulford, and reports have it she rode towards St Anne’s.’

The face vanished, the portal slid shut, a bolt was drawn back. Slowly, reluctantly, the door swung open.

‘This way, good lords,’ the nun said, and even though she mangled the French tongue her voice dripped with irony.

Adam and Richard were ushered into a small, dark, cheerless room, and left to kick their heels for some minutes. There was no welcoming fire, and they were offered no refreshment.

‘As I feared,’ Richard said, with a wry grin. ‘Sweet sisters in Christ—harpies all.’

The winter chill seeped up through the earthen floor, and a solitary candle, unlit, stood on the trestle next to a small handbell. Adam grimaced, and knew a pang of pity for the nuns who must spend their lives here. If most of the convent was appointed like this, it was dank and miserable.

With a rustle of skirts, a large, big-bellied nun came into the room, hands tucked into the wide sleeves of her habit. This woman’s wimple was clean, and the stuff of her habit was thick and rich, of a dark violet rather than Benedictine black. The cross that winked on her breast was gold, and set with coloured gems. Clearly not all were made to live penitentially among these grim buildings. This woman, by her garb, hailed from a noble Saxon family, and did not appear to stint herself.

Adam stepped forwards. ‘Mother Aethelflaeda?’

‘My lords,’ the Prioress replied stiffly in the Saxon tongue, barely inclining her head. Her smile was tight and forced, her face the colour of whey.

‘My name is Wymark,’ Adam said, ‘and I’ve come to fetch Lady Emma of Fulford. Reports say she came here. I’m to escort her back to Fulford Hall.’

Mother Aethelflaeda’s gaze shifted from Adam to Richard and flickered briefly over his chainmail before returning to Adam. She nodded. The strained smile twitched wider, but she did not speak.

‘Lady Emma of Fulford?’ Adam repeated patiently. ‘Is she here?’

He was wasting his breath. It was as if the Prioress couldn’t hear him. Though she continued to nod and smile, her stance was too rigid, her smile was fixed and her eyes—which appeared glazed—were pinned on Richard once more. A woman in whom disdain and fear were equally mixed.

‘She’s afraid,’ Adam said.

‘Aye,’ came Richard’s complacent reply.

‘Shame on you, to scare the wits from her. I told you, Richard, they’d not like you mailed.’

Unrepentant, Richard grinned through his helm.

The Prioress gave a strangled sound and moved back a pace.

‘She doesn’t understand a word you’re saying either, man,’ Richard said.

Adam swore under his breath, drawing the gaze of the Prioress. A small furrow had appeared between her brows. ‘I’m not so sure,’ he murmured. ‘It may be she seeks to obstruct us.’ He took a step closer to the nun. ‘The Lady Emma of Fulford—is she here?’

Mother Aethelflaeda stared at Adam for a moment, took up the handbell and shook it. Immediately, the portress appeared in the doorway, so swiftly that Adam had little doubt that she had been listening and waiting for the summons.

There followed a brief exchange in the English tongue which Adam could not follow, save that he thought he caught the name ‘Cecily’. An image of a slight figure with a long golden braid shining in the firelight sprang into his mind. Firmly, he dismissed it.

The portress hurried out, leaving the three of them—Adam, Richard and the Prioress—to stand awkwardly looking at each other. The gloom deepened.

Quick footsteps sounded on the flags outside the lodge, the door was hurriedly pushed open, and the light strengthened as a young nun who was little more than a girl swiftly entered the room. She held a lantern in delicate work-worn hands…

Adam’s stomach muscles clenched.

Cecily.

Next to the richly gowned Prioress, her faded grey habit was no more than a thin rag, and her cross was not bright yellow gold, but simple unvarnished wood. However, the nun Cecily’s bearing would see her accepted anywhere, be it castle or byre. Her body was straight-backed and slender, and her head was held high, without hint of disdain.

Close to, Adam could see how very young she was, and that even her hideous wimple and veil could not disguise that she was more than pretty. Such fine features: arched brows; a small, retroussé nose; lips that curved like a bow. Thick lashes swept down over eyes that were an arresting blue…

Breathlessly, Cecily hurried into the room.

Though she misliked the Prioress, she always jumped to do her bidding—for Mother Aethelflaeda had an uncertain temper, and her power over those under her was absolute. Giving her a brief obeisance, Cecily turned to look at the two men. One of these must be the Breton knight Emma had spoken of. The thought that these men might have had a hand in the deaths of her father and brother made her belly quake. So much emotion rolled within her they must surely see it. She strove for control.

Her eyes widened as she took in the mailed knight lounging with his shoulders against the wall, his legs crossed. A cold sweat broke out between her shoulderblades. With his great metal helm, the knight’s features were all but hidden, and she was unable to read his expression. He looked confident and very much at his ease. This must be Sir Adam Wymark.

Willing her hands not to shake, Cecily curbed the urge to turn on her heel and placed the lantern on the table. A swift glance at the knight’s companion and she had him pegged for his squire. Yes, definitely his squire. For though he was dressed in a leather soldier’s tunic, he wore no armour.

The squire was as tall as his knight, and darkly handsome. Polite, too, for the moment their eyes met, he bowed. His murmured ‘Lady Cecily’ surprised her, for only the villagers, like Ulf, named her by her old title. Inside these walls she was ‘Novice’ or simply ‘Cecily’. Mother Aethelflaeda judged that it was misplaced pride for anyone but herself to be styled ‘my lady’.

‘Cecily, be pleased to translate for me,’ Mother Aethelflaeda said in English, her tone less imperious than usual. ‘These…’ the brief hesitation was a clear insult ‘…men are the Norman Duke’s, and they are come on his business.’

It was on the tip of Cecily’s tongue to protest, for Mother Aethelflaeda spoke French almost as well as she did. Like her, Mother Aethelflaeda came from a noble family, and while Mother Aethelflaeda might not have had a Norman mother like Cecily, Norman French was commonly understood by most of the Anglo-Saxon aristocracy.

Calm, Cecily, calm, she told herself. Think of baby Philip, who needs your help. These men are the means by which you may reach him. Put fear aside, put anger aside, put thoughts of revenge aside. By hook or by crook, you must get these men to help you care for little Philip. That is all that matters…

‘As you will, Mother Aethelflaeda.’ Cecily laced her fingers together and forced herself to smile at the mailed knight.

His squire stepped into her line of vision. ‘Lady…that is, Sister Cecily…we are looking for one Emma of Fulford. My scouts tell me she came here. I’d like to speak to her.’

The squire came yet closer as he spoke. Cecily, who for four years had had scant contact with strange men, apart from villagers like Ulf with whom she was familiar, found his physical presence overpowering. His eyes were green, and once they had met hers it was hard to look away. His face, with its strong, dark features, was pleasing, yet somehow unsettling. His black hair was cropped short and, again in the Norman fashion, he was clean-shaven. Most of her countrymen wore their hair and beards long and flowing. Cecily blinked. She had thought it would make a man look like a little boy to be so close shaved, but there was nothing of the little boy about this one. There were wide shoulders under that cloak. And his mouth…what was she doing looking at his mouth?

Becoming aware that they were staring at each other, and that he had been studying her with the same intensity with which she had been studying him, Cecily blushed. It’s as though I am a book and he is learning me. He is not polite after all, this squire. He is too bold.

‘Emma Fulford?’ Cecily said slowly. ‘I am afraid you are too late.’

‘Hell and damnation!’

Mother Aethelflaeda bristled, and Cecily bit her lip, waiting for the rebuke that must follow the squire’s cursing, but Mother Aethelflaeda subsided, managing—just—to adhere to her pretence of not speaking French.

The squire’s sharp eyes were focused on the Prioresss, and Cecily realised that he knew as well as she that the Prioress did speak French, and that she affected not to speak it merely to hinder them. The knight remained in the background, leaning against the wooden planking, apparently content for his squire to act for him.

‘Did Lady Emma say where she was going?’ the squire asked.

‘No.’ The lie came easily. Cecily would do penance for it later. She’d do any amount of penance to keep that mailed knight from finding her sister. Would that she could do something to ensure her baby brother’s safety too…

The squire frowned. ‘You have no idea? Lady Emma must have told someone. I thought perhaps she might have kin here. Who was she visiting? I’d like to speak to them.’

Cecily looked directly into those disturbing eyes. ‘She was visiting me.’

His expression was blank. ‘How so?’

‘Because Lady Emma of Fulford is my sister, and—’

A lean-fingered hand shot out to catch her by the wrist. ‘Your sister? But…I…’ He looked uneasy. ‘We were not certain she had a sister.’

Trying unsuccessfully to pull free of his hold, Cecily shot a look of dislike at the knight lounging against the wall, looking for all the world as though these proceedings had nothing to do with him. ‘Is it so surprising that your Duke has an imperfect knowledge of the lands he has invaded and its people?’ she replied sharply. She bit her lip, only too aware that if she were to find a way to help her new brother she must not antagonise these men. She moderated her tone. ‘Emma had a brother too. Until Hastings. We both did.’ She looked pointedly at the fingers circling her wrist. ‘You bruise me.’

Stepping back, the squire released her. ‘My apologies.’ His eyes held hers. ‘And I am sorry for your brother’s death.’

Cecily felt a flash of grief so bitter she all but choked. ‘And my father’s—are you sorry for that too?’

‘Aye—every good man’s death is a waste. I heard your father and brother were good, loyal men. Since they died at Caldbec Hill, defending their overlord when the shield wall broke, there’s no doubt of that.’

‘Oh, they were loyal,’ Cecily said, and try as she might she could not keep the bitterness from her tone. ‘But what price loyalty when they are dead?’ Tears pricked her eyes, and she turned away and struggled for composure.

‘Perhaps,’ the squire said softly, ‘you should more fairly lay the blame for what happened at Hastings on Harold of Wessex? It was he who swore solemn oath to Duke William that the crown of England should go to Normandy. It was he who went back on his word. It was his dishonour. What followed lies at the usurper Harold’s door rather than my lord William’s.’

Because Mother Aethelflaeda was in the habit of hugging what little news that filtered through the convent walls to herself, Cecily’s knowledge of goings-on in the world was limited. Her years in the novitiate meant she scarcely understood what the squire was saying.

A movement caught her eye as the knight—what had Emma called him? Sir Adam Wymark?—uncrossed his legs and pushed away from the wall. After stripping off his gauntlets, he lifted his helm. When he brushed back his mail coif to reveal a tumble of thick brown hair, and smiled across the room at her, the foreign warlord responsible for her family’s troubles vanished and a vigorous, personable man stood before her. Like his squire, he was young—not so handsome as the squire, but by no means ill-favoured…

Cecily fiddled with the rope of her girdle while she considered this sudden transformation, and an idea began to take shape in her mind—an idea that Emma had half jokingly presented to her. It was not an idea she had any great liking for—particularly since, given a choice between the two men before her, she would choose the squire.

Emma’s alarming parting shot: ‘Sir Adam Wymark…I give him to you, for I do not want him’ still echoed in her mind. Could she do it? For herself, no, Cecily thought, staring at the mailed knight. But for her brother and her father’s people? She straightened her shoulders.

She’d do it. For her brother…she must do it…

Mother Aethelflaeda shifted. ‘Hurry them up, Cecily,’ she said in English, in a curt tone which told Cecily she was fast recovering her sang-froid. ‘The sooner these Norman vermin are out of our hair, the better.’

‘Yes, Mother,’ Cecily said, deceptively meek, but in no hurry herself—for every minute they spent talking was giving Emma more time to get away.

The squire’s green eyes captured hers. He was frowning. ‘Your sister said nothing to you of her destination?’

‘No.’

‘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 you should brazenly offer yourself…for shame!’ All but choking, the Prioress glared at the knight at Cecily’s side. ‘Sir Adam, forgive her her impertinence. I can only say she is young still. We have all tried to curb Cecily Fulford’s exuberant nature, and I had thought some progress had been made, but…’ Imperiously, Mother Aethelflaeda waved a dismissal at Cecily. ‘You may leave us, Novice. And you had best do penance for your impertinence to Sir Adam on your knees. Repeat the Ave Maria twenty times, and be sure to take no fish this Friday. You’ll fast on bread and water till you repent you of your hasty tongue.’

Long years had ingrained the habit of obedience into Cecily, and she made shift to go—but Adam Wymark had not released her wrist.

‘Sir…’ Cecily attempted to pull away.

‘A moment,’ he said, but his hold was not hard.

Mother Aethelflaeda gestured impatiently. ‘The girl has no dowry, sir.’

Pride stiffened Cecily’s spine. ‘I did have. I distinctly remember my father entrusting a chest of silver pennies to your keeping.’

Mother Aethelflaeda’s lips thinned. ‘All spent on improvements to the chapel, and to the palisade that was intended to keep out foreign upstarts.’ The last two words were laced with venom. ‘Much good it did us.’

‘And the altar cross,’ Cecily added. ‘Father donated that too.’ Raising her head, she gave the Prioress back glare for glare. For a woman of her birth to be labelled completely dowerless was shame indeed, and though it might have been unladylike of her to offer herself as wife to Sir Adam, she would not be so shamed before these men.

Sir Adam’s grip shifted as he moved to face her. He held her gently, only by her fingertips. ‘No dowry, eh?’ he said softly, for her ears alone.

Cecily’s heart thudded.

‘Be calm,’ he murmured, and swiftly, so swiftly that Cecily had no notion of what he was about, he released her and reached up. Deftly unpinning her veil, he cast it aside. Stunned beyond movement, for no man had ever touched her clothing so intimately, Cecily swallowed and stood meek as a lamb while quick fingers reached behind her to release the tie of her wimple, and then that, too, followed her veil into a corner. Reaching past her neck, he found her plait and drew it forward, so it draped over her shoulder.

For all that the brightest of flags must be flying on her cheeks, Cecily shivered, shamefully aware that it was not with distaste.

Mother Aethelflaeda spluttered with outrage, and even Sir Richard was moved to protest. ‘I say, Adam…’

But Cecily had eyes and ears only for the man in front of her—the man whose green eyes even now were caressing her hair. He no longer touched her anywhere, yet she could scarcely breathe.

‘No dowry,’ he repeated softly, still gazing at her hair. ‘But there is gold enough here for any man.’

‘Sir Adam!’ Mother Aethelflaeda surged forwards. ‘Enough of this unseemly jesting. Unhand my novice this instant!’

He lifted his hands to indicate that he was not constraining Cecily, his eyes never shifting from hers.

For a moment, despite herself, Cecily’s heart warmed to him—a Breton knight, an invader. It was beyond her comprehension that any man of standing should consider taking a woman for herself alone. Such a man should expect his marriage to increase his holdings.

And how on earth had he known about her fair hair? True, many Saxon girls were blonde, but not all by any means. As she stared at him, his lips quirked briefly into a lopsided smile, and then he stepped back and Cecily could breathe again.

The Prioress had a scowl that would scare the Devil. She was using it now, but for once Cecily did not care. She did not know exactly what was going to happen to her, but she read in Adam Wymark’s eyes that he would take her back with him to Fulford.

She was going home!

Not only would she be in a better position to see her new brother was cared for, but she would see Fulford again. The lodge was lost in a watery blur. Without her family Fulford Hall would not be the same, but she would see Gudrun and Wilf—there’d be Edmund and Wat—and was her father’s old greyhound, Loki, still alive? And what of her pony, Cloud—what had happened to her?

The longing to stand in her father’s hall once more, to be free to roam the fields and woods where she and Emma and Cenwulf had played as children, was all at once a sharp pain in her breast. Blinking rapidly, hoping the Breton knight and his companion had not seen her weakness, Cecily held herself meekly at his side.

‘How soon may you be ready to leave?’ he was asking. He shot a swift look at the Prioress before adding, ‘As my interpreter.’

‘But, Sir Adam.’ Mother Aethelflaeda glanced through the door at the murk in the yard outside. ‘The sun has set. Will you ride through the night?’

A swift smile lit his dark features. ‘Why, Mother Aethelflaeda, are you offering me and my men hospitality? I own it is too overcast to make good riding tonight…’

‘Why, no—I mean, yes—yes, of course.’

Rarely had Cecily seen Mother Aethelflaeda so discomposed. She bit down a smile.

‘I’ve brought a dozen men at arms, including Sir Richard and myself.’

‘You are welcome to bed down in this lodge, sir,’ the Prioress said curtly. ‘Cecily?’

Even now, when she was about to leave her authority, possibly for ever, Mother Aethelflaeda did not dignify her with her full title. ‘Yes, Mother?’

‘See to their needs.’ The look the Prioress sent Cecily would have frozen fire. ‘And make sure that your party is gone by the time the bell for Prime has rung on the morrow. This is a convent, not a hostelry. Sir Adam, you may leave your offering in the offertory box in the chapel.’

It was customary for travellers who stayed overnight in monastery and convent guest houses to leave a contribution to cover the cost of their stay, but so common was this practice that Mother Aethelflaeda’s reminder was pure insult.

Twitching the skirts of her violet habit aside, as though she feared contamination, the Prioress swept from the room.

‘Holy God, what a besom!’ Sir Richard said, grimacing as he set his helmet on the table next to the lamp. ‘As if we’d abide in this dank hole any longer than we must.’

Sir Adam ran his hand through his hair. ‘Aye. But we’d be better bedded down here for the night than taking our chance on a dark road with no moon.’

Cecily stooped to gather up her veil and wimple and, overcome with shyness, edged towards the door. ‘I’ll see some wood is brought in for a fire, sir, and order supper for you and your men.’

And with that Cecily ducked out of the room, before Sir Adam could stay her. She had never met his like before—but then, cloistered in St Anne’s, she had not met many men. As she latched the door behind her, to keep draughts out of the lodge, her thoughts raced on.

By the morning she would be free of this place! Her heart lifted. She would be free to care for her brother and, with any luck, free to distract the man in the lodge from tracking her sister. Recalling his fierce grip, she rubbed at her wrist and frowned. Sir Adam Wymark was not a man who would let go easily, but she hoped for her sister’s sake he would forget about Emma so she would have plenty of time to make good her escape.

Chapter Four

Veil and wimple safely back where they should be, on her head, Cecily took another lantern from the storeroom and lit it with hands that were far from steady. Then she hastened—not to the cookhouse, but to the stables. If challenged, she would say she was seeing to the comfort of their guests’ horses, but in reality she wanted to ensure that Emma had left no tell-tale signs of her visit—particularly no tracks that might be followed. She might not approve of Emma’s desertion of their brother and their father’s people, but she was not about to betray her sister’s destination to these foreign knights.

Two hulking warhorses, a chestnut and a grey, dwarfed Mother Aethelflaeda’s pony. Both carried chevalier’s or knight’s saddles, with high pommels and backs. Bulky leatherbound packs were strapped behind the saddles. Draped over one of the stalls was the mail body armour of a knight of Duke William’s company, gleaming like fishscales in the light of her lamp. A pointed metal helm shone dully from a nearby wall hook, and a leaf-shaped shield and sheathed sword leaned against the planking. Sir Richard had been wearing his sword and helm in the lodge, so these must be Sir Adam’s.

Staring at the sword, Cecily swallowed and thrust aside the image of it in SirAdam’s hand, being wielded against the people of Wessex.

The chestnut destrier stamped a hoof, straining at its reins as it turned its head to look at her. Cecily had never seen its like before. It was much larger boned than a Saxon horse. Giving the chestnut’s huge iron-shod hoofs a wide berth, for they were deadly weapons in themselves, she edged past to the end stall, where Emma and her groom had briefly stabled their ponies.

Straw rustled. The chestnut snickered, an incongruously gentle sound from such a huge beast, which put her in mind of Cloud, the pony her parents had given her as a child. Tears pricked at the back of her eyes. Maman!

Blinking hard, Cecily lifted the lantern so it cast its light in the end stall and fell on more scuffled straw and some fresh dung. These were of little import, since the Breton knight knew already that Emma had fled to St Anne’s.

Warily retracing her steps past the knights’ destriers, Cecily went back into a night that was pitch-black, with no moon. The wind whistled into the compound, and bit at her fingers and nose. Shrinking deeper into her thin habit, intending to destroy any betraying hoofprints at the north gate, Cecily was halfway towards it when behind her the south gate creaked open. She turned and froze.

In the flickering torchlight by the portress’s lodge Sir Adam Wymark was overseeing the opening of the gate, his cloak plastered against his long body by the wind. Outside the compound, a mounted troop of horse-soldiers shifted in the darkness—a shadowy, bristling monster that had no place entering a convent. Metal helms pointed skywards; pointed shields angled down.

Sir Adam’s voice rang clear over the wind. ‘This way, men. There’s only stabling for a couple more, but at least the others will be safer in the palisade.’

A murmur of agreement. One of the horse-soldiers tossed a joke at his fellow, and the troop plodded into the yard in disciplined single file, despite the cold.

Out of the corner of her eye Cecily glimpsed movement in the chapel and in the cookhouse doorway—the flutter of a veil, heads swiftly ducking out of sight. She was not the only one in the convent to be watching England’s conquerors.

A nervous giggle, quickly stifled, escaped from the cookhouse. It was followed by the unmistakable sound of a sharp slap. The cookhouse door slammed shut. The joker in the troop made another comment, which Cecily could not make out, but, since it elicited guffaws of ribald laughter, doubtless it was made at the nuns’ expense.

A brisk word from Sir Adam and the laughing stopped abruptly.

Inside the yard, the men began to dismount and disarm, and as they did so the sense that Sir Adam’s troop was a bristling monster lost its force. They were soldiers, yes—strange, beardless soldiers, with shorn hair—but with their helms off most were revealed to be little more than boys, not much older than she. They were tired, nervous, hungry, and many miles from home. Cecily frowned. Boys they might be, but she could not forget they were boys who nonetheless had been trained to kill.

Sir Adam’s dark head turned in her direction, and she saw him mouth her name—‘Lady Cecily.’ Her heart missed a beat.

‘Look to Flame’s saddle, will you, Maurice? And bed him down,’ Sir Adam said, addressing one of the men. ‘And persuade the portress to light us a fire in the guest house. We’re not about to sleep in an ice-box.’

‘Aye, sir.’

And then he was striding across the yard towards her, throwing commands over his shoulder. ‘We’ll maintain a watch tonight, as ever, Maurice.’

‘Even in this place, sir?’

‘Even here. Four-hour watches. We all need sleep.’

‘Aye, sir.’

Reaching Cecily, he gave her a little bow. Uncertain whether he was mocking her or not, Cecily stood her ground, lantern at her side. Really, this knight from Brittany had the most unsettling effect on her senses—again she felt oddly breathless, as she had done in the guest-house, again her heart was fluttering. It must be fear. It must be hate. Or could it be that she was unused to the company of men?

He looked past her to the north gate, a crease between his brows.

Quickly Cecily shifted her lantern, so the light was not directed towards the hoofprints that must be visible. ‘Sir?’

‘You will not say where your sister has gone?’

‘I…no!’

His face went hard. ‘You do her a disservice.’

‘How so?’

‘If by refusing me and fleeing she thinks to ally herself with the Saxon resistance, it will go badly for her when she is captured. And captured she will be, in the end. For what Duke William holds, he holds hard.’

As do you, Cecily thought, recalling that firm grip on her wrist. She raised her chin. ‘Sir, it is true that my sister came to St Anne’s, and it is true that she has fled, but she did not tell me where she was going.’

‘Would that I could believe you.’ Folding his arms across his chest, he glanced speculatively at the north gate. ‘If I were determined to flee, I’d head north, since our forces already have London and the south reasonably secure. What think you, Lady Cecily? Is my guess a reasonable one?’

Cecily shrugged, affecting a nonchalance she did not feel. Here was a man who would not take kindly to being deceived, and that was exactly what she was trying to do—to deceive him. How would her father have reacted in Adam Wymark’s shoes? The answer was quick in coming—her hot-tempered, proud, impatient father, rest his soul, would have beaten the truth out of her.

Would Adam Wymark beat her? She stared up at him, a tall, broad-shouldered silhouette with the torchlight behind him, but his expression was lost in the half-light and she could not read him. Had he seen the hoofprints? He was certainly looking in that direction…

To distract him she burst into speech. ‘In truth, sir, I know little of such matters. And you may beat me, if you like, but I’ll know no more afterwards than I do now.’

‘Beat you?’ His tone was startled. ‘I don’t beat women.’

Cecily snorted. Most men beat women. Her father certainly had. He had loved her, and yet he hadn’t hesitated to take a switch to her on a number of occasions—most notably when she had at first refused to enter the convent. Beatings had been part of her life for as long as she could remember, and even at the convent they continued. To Mother Aethelflaeda, physical chastisement—‘mortification of sinful flesh’—was a means of enforcing discipline and instilling the necessary penitence and humility in the nuns in her care.

‘I don’t beat women,’ he repeated softly.

Cecily bit her lip. He sounded as if he meant it. ‘Not even when they cross you?’

‘Not even then.’

His gaze went briefly to her mouth, lingering long enough for Cecily, despite her lack of experience, to realise that he was thinking about kissing her. As his particular form of chastisement? she wondered. Or mere curiosity on his part? Or—more unsettling, this—would he think it a pleasure to kiss her? And would it pleasure her to kiss him? She had never kissed a man, and had often wondered what it would feel like.

Shocked at the carnal direction of her thoughts, Cecily took a couple of hasty steps back. ‘Be careful, my lord—’

‘Sir,’ he reminded her. ‘I told you, I am but a mere knight…’

‘Sir Adam, if you seek to rule my father’s hold, you’ll find velvet gloves may not be enough.’ She frowned. ‘What would you do to my sister, if she were to return?’ Surely then he must see Emma chastised? By rejecting his suit so publicly, her sister had shamed Fulford’s new knight before his tenants. Might he want revenge? On the other hand, perhaps he had heard of Emma’s beauty—perhaps he still wanted to marry her? Her confusion deepened as she discovered that this last thought held no appeal. How strange…

Sir Adam was her enemy. Of course—that must be it. What kind of a sister would she be to wish an enemy on her sister?

He had tucked his thumbs into his belt, and was looking at her consideringly. ‘What would I do with your sister? That, my Lady Cecily, would depend.’

‘On…on what?’

He took his time replying. From the direction of the stable came the clinking of chainmail and the odd snatch of conversation as his men settled their warhorses for the night. The wind cut through Cecily’s clothes, chilling her to the bone, and despite herself she shivered. Adam Wymark glanced at the north gate, and Cecily thought he was smiling, but in the poor light she could not be certain.

‘On a number of things,’ he murmured.

And with that the Breton knight Cecily’s sister had rejected gave her one of his mocking bows and a moment later was stalking back to the stable.

‘Tihell!’ he called.

One of the men broke away from the group in the yard. ‘Sir?’

‘Don’t get too comfortable, Félix. I’ve a commission for you,’ Sir Adam said.

His voice gradually faded as he and his subordinate moved away. ‘I want you to rustle up a couple of sharp-eyed volunteers…’

Wishing she had more time to get used to the day’s turn of events, for her head was spinning, Cecily stumbled towards the cookhouse. Lifting the wooden latch, she was instantly enveloped in a comforting warmth.

Yellow flames flickered in the cooking hearth, and grey smoke wound up to the roof-ridge. A fire-blackened cauldron was hanging over the centre of the fire on a long chain suspended from a cross beam. At the hearthside, a three-legged water pot was balanced in the embers, bubbling quietly. Some chickens were roasting on a spit. Cecily inhaled deeply. Roast chicken and rosemary. The chickens were not destined for the novitiate, but that didn’t prevent her mouth from watering.

Two novices were in charge of that evening’s meal—Maude, Cecily’s only true friend at the convent, and Alice. With one hand Maude was stirring the contents of the cauldron, and with the other she steadied it with the aid of a thick cloth. Her skirts and apron were kilted up about her knees, to keep them clear of the flames, while her short leather boots—serviceable ones, like Cecily’s—protected her feet from straying embers. As was Cecily’s habit when working, Maude had rolled up her sleeves and discarded her veil and wimple. A thick brown plait hung down her back, out of the way. Dear Maude.

Alice was kneading dough at a table, shaping it into the round loaves Mother Aethelflaeda so liked. Alice’s loaves would be left to rise overnight, and in the morning they would be glazed with milk and finished with a scattering of poppy seeds.

It was part of a novice’s training to learn all aspects of life in the convent, and Cecily knew how to make the loaves, as well as the many varieties of pottage that the nuns ate. Pottage was the usual fare, unless it was a saint’s day—or, Cecily thought ruefully, one was fasting or doing penance. This evening the aroma coming from the stockpot was not one of Cecily’s favourites, yet on this shocking, disturbing, distressing evening it was strangely reassuring to observe the familiar routine.

Here, in the cookhouse, all seemed blessedly normal. So normal it was hard to believe that a troop from Duke William’s army had just invaded St Anne’s.

‘Turnip and barley?’ Cecily asked, wrinkling her nose.

Maude nodded. ‘Aye—for us. There’s roast chicken for Mother Aethelflaeda and the senior sisters.’

‘We’ve guests,’ Cecily told her. ‘They’ll want more than barley soup.’

‘I know. So I saw.’ Maude grinned and ruefully indicated a reddened cheek that bore the clear imprint of Mother Aethelflaeda’s hand. Wiping her forehead with the pot cloth, she continued, ‘Mother beat you to it, and she made a point of insisting that the foreign soldiers were to have the same as us novices. Oh, except they can have some of that casked cheese…’

‘Not that stuff we found at the back of the storehouse?’

Maude’s grin widened. ‘The same.’

‘Maude, we can’t. Is there none better?’ Cecily and Maude had found the casket of cheese, crumbling and musty with mould, when clearing out the storehouse earlier in the week. It looked old enough to date back to the time of King Alfred.

Maude winced and touched the pot cloth to her slapped cheek. ‘Not worth it, Cecily. She’ll check. And think how many Ave Marias and fast days she’d impose upon you then…’

‘No, she won’t. I’m leaving.’

And while Maude and Alice turned from their work to goggle at her, Cecily quickly told them about her sister Emma and her sad news; about Emma’s proposed marriage to Sir Adam and her subsequent flight; about the reason for Sir Adam’s arrival at St Anne’s; and finally—she blushed over the telling of this—about her indecorous proposition to a Breton knight she’d only set eyes on moments earlier.

‘So you see, Maude,’ she finished on a rush, ‘we must say our goodbyes this night, for I’ll be leaving with these knights in the morning—before Prime. I’m returning to Fulford.’

While Maude still gaped at her, Cecily turned for the door. ‘Mind that pottage, Maude. You’ve not stirred it in an age.’

Cecily snatched a few moments in the chilly gloom of the chapel to try and calm herself and come to terms with her new circumstances. It was not easy. She was about to leave a quiet, ordered, feminine world of prayer and contemplation and re-enter the world that she had left behind—her father’s world. She shivered. Her father’s world was a warrior’s world, a noisy, messy, intemperate world, where real battles were fought and blood was spilled.

And that, she reminded herself, as she stared at the altar cross shining in the light of a single candle, was why she was returning. Someone had to look out for her baby brother and her father’s people. It had been a wrench to leave the world outside the convent walls and, though she had no great love for life at St Anne’s, she did not expect her transition back into it would be easy.

In the way of warriors, one warrior in particular—one from across the sea—kept pushing his way to the forefront of her mind. Wincing, she recalled her proposition to him—worse, she recalled that he had ignored it. Something about Sir Adam disordered her thoughts. But she was going to have to overcome her fear of that if she was to be of use to Philip and the people of Fulford.

Cecily’s thoughts remained tangled, and all too soon she was interrupted by Maude, come to tell her that it was time they served the convent’s unlooked-for guests with their evening meal.

The soldiers—about a dozen—sat round a hastily erected trestle in the guest house. The instant Cecily walked through the door she registered that SirAdam was sitting next to Sir Richard, on a bench at the other end of the table. Deliberately, she kept her gaze elsewhere.

Tallow candles had been hunted out of storage and stuck in the wall sconces. They guttered constantly, and cast strange shadows on the men’s faces—elongating a nose here, the depth of an eye socket there. A sullen fire hissed in the central hearth, and clouds of smoke gusted up to the vent in the roof, but several weeks of rain had seeped into both thatch and daub. It would take more than one night’s fire to chase away the damp.

The men were talking easily to one another and laughing, seemingly perfectly at ease having found some shelter in their new country. Their voices, masculine voices, sounded strangely in Cecily’s ears after years of being attuned only to women. Her hands were not quite steady. A fish out of water, she did not know what to expect. It was most unsettling. Shooting them subtle sideways glances, she tried not to stare at the shaved cheeks and short hair which made boys of them all. But some of them were young in truth—and surely too young to shave? She wondered how much of their manner was simply bravado.

Moving about the table as unobtrusively as possible, Cecily set out tankards of the ale that was usually served with meals. It was too chancy to drink water straight from the well. She continued to avoid Sir Adam’s gaze.

More than anyone else at the convent, she had no good reason to welcome him and his troop, but Mother Aethelflaeda’s parsimony was shaming. Did he set his poor welcome at her door? She hoped not, because she dared not court his dislike—not when she was reliant on him to take her to Fulford.

The sisters had beeswax candles aplenty in the chapel—why couldn’t they have brought out some of those? Beeswax candles burned more evenly, and gave off a pleasant scent that was a world away from the rank stink of tallow. It wouldn’t have hurt to be more hospitable. Tallow candles were used mainly by the peasantry; they were cheap, and they spat and sputtered and gave off cloying black smoke. The room was full of it. To make matters worse, the Prioress had had all the dry wood bundled into the sisters’ solar and had insisted they used green wood for the guest house fire. The result was inevitable: a spitting fire and yet more smoke.

Sir Richard coughed and waved his hand in front of his face. ‘It’s worse than the Devil’s pit in here,’ he said. He spoke no less than the truth.

Cecily shot a covert look across the trestle at Sir Adam. He was leaning on his elbow, quietly observing her. He murmured noncommittally to his friend, his eyes never leaving her.

Flushing, she ducked her head and hurried over to the cauldron of pottage. She concentrated on ladling out the broth into shallow wooden bowls and tried, unsuccessfully, to ignore him. To think that she had proposed marriage to him…What must he think of her?

‘Where’s Tihell?’ Sir Richard murmured.

Intent on her ladling, Cecily missed Sir Adam’s swift headshake. ‘Oh, just a small errand.’

Sir Richard lowered his voice further, and Cecily thought she heard her sister’s name. She strained to hear more, but Sir Adam’s response was inaudible, and out of the corner of her eye Cecily thought he briefly touched his forefinger to his lips.

Maude slapped the mouldering cheese and several loaves of that morning’s baking on the trestle.

Sir Richard took a sip of his ale and grimaced. ‘Saxon swill,’ he muttered. ‘Never wine. Even mead would be better than this.’

Aside from Sir Richard’s comments about the lack of wine, Cecily heard no other complaints. But when she put a steaming bowl of broth before Adam Wymark she distinctly heard his stomach growl. Acutely aware of the lack of meat in the pottage, and the fact that they had been ordered to offer novice’s portions, which would not fill her stomach, let alone that of a tall, active man like Sir Adam, Cecily finally met his gaze.

‘Mother Aethelflaeda’s generosity knows no bounds,’ he said dryly, breaking off a hunk of bread and dipping it into his bowl.

‘Mother Aethelflaeda bade me tell you that our order has been impoverished by the warring,’ Cecily said. ‘She conveys her apologies for the simplicity of our food.’

‘I’ll lay odds she also said that since we are God-fearing men we will not mind Lenten fare instead of a meal.’

Sir Adam’s assessment was so close to the truth that Cecily was hard put not to smile. Demurely, she nodded. ‘Aye, sir. Mother Aethelflaeda also said that in the case of you and your men such fare would be especially apt, as every man who fought at Hastings should do a hundred and twenty days’ penance for each man that he has killed.’

He stared at her, chewing slowly; Sir Richard choked on his ale; a man-at-arms guffawed.

A dark eyebrow lifted. ‘Did you know that His Holiness the Pope did bless our cause over that of your Earl Harold the oath-breaker?’ Sir Adam asked.

‘I did not.’

‘No, I thought your Prioress would keep that interesting titbit to herself.’ He reached for the cheese platter, and eyed the cheese for a moment before sliding it away, untouched. ‘Tell me, Lady Cecily, do all the nuns eat this…this…fare?’

‘We novices do, sir—save for the cheese.’

‘You call this cheese?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Unexpectedly, a grin transformed his face. ‘You save that for special guests, eh?’

Cecily hid a smile. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Do all in your order eat like this?’

Thinking of Mother Aethelflaeda’s chickens, roasting on the spit, Cecily was careful to avoid Maude’s eye, but her burning cheeks betrayed her.

‘Aye,’ he murmured. ‘A proud Saxon lady that one. One who would deny us what she may. I could swear I smelt chicken earlier.’

Cecily shot him a sharp look, but he met her gaze blandly.

Mumbling a reply, Cecily beat a hasty retreat and returned with relief to ladling out the pottage.

By insisting that Maude hand out the remaining platters she managed to avoid talking to Sir Adam for the rest of the meal. Out of the corner of her eye she watched him converse with Sir Richard. Not long after that, as soon as she decently could, Cecily murmured her excuses and left the new Lord of Fulford to bed down for the night. She had a few hours left in which to accustom herself to the idea of placing herself at the mercy of the man who had come to take her father’s lands. She prayed that it would be long enough.

What had she done?

Chapter Five

Next morning, Adam woke when the day was but a faint streak of light in the east. The guest house floor was unforgiving, and the cold had seeped through to his bones. Grimacing, he stretched, noted that his squire Maurice Espinay was up before him, and that the tantalising smell of fresh baked bread was floating in from the cookhouse.

His stomach grumbled. Hunger had been his constant companion since Hastings—the more so because he did not permit his men to ravage the countryside. Most Norman commanders saw it as their right, but Adam could not see the sense in looting and pillaging a village if one ever planned to rule it. Hopefully, when he and his men were settled, they could leave hunger behind.

AsAdam unwound himself from his cloak, he saw in his mind’s eye the lively dark eyes and the smiling mouth of Gwenn, his dead wife and his love. He thought about her most on waking. In the early days of his grief he had tried to discipline himself not to think of her, but as a strategy that had proved useless. Grief was a sneaky opponent. On the rare mornings he had succeeded in pushing Gwenn’s memory away, the grief had simply bided its time and crept up on him later, when he had not been braced for it. So, sighing, Adam had given himself permission to think about Gwenn first thing, since that was when he woke expecting to find her at his side.

Some mornings were more bearable than others. Even though it was two years since Gwenn had been laid to rest in the graveyard at Quimperlé, there were times when the grief was as fresh as though she had died but the day before; times when it was impossible to believe that never again would he look into those smiling, loving eyes. Ah, Gwenn, he thought, relieved that this looked as though it was going to be one of the more bearable mornings. Today he was going to be able to think of her sadly, to be sure, but without the lance of pain that had so crippled him in the weeks immediately following her death.

Briskly, Adam rubbed his arms to get his circulation going. His stomach growled a second time and his lips curved into a twisted smile. Gwenn was spared further suffering—she was safe beyond cold, beyond hunger—but he most definitely was not. Wryly he wondered what crumbs Mother Aethelflaeda would throw them for breakfast.

Shivering, he washed in the icy brackish water Maurice carried into the guest house in an ewer. Then, after eating a meagre nuns’ breakfast of bread and honey, washed down with small ale of a bitter brewing, he left the lodge with Richard to arm himself for the ride to Winchester and thence to Fulford. His stomach still rumbled. The poppyseed bread had been mouthwateringly good—fragrant and warm from the oven, not the crumbs he had feared being given—but there had not been enough of it. Not nearly enough.

Daylight was strengthening by the minute, and a light frost rimmed the horse trough white. As the two knights walked towards the stable their breath huffed out like mist in front of them. Glancing skywards, Adam noted some low-lying cloud, but thankfully the rain was holding off. Rain played havoc with chainmail, and his was in sore need of an oiling. It was not Maurice’s fault. Emma Fulford’s precipitous flight had left them with no time to pause for such niceties.

Where was Cecily Fulford? he wondered. She should have put in an appearance by now. Prime could not be far off. He conjured up her image in his mind and her blue eyes swam before him, her lips pink and kissable as no novice’s had any right to be—except that she was always worrying at them with those small white teeth. Worrying, worrying. Where had she slept? In a cell on her own? Or in a dormitory full of other novices? Had she been as cold as he? Had she broken her fast with fresh poppyseed bread?

‘We can’t afford to take any risks going through Winchester,’ Adam said, once Maurice had him armed. Their helms dangled from wooden pegs and their long shields were stacked with several others against a partition. ‘I don’t want a seax in my ribs.’

With his mail coif heavy about his neck, he leaned against a stall and watched Richard’s squire, Geoffrey of Leon, do the honours with his friend’s chainmail.

Straw rustled underfoot. ‘Nor I,’ Richard mumbled, emerging red-faced through the neck of the chainmail.

Maurice led the destriers out. Their hoofbeats initially rang loud on the stone flags in the stable, but when they reached the beaten earth in the yard the hoofbeats changed, became muted.

‘Maurice?’ Adam leaned through the stable door. ‘Commandeer a pillion saddle from the Prioress.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And don’t take no for an answer.’

‘No, sir.’

‘Put the saddle on Flame, when you find it. Oh, and Maurice—?’

‘Sir?’

‘Charge Le Blanc with guarding our rear on the road, will you? You can keep watch ahead. If anyone attacks, it’s possible they’ll do it in Winchester.’

He ducked back into the stable. Lady Cecily Fulford. He was glad she was to accompany them. Her presence would be invaluable—and not just for her help with the language. Where was the girl? Impatient with himself for letting musings on Cecily Fulford’s whereabouts distract him from the business at hand, Adam rolled his shoulders so his chainmail sat more comfortably. He trusted that she had not changed her mind about going with them…he wanted her to go with them, he realised. Purely as an interpreter—nothing more, naturally. She would be most useful.

Richard reached for his sword belt. ‘I agree we should keep a sharp lookout, Adam, but I disagree about Winchester being a point of possible ambush. The Duke’s men already have it garrisoned. And the streets are far too narrow—any fighting would mean the certain death of women and children, not to mention damage to property. I don’t think the Saxons would risk that—’

Adam shook his head. ‘You’re forgetting, Richard—Winchester’s the heart of Wessex. Harold and his kin have made it their capital for decades: there’s a great cathedral, royal palaces—loyalty will be at its strongest in the city. No, we’ll watch our backs most diligently when we pass through there.’

Richard grunted and buckled on his sword. ‘You’re the one in command.’

Adam smiled and clapped Richard on the shoulder. ‘My thanks for your support, my friend. Without it I…Suffice it to say I’ll not forget it.’

‘Heavens, man, you’re the hero who rallied the Breton cavalry. All I did was inform the Duke of your actions.’ He shrugged. ‘Besides, I have plenty of lands in Normandy already. My time here will come. I’d as lief support you as anyone.’

‘My thanks.’ Adam frowned out into the courtyard. ‘Any sign of my lady Cecily?’

‘Your lady, is she?’ Richard grinned. ‘Will you wed her in her sister’s place?’

‘If I can’t track down the sister I just might.’

‘I suppose one Fulford wench is as good as another?’

‘This one may be better, since she has offered herself to me.’

‘Adam, you don’t have to wed either of them if they don’t please. The Duke gifted Fulford Hall and the lands to you unconditionally. All you had to do was swear fealty to him. You hold title to them now.’ He tilted his head to one side and looked thoughtfully at Adam. ‘In fact, you might do better to look elsewhere, since the novice has no dower. Marrying her won’t fill empty coffers.’

Adam nodded. ‘That’s true. But it would help my cause at Fulford if I were to wed one of Thane Edgar’s daughters.’

‘Then take the little novice, Adam, since she has offered. I can see that she appeals…’

Aye, damn her, she more than appeals, Adam thought as he went to find her and hurry her along. He could wish that she didn’t appeal—he needed to keep his heart whole. He had given his heart once before, to his beautiful dark-eyed Gwenn. Pain sliced through him, hitting him off-guard. Never again. Never would he put his happiness in the hands of one woman.

Speaking of women—where had that novice got to? If they were to reach Winchester by noon, as he had planned, they must leave at once. He had urgent despatches for the Duke, and he did not think Novice Cecily would enjoy it if they had to gallop the entire way to the city.

The herb garden behind the chapel was reached via an arch through a high wattle fence, and it was there that Adam found her. He paused under the arch, watching her slight form as she made her way up one of the turf paths between the beds. Lady Cecily Fulford, Saxon noblewoman. Her footprints left tracks in the melting frost.

How tiny she was. He’d noticed yesterday that she barely reached his shoulder, but today, in the garden, she looked smaller still. She was clad in her novice’s habit and veil, and that thin cloak. Perhaps that was all she had—but it wasn’t much considering she was a thane’s daughter, an aristocrat. What would she think, he wondered, if she knew that he did not have a drop of noble blood in his veins? Would she turn tail, as her sister had done? Would she lift that little nose of hers and…? Certainly she would not have made that impetuous proposal if she knew of his humble origins. But…Impatiently, he shook his head. Such thoughts were pointless.

Being the end of the year, nothing in the herb garden was growing: the twiggy remnants of some herb poked out of the ground here; brown, frost-scorched root-tops wilted there. Adam was no gardener, but he could see that this garden had been carefully laid out and tended. In the centre stood a gnarled and leafless apple tree. A small bundle lay at its foot.

Lady Cecily had yet to see him. Hardly breaking step, she bent to pull some red hips off a straggling briar and tucked them absently into the folded-back sleeve of her habit. It was a nun-like gesture. She moved on; she straightened a stake.

Watching how she gazed at the sleeping plants, Adam saw love for the garden in every line of her body, in the caressing way her fingers trailed over a rosemary bush, a bay tree…He shifted his stance against the fencing, struck with an uncomfortable thought. Was his desire to take this woman with him as his interpreter pure selfishness? Was he standing in the way of a true vocation? Watching her in this garden he had second thoughts, but yesterday—yesterday in the lodge—he had not gained that impression.

No, he was not doing wrong to take her. There was no love lost between Cecily Fulford and the Prioress, and no sign of a great vocation either. Cecily Fulford might love this garden, but she did not love the convent. She had asked to go with him, which in itself was something of a mystery. There would be other gardens. For his part, he must be on his guard, lest his attraction to her person made him forget that she must have her reasons for suggesting she married him. And not for one moment would he forget the pain that loving could bring—that aching void after Gwenn had died. Not even for beauty such as Lady Cecily’s would he go courting that a second time. He would wed Cecily Fulford if she agreed, with gladness, but this time he would think of it as a business transaction. He would keep his heart out of it.

A robin landed on a branch of the apple tree. Pushing himself away from the arch, Adam cleared his throat and called her by her secular name—her true name. ‘Lady Cecily?’

The robin took flight; she turned and, seeing him, took a hasty pace back. His chainmail—she misliked it. He had been right to remove it yesterday.

Her cheeks were white as alabaster. He saw her swallow. ‘Y-you are ready to leave, Sir Adam?’

‘Aye.’

‘I also am ready. I said my farewells yesterday.’ She came towards him via the apple tree, resting her hand on the bark as she retrieved the bundle.

He took it from her, noting that she was careful to avoid contact with his fingers. ‘This is everything?’

She nodded, eyes wary, still absorbing his changed appearance. Did she fear him? Or, worse, hate him? Adam wanted her to think kindly of him, but since he had arrived in her life as a conqueror he acknowledged the difficulties. No, he was not so naïve as to think that Cecily Fulford had proposed because she liked the look of him. She must have some ulterior motive in mind. Seeing Fulford Hall again? Caring for her father’s people? Escaping from the convent?

He glanced at her mouth, at the rosy lips turned up to him, and wondered at a world that would see such beauty wither unseen behind high convent walls. Madness—it was nothing less than madness. Those lips were made for kissing, and he—out of the blue a shocking thought took his breath—he wanted to be the one doing the kissing…

Abruptly, he looked away. What was happening here? One moment he was missing Gwenn, and the next…His mind raced. Perhaps he should not have kept himself faithful to Gwenn’s memory. Richard had warned him that celibacy turned men’s minds. Perhaps Richard was right.

This girl was a novice, for pity’s sake, an innocent. He must control himself. He might be aware of her in a carnal sense, and she might have asked him to marry her, but he would be damned if he would accept until he had discovered her true motives.

‘You haven’t the weight to handle one of our horses on your own,’ he said in commendably cool tones. ‘Would you be content to ride pillion behind one of the men? Our saddles are fashioned for battle, but if we can’t find a pillion saddle I am sure we can put something together.’

‘Oh, no,’ Cecily said. She felt her cheeks grow hot. ‘That is…I couldn’t…’

Before entering the novitiate Cecily had been taught to ride pillion, as all ladies were. But it had been over four years since she had ridden—pillion or otherwise—and she did not think she still had the knack. Would she be riding astride? Or side saddle? Either way filled her with alarm. To ride astride behind one of these…these invaders would surely be seen as unseemly—and yet if she rode side saddle she’d be in the mud in no time…

His dark brows came together. ‘You do not like horses?’

‘Oh, no—I do like them. But I am woefully out of practice. And yours are so large. Could I take Mother Aethelflaeda’s pony?’

‘I asked, but she refused to lend it.’ Briefly his green eyes lit up. ‘No doubt she thinks I’ll mince it and feed it to the dogs.’

‘But, sir—’

He turned and, brushing her protests aside, ducked under the arch. ‘We’ll find something suitable.’

With a scowl, Cecily followed, her eyes fixed on Adam’s mail-clad back. Ride pillion behind one of his men? No, no, no. It was one thing to race across the downs with her brother Cenwulf as a child, but then she had been riding her own gentle Cloud, not clinging to one of Sir Adam’s men astride a hulking great warhorse. And she would certainly not—her cheeks positively flamed—perch behind him, the strange Breton knight who had come to lay claim to her father’s lands.

The yard was a mill of armed and mounted men. Harness jingled as the destriers tossed their heads and stamped great dints in the earth. With their helms on, Cecily could not recognise any of the men and boys from the previous night. All were terrifying alien beings, with loud voices and metal weapons that gleamed in the morning light. They looked prepared for anything.

Her heart thumped. Was she really going with these foreigners? She must be mad. For a moment the coward in her had the louder voice, urging her to remain safely in the convent. What if her countrymen attacked them? Of all in their party she would be the only one with no chainmail or gambeson to keep her safe, and it would take but one arrow from a Saxon bow to put an end to her. A cold lump settled in her belly, like yesterday’s porridge.

‘Cecily! Cecily!’ Maude’s voice cut across the general clamour, and then her friend was beside her, hugging her, eyeing Sir Adam and his men askance. ‘Are you sure this is wise?’ Maude hissed, veil quivering.

Adam Wymark turned his head—he had not yet mounted. His mail coif was pulled up, but Cecily knew that he could hear them. She thought of her newborn brother, an orphan with no other family to fend for him, and she nodded.

‘Don’t they frighten you?’ Maude whispered, pressing a small sacking-wrapped bundle into Cecily’s hands.

Stiffening her spine, Cecily ignored the question and glanced at the sacking. ‘What’s this?’

‘Healing herbs. I took them from the infirmary—horehound, poppyseeds, woundwort and suchlike…You grew them, dried them—I thought you should have them. I knew you’d never take them, but you don’t know how your mother’s store cupboard stands.’

Cecily’s eyes widened. ‘Maude, you shouldn’t have. What if Mother finds out? She’ll beat you for stealing.’

‘Who’s to tell? I certainly won’t, and since you won’t be here…’

Cecily shook her head, smiling. ‘My thanks. I may well need them.’

Adam Wymark threw his mount’s reins at a man and strode towards them. His black hair was no longer visible under the mail coif, but his green eyes remained the same—not harsh or mean, but enquiring—and with a lurch in her belly Cecily realised she did not hate him. Of all the men the Norman Duke could have sent to Fulford, he was probably the least offensive. Why, the good Lord knew how harsh and unreasoning her own father had been at times. It seemed possible that Sir Adam was more temperate—she would watch and reserve her judgement.

With a wave of his hand, Sir Adam indicated his troop. ‘My men are at your disposal, my lady. With whom do you ride?’

‘W-with whom?’ Cecily bit her lip as all eyes turned on her. What was more unsettling? The thought of riding pressed against Sir Adam, or the thought of riding with one of his men? ‘S-sir, I…I…’

Maude, who spoke French, had watched this exchange. She stepped forward, a stubborn set to her jaw that Cecily recognised from one of the many times she had seen Maude wilfully disobey one of their order’s rules. ‘Lady Cecily should not be riding with a common soldier, sir.’

Afraid for her friend, Cecily caught Maude’s sleeve. ‘Maude, no!’

Sir Adam looked thoughtfully down at Maude, and said with pleasant deliberation. ‘You are in the right—though my men would no doubt not thank you for naming them “common”…’He sighed heavily. ‘And here I was thinking that, in God’s eyes at least, all men are equal.’

‘They are, sir,’ Maude said, hastily backing down. ‘Indeed they are.’

‘Ah, well, that is good. Because I am a common man, and Lady Cecily is to ride with me.’

Catching sight of a suspicious gleam in his eyes, a twitch of his lips, Cecily frowned. To be sure there was an edge to his voice, but he was laughing—the wretch was making fun of them…

‘Say your farewells,’ he said, and stood aside to allow Maude and Cecily to embrace.

Then, taking her by the wrist as he had done the previous evening, he led her to where a man—no, he was a boy—was holding his destrier, the magnificent chestnut. Cecily bit her lip. She’d never ridden anything half that size.

‘Don’t fear him.’

‘I…I don’t.’

‘Here…’ He drew her level with the horse’s head. ‘His name is Flame. Let him see you, smell you. He won’t hurt you if he knows you’re with me. You can touch him. I’ve never known him bite a woman.’

She shot Adam Wymark a startled look, but it was impossible to tell whether he was teasing or not. ‘He bites men, then, sir?’ In battle, she supposed, this destrier would do anything its master asked of it. It was a sobering thought.

‘Go on—stroke him.’

Tentatively, Cecily reached out and patted the great arched neck, murmuring softly, as though the warhorse were one of her father’s ponies. Thus she had petted her own Cloud before coming to St Anne’s. Cloud had gone back with her father to Fulford as novices were not allowed ponies. What had happened to her? This horse’s chestnut muzzle, she discovered, was just as soft as Cloud’s had been.

‘Warm velvet,’ she murmured.

‘That’s it—let him know you’re not afraid,’ said the man at her side. He still had a firm grip on her wrist.

‘I’m not afraid,’ Cecily said, pulling away from the fingers on her wrist.

A brief smile lit those disturbing eyes and he released her, turning away to reach something down from behind the saddle—a saddle which was not the chevalier’s saddle she had noticed the day before. Somehow he had contrived to find one suitable for carrying a lady pillion.

She frowned. ‘You planned to have me behind you all along…’

Ignoring her remark, he handed a blue bundle to her. ‘Here—you’d best borrow this.’

His cloak, and the finest Cecily had held in an age. Of rich blue worsted, lined with fur. Carefully, so as not to startle the chestnut, Cecily unfolded it. So heavy, so warm, so sinfully sensual. You could bury your face in it and….

Momentarily speechless at such thoughtfulness, she blinked up at him, confused by the contradictions he presented. A foreign knight who had come to take her father’s lands and yet who considered her comfort.

He shrugged and turned away to pull something else from his pack, the faintest colour staining his cheekbones. ‘My mother would have had that thing you’re wearing for dish-clouts years ago,’ he said gruffly. ‘You’d best borrow these too. They’ll be overlarge for you, but better than the nothing that the convent has seen fit to provide you with.’

Gloves. A warrior’s pair, to be sure, but again of the best quality, carefully cut, the stitching perfect, lined with sheepskin.

‘B-but, sir—what of you?’

‘My gambeson is padded, Lady Cecily. Your need is greater.’

Cecily draped the cloak about her, almost moaning in delight as its warmth settled about her shoulders. The fabric held within its folds an elusive fragrance: sandalwood, mixed with a scent particular to the man to whom it belonged. Tentatively, Cecily inhaled. Her cheeks grew warm, and under cover of tugging on his gloves she ducked her head to escape his gaze.

He clapped on his helm and with a clinking of harness and chainmail, and a creaking of leather, mounted. ‘Help Lady Cecily, will you, Maurice?’ With the reins in one hand, he held out the other towards her.

Maurice—the lad was clearly his squire—bent and cupped his hands. Cecily stepped up, took Sir Adam’s hand, and a moment later was seated behind him. Astride.

Too high. It was far too high. And her legs were showing almost to her knees, revealing her pathetically over-darned grey stockings. Wondering if one could die of mortification, Cecily clutched at Sir Adam’s pack, at her own meagre bundle which was strapped next to his, at the side of the saddle—anywhere but at the mailed knight who shared the saddle with her. With one hand she snatched at the skirts of her habit, trying to pull it down over her legs.

He nudged the horse with his heels and they turned towards the gate. Almost unseated, she squeaked a protest.

The helmed head twisted round. ‘My lady, it will not kill you to hold onto me, but it may well kill you if you don’t. You must get proper purchase.’

He was right. But Cecily had never in her life sat so close to a man who was not related to her. Thanking God for the chainmail that would surely keep him from feeling the press of her body against him, and thankful that his men seemed to be ignoring the shocking sight of her legs, she surrendered to the inevitable and gripped his sword belt firmly—a shocking intimacy that would have had Mother Aethelflaeda in a swoon.

‘That’s it, my lady.’ He waved his troop on and they trotted through the gate and onto the high road, just as the chapel bell began summoning the nuns to Prime.

Jostled and juddering on the back of Adam Wymark’s destrier, Cecily looked down at the ground passing beneath them and hung on desperately. Craning her neck to look through the troop of horse-soldiers following them, she could make out Maude, waving by the gate. Cecily had no hand spare to wave back, but she found a smile and hoped that Maude would see it.

‘Fare thee well, Maude.’

The convent bell rang out. Maude glanced over her shoulder, spoke briefly to someone behind her in the convent yard, leaned her weight into the great doors and pushed them shut, nipping inside herself at the last moment.

Cecily did not know why, but she kept her eyes fixed on those closed gates for as long as she could, finally losing sight of them when they clattered over the bridge and took the road that led into the forest.

The ride to Winchester from St Anne’s could have been accomplished in two hours at full stretch, but Adam, conscious of the tension in the girl perched behind him on the saddle, didn’t push it. True, he wanted his despatches to reach Duke William in London as soon as possible, but wording them would not be easy, and he could use the time to compose his thoughts and justify the decision he had made.

The horses forged on through a dense, largely leafless woodland. Overhead, twisted branches formed a black latticework against the grey backcloth of the sky. The rain held off. On the ground, leaf-litter muffled their hoofbeats; briars curled like coiled springs by the wayside. Glossy rosehips and stale blackberries hung from spindly twigs.

Keeping a wary eye out for Saxon rebels, they passed a series of holly bushes, bright with red berries. They had dark leaves in abundance—good cover for those preparing an ambush. Glancing at Le Blanc, Adam saw he was already alert to the dangers as he waved two men out of line—one to watch the right hand, one the left.

They rode on.

Aware that ahead of them lay a barren stretch of downland before they gained the city, Adam found himself wondering not about how Tihell, his captain, was faring on his mission to find the missing Lady Emma, not about rebellious Saxons, not even about the wording of the letters he intended to send from Winchester, but about Cecily Fulford herself. What was going through her mind?

He couldn’t begin to imagine what her life had been like in the convent, but of one thing he was certain: it would have been restricted in the extreme. She might once have been a horsewoman, but it did not appear that the Prioress gave leave for any of the novices to exercise the pony in the stable. Any riding skills that Cecily Fulford had once possessed had to be rusty. For the first mile or so through the forest her demeanour confirmed this. She held herself stiffly, jouncing up and down behind him like a sack of wheat.

Then Adam realised his mistake—it wasn’t lack of expertise that kept her so lumpen, she was intent on avoiding bodily contact with him. Whether that was because she was unused to men, or whether it was because she mistrusted and misliked him, he couldn’t tell. She must think of him as the enemy.

Suffice it to say here she was, a lone Saxon girl who had put herself into the hands of her conquerors, willingly, without duress, while her sister had fled. Cecily Fulford might be lacking in worldly experience, but she did not lack courage.

What Adam had yet to fathom was why she had offered to go with them, and why she had asked to take her sister’s place. He could only think that she sought to distract him from following the Lady Emma. He smiled wryly at such innocence. Distract him she certainly did, but not in the way she sought. And little did she know that he had sent Tihell after Emma Fulford, notwithstanding. Those hoofprints that left St Anne’s by the north gate simply could not be ignored.

Acutely conscious of the slight body held so stiffly behind him, of the small hands that were clinging to his sword belt, Adam held his peace as the miles passed. He simply urged Flame steadily on and willed the girl behind him to relax.

This should not matter to me, he told himself. But it did. He wanted Cecily Fulford to feel at ease in his company—although this was, as Richard had been swift to point out, something of an impossibility. Not only was he the invader of her father’s land, but class lay between them too. Maude had known that instinctively. Cecily Fulford—Lady Cecily Fulford—was highborn, while he…Impatient with himself, Adam snapped the thread of his thought. This should not matter. This did not matter. Especially given that he had sworn off emotional entanglements.

Adam and his troop ploughed on, and the wording for his dispatches continued to elude him. The trees thinned. The wind rose, chilling Adam’s ungloved hands, turning them red. His men’s breath and the breath of the horses turned to smoke in the air about them. Woodland gave way to downland, and the track was a chalky mire which sucked at the horses’ hoofs.

Adam tightened his grip on the reins. Overhead, a buzzard circled.

As they crested a treacherous rise Flame stumbled. Adam almost dislodged his shield when he thrust an arm behind him to keep Cecily safe. Simultaneously she flung both arms round his waist. Flame regained his footing. Through his mailcoat Adam felt Cecily press herself against his back. His heart lightened. At last.

Again Flame skidded as he picked his way down the incline.

When they reached the bottom Cecily shifted in the saddle behind him, bringing her thighs and body closer yet. She did not let go of his waist.

Yes, Adam thought. Yes.

And thus it was that as they covered the final miles towards the capital of Wessex Adam found the wording of his despatches came more easily than he would have dreamed possible.

Chapter Six

From time to time Cecily rested her head against Adam Wymark’s broad back, pillowing her cheek with the fur-lined hood of his cloak. His leather jacket was visible through the links of his hauberk.

Fulford’s new lord was right-handed, so his shield was slung on his left. Whenever Flame broke into a trot it banged her thigh—she would have a bruise there for certain—but that was the least of her worries. Every muscle in her body was shrieking so loudly it was a wonder the whole troop couldn’t hear; every bone ached. Biting her lip to stifle her moans, Cecily clung to Sir Adam, and prayed that St Christopher, Patron Saint of all travellers, would keep her glued to Flame’s back. Once, riding had been a pleasure, today it had to be endured.

Circling thoughts had had her tossing and turning the night through, but one night’s loss of sleep was not the sole cause of her exhaustion. Rather, it was the series of night vigils that Mother Aethelflaeda had imposed on her in the week before Emma had run to the convent. That, and being permanently put on a fast. Fasting might be good for the soul, but it certainly weakened the body. Surreptitiously shifting her position, Cecily held down another groan. For all that she had rested her face against Adam Wymark’s cloak, by now it must bear the imprint of his chainmail. She was beyond caring.

At a moss-covered milestone which announced they had reached the outskirts of Winchester, they joined a steady stream of knights and pilgrims heading for the heart of the city. She was struck by how many men there were.

Ill at ease, she pushed herself upright. For the most part the men looked hairy and unwashed. Rough, and not a little frightening. Her convent eyes were to blame for this perception, no doubt. But they all looked so…so vigorous—though not quite as vigorous as the man sitting before her. They looked more alarming, however. More alarming than Duke William’s knight? Cecily puzzled over this for a moment, for the men were Saxons, like herself. But there was not one within sight that she would care to run into on a dark night, and she did not think the knight would hurt her. She caught her breath. She trusted him? That was not possible, Adam Wymark was her enemy.

Setting her jaw, telling herself she must keep her wits about her, Cecily glanced about. She had only entered the capital of Wessex once before, on the day her father had brought her to the convent, and that day had been so coloured by anger and grief and, yes, bitterness at being sent away from home that she had taken in little.

Winchester was circled by ancient Roman walls, and successive Saxon Kings from Alfred down to Harold had kept them in good repair. Wondering if the Normans had breached the walls in taking the city, Cecily craned her neck, but for the most part they looked intact, a solid line of grey stone which followed the course of the River Itchen. The river was wide and in full spate, and it flowed along just outside the walls. They would have to cross the river to enter the city.

Ahead of them was Eastgate and the bridge. The road filled with traffic. Dozens—no, hundreds of men here: bearded Saxons with shaggy manes of hair, clean-shaven foreigners. She saw Saxon women too, carrying babies on their backs, a priest on a mule, two dogs fighting—it was a stomach-churning contrast to the peace and quiet of the convent. One could so easily get lost if separated from one’s companions. Unconsciously, she tightened her grip on Adam Wymark’s belt.

He turned towards her, resting a hand on her knee. ‘We’re almost at the garrison,’ he said. ‘Can you last a little longer?’

The pressure of his hand was gentle, but Cecily felt it like a brand through her worn habit. She shot a look at the long, strong fingers, tinged red with cold because she had taken his gloves. His knuckles were grazed, his fingernails bitten down to the quick. Too human, those bitten nails. Better that she had not noticed them…

‘I’m fine, thank you,’ she said, though her muscles screamed that she’d be stiff for a sennight.

Duke William’s knight nodded, removed his hand from her knee and faced forwards, leaving Cecily blinking at a row of burnt-out dwellings that lined the route.

War damage? Some of the houses had been left without roofs, others were skeletons, with charred timbers that clawed at the sky. The smell of smoke was eye-wateringly strong. A lump closed her throat. Neither the Roman walls nor the River Itchen had been able to do much to save the buildings clustered on the outskirts of the old Saxon capital. The recent fighting had destroyed all but the most sturdy.

Moving with careful desperation in the debris, sifting through the wreckage, ragged figures picked through the pitiful remnants like crows at a carcase. It mattered not whether they were dispossessed householders or looters, it came to one thing—here on the outskirts of Winchester people had been reduced to penury. Cecily’s heart ached. Dear God, let Fulford not have suffered like this. Let the villagers be whole.

A troop of Norman horse-soldiers trotted smartly out of Eastgate and across the bridge, cutting a swathe through the pilgrims. When the troop drew level with Sir Adam, the leading knight saluted. ‘Wymark!’

‘Holà, Gervais!’ Turning his mailed head, Adam smiled over his shoulder. ‘Hang on, Lady Cecily, a few minutes more.’

She avoided his gaze. Adam Wymark might talk righteously about oaths sworn between kings, and of oaths broken, but what did the poor, ordinary folk know of that? No, this knight and his kind had caused too much suffering. The loan of a cloak and a pair of gloves and a few kind words could not begin to atone for what Duke William’s warriors had done to her homeland…

It was painfully clear that the Duke’s forces had been more than thorough in their attempts to stamp out any resistance. Since Winchester was the traditional heartland of the Earls of Wessex, she supposed it was logical that the Normans should scour the hinterland for rebels, but she did not have to like it.

One of the town mills, half consumed by fire, had collapsed into the river, its blackened debris forming a rickety raft. Ducks waddled across sodden, flame-scorched timber and planking. As one launched itself into the swift-flowing water, Cecily’s eyes filled. They edged past a Saxon pilgrim swinging himself along on crutches. His straggling brown hair was tied back with a piece of string and he had one foot, but despite this he was moving at a fair pace…

Another lame man, one bent leg encased in bandages…

And another, flat out on a hurdle. There were so many sick and wounded; there was so much suffering.

He had doubtless played his part. She shut her eyes to close out the sight of a young boy of about ten years of age who had lost his arm above the elbow, and a tear ran hot down her cheek. Loosening her grip on Adam Wymark’s belt, Cecily tried to shift back, away from him.

Old Minster—the Saxon Cathedral—had for centuries been renowned as a place of healing. These poor people were heading there, to the tomb of St Swithun, as they had always done in troubled times. They hoped for a miracle, and Cecily prayed they found it.

At the gate, a blind man held out his hand for alms. Fulford’s new lord dug into a small pouch and a silver farthing arced through the air, to land with a clink in the begging bowl.

Cecily frowned. The man was a mass of contradictions. What should she make of him? One minute he was William of Normandy’s loyal knight—a man capable of killing her countrymen—and the next he was giving succour to Saxon beggars.

A girl limped along on crutches, her clothes scarcely better than sacking. A young woman with a hen tucked under her arm took one look at their troop and spat pointedly in their direction. Fearful for the woman, Cecily went rigid. Her hot-tempered father would have leapt from his horse and taken his crop to her for such insolence. Sir Adam’s hands merely tightened on the reins and they pressed on steadily.

The bridge rang hollow under the horse’s hoofs. A heartbeat later and the stone arch of Eastgate was a cool shadow over their heads, and then the light strengthened as they emerged into the city proper.

Inside the walls, there was little damage. Her heart lifted as the horses’ hoofs beat a sharp tattoo on the cobblestones. Passing lines of wooden houses—intact wooden houses—they entered the market square.

Saxons were selling eggs alongside cabbages, vending bread and new-baked pies, hawking ale alongside holy relics. Voices flew to and fro across the street like shuttles on a loom: speaking English, speaking French, speaking Latin—so many tongues that Cecily could not attune herself to all of them. It was a far cry from the peace and quiet of St Anne’s. And then, just as she thought she could take in no more, a voice she recognised cut right across the cacophony…a male voice.

‘Meet me in the Cathedral an hour from now.’

Ahead of her! No, on her right…

Tightening her grip on Sir Adam’s belt, Cecily turned swiftly to either side, her gaze sweeping the square. No—no, it could not be! But that voice…that voice…where was he?

‘Meet me in the Cathedral an hour from now.’ Yes, that was what he had said, clear as day. Judhael! One of her father’s men! It could not be he…and yet surely that voice was his? And who had he been talking to?

The crowd milled around them. Wildly, with her heart in her mouth, Cecily peered this way and that but could see no one she knew. And certainly there was no sign of Judhael, who had been her father’s most promising housecarl and her brother Cenwulf’s best friend…

Her head was spinning.

Had she dreamed hearing Judhael’s voice among the crowd? A faint moan escaped her, and she sagged against Adam Wymark’s broad back. Her mind was playing tricks. She was exhausted and near sick with worry, and it was hard to credit that her father’s hearth troops were probably all dead. She wanted them to have lived, and she was just conjuring up Judhael’s voice. Sister Mathilda had told her that the mind could play tricks, and Sister Mathilda was very wise—for hadn’t another sister, Sister Beatrice, regaled the nuns with the visions she’d had after a particularly penitential Lenten fast…

The Breton knight reached back and touched her knee. ‘Lady Cecily? What’s amiss?’

Dear Lord, the man didn’t miss a thing, Cecily thought, hastily straightening. ‘It…it’s nothing—a momentary dizziness, that’s all.’ And then she wished she’d said something—anything—else, for his grip shifted and he pulled her close to his mailed body.

‘Hold hard, my lady.’

Her fingers were already clinging so tightly to Adam Wymark’s sword belt she wondered if she’d ever pry them loose. Giving an inarticulate murmur, Cecily gazed steadfastly at the market stalls. Anything rather than meet the disconcerting green eyes of Duke William’s knight.

Meet me in the Cathedral an hour from now.

Judhael—if that really had been him—must have meant the Old Saxon Cathedral, St Swithun’s, not the New Minster which stood next to it.

An hour from now…an hour from now…

Somehow, within the next hour, she must free herself from Adam Wymark and make her way to the Cathedral. Judhael might well be with his Maker, but if she wasn’t in St Swithun’s to make certain that she had dreamed his voice she would never forgive herself.

A brace of clean-shaven Norman guards were stationed at each corner of the market square. Their hair was cropped in like manner to Sir Adam and his men. Each guard was fully armed in the costly chainmail, so they must either be knights or in the Duke’s personal entourage. She caught glimpses of several pointed shields, like the one which hung at Adam Wymark’s saddle and was bruising her thigh.

A woman threw a bowl of slops under Flame’s feet. The destrier didn’t miss a step. They clopped over the cobbles, the rhythm of the hoofbeat tattoo unbroken.

I have to get to the Cathedral, I have to, she vowed, as she jounced past the market cross and several squawking chickens in cages. Head in a whirl, she felt a pang for the peace and solitude of the convent herb garden. Her lips twisted. For years she had longed to be part of just such a bustle and rush, but now she was in the thick of it it made her dizzy and she could not think.

Think, think. How to get to the Cathedral unobserved…?

Adam Wymark wheeled his chestnut into an alley and they entered the Cathedral Close. At once, as though a curtain had been drawn shut behind them, the bustle and rush and noise of the market fell away.

Peace. Thank the Lord, Cecily thought, ruefully acknowledging that there must be more of the nun in her nature than she had realised.

They drew rein outside the long stone building that once had housed the Saxon royal family, the Palace of the Kings. A stone arch framed the thick oak of the palace doorway, impressively carved with leaves and fruit. A flight of steps ran up the outside of the wall, leading, Cecily surmised, to a second floor and the private apartments of her father’s liege lord, the late Harold of Wessex.

Today the Palace of the Kings—the Saxon Kings of Wessex—was bursting at the seams with what looked like the whole of Duke William’s invasion force. Despite her borrowed cloak, Cecily’s blood chilled, and the voice she’d imagined hearing in the market was pushed from her mind.

Was nothing sacred?

Two mailed Norman guards flanked the central doorway. Another pair were stationed on the landing at the top of the outside stairway. And in front of the Palace, on the flagstones, piles of weapons were being sorted by more of the Duke’s men—swords, spears, bows—the booty of war? A distant hammering told her that nearby a smith was hard at work.

Adam Wymark dismounted, stretched, and offered her his hand. His helmed head turned in the direction of her gaze. ‘Not what you’d expected?’

Cecily swallowed, and sought to express the confusion of emotions warring within her. ‘Yes…No…’ She tried again. ‘It’s just that it…it’s our Royal Palace.’

‘Last month it was,’ he said, eyes half hidden by his nose-guard. He reached up to help her down. ‘Today it is our headquarters.’

‘So I see.’ His hands, without his gloves, were red with cold. They rested briefly on her waist to steady her, and for a moment there was not enough air in the courtyard. She stared stolidly at his mailed chest, all too conscious of Adam Wymark’s superior height, of the lithe straightness and strength of the body under the chainmail, of the width of his shoulders. ‘Thank you, sir.’ His proximity was most disturbing.

‘I would think it an honour if you would call me by my Christian name,’ he said softly, for her ears alone.

Astonished, Cecily raised her eyes. He dragged off his helm and pushed back his coif, apparently waiting for her response, apparently meek. Not fooled for a moment, for this man was a conqueror, she swallowed. ‘But, sir, th-that would not be seemly.’

His lips curved, his eyes danced, a hand briefly touched hers. ‘Not seemly? You did propose marriage to me, did you not, Lady Cecily?’

‘I…I…’

His expression sobered. ‘Have you changed your mind?’

Cecily bit her lip. He had made his voice carefully neutral, had posed the question as casually as he would if he had been discussing the weather, so why was he watching her like a hawk? Because that was his way.

‘I…no, I have not changed my mind.’

If only he would not stare like that. It made her hot and uncomfortable. Had he taken her hasty offer of marriage seriously? She had not thought so, yet there was a tension about him, as if her response mattered to him. She could not think why that should be so. She had no dowry and he was already in possession of her father’s lands.

What was the nature of the knight she had offered to marry? Undoubtedly he was physically attractive, but what of his character? What was Sir Adam Wymark? A ruthless conqueror or an honest man upon whom she could rely? Whatever his nature she must agree to marry him if she was to be certain of accompanying him to Fulford. Her newborn brother needed her help if he was to thrive—as did her father’s people, if a repetition of what had happened outside these city walls were to be avoided. Since Emma had refused him, Cecily was left with no choice. With baby Philip and innocent villagers to care for, she was needed at Fulford. Marry him she must. Her heart pounded. Why was there no air?

Around them, the Breton’s men were dismounting and leading their horses round to the back of the palace towards what had been the Kings’ Mews. The squire Maurice took Flame’s reins, and his knight’s helm, and followed the others.

Adam Wymark was looking at her lips. She could not think why he would be doing that unless that was what men did when they were thinking about kissing a woman. Was he? To her horror, Cecily’s eyes seemed to develop a will of their own, and she found herself examining his. They were well shaped and, oddly, looking at them made her pulse quicken. Slowly, they curved into a smile.

A guilty glance back up. Amusement was glittering in the green eyes.

Heat scorched Cecily’s face, and just as swiftly she ducked her head.

‘Lady Cecily, I have business in the garrison, despatches to send, so I must hunt out a scribe. If you would care for refreshment, Sir Richard will attend you until my return.’ He raised her hand, pushed back the hem of the glove with his thumb and pressed a swift kiss to her wrist. Her heart jumped.

‘Th-thank you, sir,’ Cecily murmured, staring at the cobbles as though they were runes that held the secret of eternal life.

‘Adam—my name is Adam.’

Cecily peeped up in time to catch that swift smile before he bowed and marched towards the sentries at the palace doorway. Her mind raced as she watched him go. Think, think. He is the enemy, and he cannot write. Remember that. It might be useful. He cannot write. Cecily could write—her mother had seen to it that both Emma and Cecily were lettered—and in the convent Mother Aethelflaeda had been quick to make use of Cecily’s talent in copying out and illustrating missals for the nuns. But she would not call him back and offer to be his scribe—not when she must go to the Cathedral without him. His eyes were too keen, and if by some miracle she did find Judhael in St Swithun’s she did not think that she could hide it from him.

Sir Adam spoke briefly to the guards by the arched doorway and vanished into the Palace of the Kings. Suddenly cold, Cecily pulled her—his—cloak more tightly about her.

‘My lady?’

She started. Sir Richard was at her elbow.

‘You are thirsty?’

She nodded.

‘Follow me, and we’ll see what the storemaster has to offer.’

It was easier than she had dared hope to escape alone into the Cathedral. Having refreshed herself, she simply asked leave of Sir Richard to visit St Swithun’s tomb, saying she wanted to pray for her family. She said she hoped to find some peace. Neither of these remarks were lies, and she would not think about sins of omission…

Thus it was that an hour later Cecily was walking with Sir Richard across the Close, past New Minster, to the porch of Old Minster. She left him leaning irreverently on a crooked tombstone that dated back to a time before King Alfred.

‘Take as long as you need,’ Sir Richard said.

Inside, the cool dimness of the great Cathedral surrounded her.

Oddly, the large interior was made small by lack of light and the press of an army of pilgrims. It would be hard to pray. And as for peace—why, the Norman garrison was more orderly than St Swithun’s Cathedral. The air was smoky with incense; walking sticks and crutches tap, tap, tapped against the floor tiles; priests chanted a Latin psalm. A bell rang. One young woman had her arm entwined about her young man’s waist, and was giggling at his whispered witticisms, another hissed none too quietly to her deaf grandmother, and a small dog—a dog?—yelped as a pilgrim tripped over it…

But no sign of Judhael. No sign at all. Buffeted and knocked by those behind her, keeping an eye out for Judhael, Cecily was pushed slowly and inexorably into the shadowy nave. A couple of hundred people, maybe more, were queueing to file past St Swithun’s tomb. Mother Aethelflaeda would be shocked at the lack of decorum and respect.

‘A candle, sister?’ asked a priest, thrusting one under her nose in a businesslike manner. ‘To help your prayers fly to God.’

Cecily shook her head as she squeezed past him. ‘I…I’m sorry, I have no coin.’ God would have to heed her prayers without a candle, she thought ruefully. If she’d had coin she would have bought three candles: one each for her mother and father, and one for her brother, Cenwulf.

The line of pilgrims pressed on, and Cecily was carried with them, like a straw in a flood, to the foot of St Swithun’s tomb.

Hanging-lamps and candleholders dangled from the lofty roof overhead. Bathed in a pool of candlelight, the tomb itself was, ironically, almost buried beneath dozens of crutches and sticks and cripples’ stools that had been nailed onto the cover by grateful pilgrims. Even the great round pillars nearest the tomb had hooks hammered into them, and each was also hung about with yet more crutches, more sticks and more stools. The limewash behind the pilgrims’ offerings was almost invisible, and lead tokens bearing the Saint’s image lay scattered across the floor like autumn leaves.

So many miracles must have been wrought here, Cecily thought. Surely God will heed my prayers? And thus, for the few rushed seconds that she found herself before St Swithun’s tomb, she prayed. Not for the family that she had lost, but for the family that remained: for her sister Emma, that she might find peace and happiness wherever she had gone, and for her new brother, Philip, that he might grow safely to manhood, and finally that her brother’s friend Judhael might perhaps be alive and well and not simply exist in her imaginings.

Then the pilgrims behind her pressed forward, and she had passed the tomb. No Judhael. Not ready to return to the alien place that the Palace of the Kings had become, she broke free of the queue that was pushing her to the north door. Perhaps it would be quieter in the east end.

Near the transept, a rampantly carved wooden screen kept the great mass of people separate from the bishops and priests and their choir. Knowing better than to pass into the hallowed precincts beyond the screen, Cecily walked up to it and sank to her knees before a section carved with swirling acanthus leaves. Closing her eyes, she folded her hands in an attitude of prayer and sought to reconcile her mind to the revolutions in her life.

Whatever lay before her, she must do her utmost to ensure that no more evil befell Philip or the people of Fulford. Whether she could best serve as mediator for Adam Wymark, or as his wife, she could not say. In time, God would no doubt reveal His plans for her…

Placing herself in God’s hands, Cecily was preparing to rise when she became aware of a furtive argument on the other side of the rood screen.

‘No, I’m sorry. I found I could not!’

A woman in the priest’s stalls? A woman whose voice was an exact match for her sister Emma? Impossible. Heart in her mouth, convinced that she must be mistaken, for Emma had clearly stated that she was heading north, Cecily strained to hear more. It was hard to be certain, for the woman’s voice was distorted by anger and muffled both by the screen and the noise of the pilgrims in the nave.

‘You are a fool!’ A second voice, harsh and uncompromising and much easier to hear. Male—it was definitely male. Her pulse quickened. Judhael?

‘It was not possible.’ Emma—that had to be Emma…

‘You are weak.’

‘Compassionate, rather.’

For a space the man made no reply, and Cecily heard only the pilgrims at prayer; the tapping of crutches; the chanting of priests. She thought quickly. Back in the market square her mind had not being playing tricks on her—she had heard Judhael. Once his voice had been as familiar to her as her father’s or her brother’s. Judhael was alive! One of her father’s housecarls, and Cenwulf’s close friend, Cecily had assumed he had been killed at Hastings. She wanted to look, to see for herself, but fear of causing a commotion and bringing the Normans down upon them kept her on her knees.

Judhael’s voice softened. ‘Perhaps you do not trust me.’

‘I want to trust you,’ Emma murmured. ‘But there is more than trust at issue here. It could have been his death, and what good would that do anyone? He is an innocent.’

What were they talking about? Clumsily, Cecily clambered to her feet. She rested a hand—it was shaking—against an acanthus leaf and peered through the tracery.

Yes! Praise the Lord, it was Judhael who faced her—a tall man with his long fair hair tied back at his neck, Saxon fashion. Hands on his hips, he was scowling at her sister. Cecily could only see Emma’s back, but there was no doubt that it was she. That burgundy cloak was confirmation, if confirmation were needed. Emma had worn that cloak when visiting Cecily in the convent.

Emma had not gone north. Emma had lied to her. Why? And what was she doing in Winchester, meeting secretly with Judhael?

‘You should have brought him,’ Judhael said.

Cecily’s stomach lurched. God in Heaven, the man was wearing his seax—his short sword—in the Cathedral!

‘You broke your oath to me,’ he went on, white about the mouth. As a child, Cecily had never seen Judhael look like this, furiously, uncompromisingly angry. But she knew that look. Her father had worn it often enough.

‘My loyalty was torn…’ Emma gave a little sob, and her head sank. ‘Judhael, you are too harsh.’

Something about Emma’s tone of voice, meek, yet unashamedly emotional, caught Cecily’s attention. Back at the convent she had asked Emma if she had a sweetheart, now she realised with a jolt that matters had progressed far beyond that. Judhael was her sister’s lover. Emma’s next words confirmed this.

‘Judhael, my love—’

Just then Judhael looked past Emma, towards the rood screen. Cecily fell to her knees, clutching an acanthus leaf. If she revealed herself, she risked drawing Richard of Asculf down on them. She glanced over her shoulder. There was no sign of him in the shuffling press of pilgrims around the tomb, but he could not be relied upon to wait her pleasure in the Close. He might come looking for her at any moment.

What would happen if Judhael and Emma were discovered here? She did not know what they were doing, but their discovery by Sir Adam or one of his men could only lead to their capture. And with Judhael in this mood, and armed as he was, it could well lead to bloodshed…

‘I see only a woman whom I cannot trust.’ Judhael’s tone was icy.

Another little sob from Emma. ‘And I see a man who…’

The rest of Emma’s words were lost under the sound of brisk footsteps coming towards Cecily from behind. Turning her head towards the main body of the Cathedral, she felt her heart turn to stone.

Sir Adam Wymark had stepped out of the crowd and was marching purposefully towards her.

Chapter Seven

‘S-Sir Adam!’

With her hood up, her features were partly shadowed, but even so the frozen expression on the little novice’s face brought Adam to an abrupt halt a few feet away from her. He frowned. He was not wearing the mail coat he was certain she hated, having put it off to enter the Cathedral, and Richard was guarding his sword outside, so why that look of absolute horror the moment her eyes lit on him? He had hoped she was beginning to trust him. Given his recent decision, and the letter he had despatched to Duke William, it was essential that she trusted him.

White as whey, she was scrambling to her feet, almost tripping over her threadbare habit in her haste to get round him, to reach the door.

Heart sinking, Adam caught at her wrist, and she stilled in mid-step, looking back at him. No, she would not even meet his eyes. She was looking past him at a naked Eve on the carved rood screen, eyes wide and full of fear.

‘Sir Adam! I…I’m sorry if I kept you. I…I thought you were still at the Palace.’ She tugged against his hold, edging them both back into the stream of pilgrims pouring out into the relative brightness of the Close.

Refusing to release her, Adam did, however, surrender to the desperation in her eyes and allowed himself to be drawn along. They emerged, blinking, in the cobbled forecourt, where a feeble November sun was struggling to get through the cloud. Free of incense and candle-smoke, the fresh air raised goosebumps on his neck.

Richard was lounging against the wall where he’d left him, paring his nails with his dagger. On seeing them, he straightened and made to bring Adam his sword. Adam caught his eye and shook his head.

Cecily continued to draw him away from the Cathedral entrance, away from the pilgrims and the crush in the porch, and gradually her momentum slackened. Her eyes remained wide, but her cheeks had regained some of their colour, thank God. She tipped her head back to look up at him, and the hood of the cloak he had lent her fell back to reveal the grim novice’s wimple, the short grey veil.

Her eyes were as blue as forget-me-nots, her lashes long and dark. Her lips were trembling—rosy, kissable lips. Adam’s stomach clenched. Forgive me, Gwenn. This girl’s colouring was the opposite of Gwenn’s—Cecily of Fulford was tiny and fair, whereas Gwenn had been tall and dark. And until yesterday Gwenn’s dark colouring had been Adam’s model of beauty. But today…today…

Confused by his reaction to her, Adam looked down at Cecily Fulford and hoped she could not read his mind. He did not want her to know the extent to which her delicate beauty moved him. He would not grant her that much power. Why, even with the girl dressed like this, in a beggarly novice’s habit, he desired her. Perhaps he might begin by caressing her cheeks, by testing their softness…no, he would start by kissing those lips…

Hell’s teeth—how could he hope to court her when she regarded him in this manner? He might think her the prettiest girl in Wessex, but his Duke’s ambition and her family’s destruction lay between them. He must tread softly if he was to win her. And win her he would. He rubbed his forehead, wondering briefly how his mind had altered in the past few hours. When the little novice had first offered him her hand in exchange for her sister’s he had vowed to tread warily. He had thought to refuse her until he knew more of her character and her motives in offering to accompany them back to Fulford. But now—Adam gazed into the largest blue eyes he had ever seen and his mind was in ferment.

Forgive me, Gwenn.

‘My lady, you did ask to wed me,’ he reminded her. ‘Yet you regard me as though I were a monster. You did not regard me so in the convent. What have I done?’

She bit her lip, stared intently at the great door of the Cathedral, at the pilgrims filing out, and gave him no answer. Her bosom heaved as she dragged in a breath.

Adam set his jaw. Perhaps she had considered further and thought the gulf between them was impassable. Yes, that might be the sum of it. He did not only have to contend with the fact that he was an invader in her eyes; she had realised that she was gently born while he came from humble stock. Gripping her wrist more firmly, he tried again. ‘My lady…Cecily…I give you notice I have decided to accept your proposition—both your propositions, that is. I will marry you.’

His answer seemed to rouse her, for she stopped staring at the Cathedral entrance long enough to dart him a quick sideways look. ‘Aye, sir, as you wish.’ And with that her gaze returned to the door.

He shook his head. He was eternally grateful that his heart was not involved in this betrothal, but it was galling to have a woman hardly react when a man agreed to wed her. What was going on?

‘You make me very happy,’ he said dryly. ‘I must inform you that I have had a scribe write to the Duke saying formally that you will take your sister’s place. I will not change my mind. Do you think there can at least be amity between us?’

A swift nod, a cursory glance, and once again her eyes slid away from his, back to the great door.

Adam sighed and determinedly walked her round the outer wall of the north transept. She came meekly enough. In the lee of the wall they were, as he had hoped, shielded completely from watchful eyes and the noise and bustle of the forecourt. At the heart of Winchester, they had for a few moments a world to themselves—albeit a small one—bounded on one side by the wall of the Cathedral and on the other by a wooden fence the height of a man.

White teeth were worrying away at her bottom lip.

With careful determination, Adam manoeuvred her against the wall. When she offered no resistance, some of the tension began to leave him. And when he saw that the panic was dying from her eyes, he relaxed further, reaching up to touch her mouth, fingers as gentle as he could make them. She was so tiny. Next to her he felt huge and ungainly. ‘No need to eat yourself up with anxiety,’ he murmured, voice suddenly husky. ‘I know you are innocent, a maid. When we wed I will be gentle, take care of you.’

Her eyes were huge and fastened on his. He felt her tremble. Forgive me, Gwenn. Telling himself that Gwenn was not here, while this girl most definitely was, he slid his fingers across her cheek—so soft—and under the starched edge of her wimple. He held her head steady, keeping his touch light, and slowly, so she could have no doubt what he was about and could break free if she wished, he lowered his lips to hers.

Warm. Her lips were warm and sweet.

Adam wanted to linger, but he knew better. Pure—she is pure. Easing back after the lightest of kisses, careful to keep the rest of his body away from her, he looked into her face. Her expression was startled; her colour had risen; her breath was coming faster. But there was no fear—not of him. He’d wager Flame on that.

He smiled. ‘Lady Cecily, I make you this promise. I will marry you, but I will never force you. We shall wait to consummate our marriage until you are ready.’

‘I…I thank you, but I was not always in the convent. My mother explained something of the duties of a wife to me. Our marriage will not be a true one unless it is consummated. I will not refuse you, sir.’

More reassured by her words than he cared to admit, Adam stroked her cheek with the backs of his fingers, and was startled to realise that his heartbeat was not as steady as it should be. Which was odd, given that she was the one lacking in experience, not he. ‘Adam—my name is Adam,’ he reminded her once again. ‘And, since you are my betrothed, it is not unseemly for you to address me by it.’

‘Adam.’

Her cheeks had gone the colour of wild roses. She lowered her gaze, but Adam would have none of that. He looked at her mouth, aching for another, deeper kiss. This was just lust, he told himself. It had been an age since he had loved his Gwenn. The tender feeling he had for this girl was not dawning love, it was mere lust. He wanted to kiss her and he would kiss her. It did not mean anything—not as it had done with Gwenn. He could kiss Cecily Fulford without putting his heart at risk. He tipped her chin up. ‘Kiss me again, little Cecily.’

‘If you would free me, S…Adam.’

Belatedly Adam remembered his hold on her wrist. He opened his fingers. ‘My apologies. I did not mean to constrain you.’

Shyly, she smiled and looked at his mouth.

Their lips met. This kiss began innocently, as the first one had, with no more than their lips touching. Adam withdrew, then kissed her again. And again. Light kiss after light kiss. Another, another.

Cecily stood passive under his measured onslaught, and then, when Adam felt his control was about to snap—for he burned to sweep her into his arms and press her against the wall with his body—he felt the touch of a hand on his. Their fingers entwined. A small response, but one that had a jolt of sensation sweeping through him to his groin.

Startled, he pulled back. He had never been profligate. Gwenn had always been the world to him. His response to Cecily’s delicate touch caught him unawares. It was hot. Urgent. Her eyes were closed, her long lashes rested against her cheeks, her lips were trustfully lifted to his. He fought down a groan. Such innocence, it could tear a man apart.

Experimentally, Adam touched his tongue to the fullness of her lower lip. He heard her indrawn breath. Her eyes remained shut. He repeated the gesture with her top lip. She leaned towards him. He took her other hand and moved closer, so they stood a mere inch apart, fingers clinging. Adam wanted to press his body close, so he could feel her breasts against his chest, but she was wearing his cloak and he his padded leather gambeson—and besides, it was full day, and they were in the middle of the old Saxon capital behind St Swithun’s Cathedral, and he was Duke William’s knight and a grown man, and he ought to know better…

It was so innocent, this gentle kissing. He was likely the first to kiss her. She did not know how to respond to a man, and had yet to open her mouth, but Adam had never felt so aroused in his life. Making certain he kept his lower body clear of her, for fear his ardour would frighten her, he rubbed his cheek against hers, pressing kisses against her neck, absorbing her scent.

She gave a soft moan. He nudged her headdress aside and managed to kiss her ear, nipping softly at the lobe. Another little moan. And when he next nuzzled her neck she turned her face into his, and he was almost certain…yes, it was only the most fleeting of touches, but she kissed his neck back.

He worked his way back to her mouth, gradually, oh, so gradually, increasing the pressure of his lips against hers. Kissing, kissing, kissing, hungry for a stronger response from her…

‘Cecily,’ he groaned. ‘Sweet Mother, open your mouth.’

Dazed blue eyes met his. ‘Wh…what?’

He dropped her hands and took her face in his. ‘Relax your jaw, sweetheart. Let me in. Like this…’

She jolted in his hands when his tongue first pushed past her teeth. She quivered, but she did not draw back. He took his time, letting her grow accustomed. And then, all at once, it was as though his kiss had brought her to life. Her arms slid up and around his neck and she held his head to hers, even altering the angle of her head to grant him better access. Her tongue flickered over his in a tentative response.

Yes! Smiling, Adam tried to raise his head, but with a murmur she held him close, and then it was she who was covering his face with kisses, it was she who was kissing, kissing, kissing…

Her fingers tunnelled into his hair. She was stroking and petting his head so much his ears burned. If this was a taste of what was to come in their marriage bed, Cecily Fulford might bring him great joy.

Closing his eyes, Adam held still while untutored fingertips explored his eyebrows, his cheekbones, the shape of his lips. Still smiling—he could not seem to stop—he gently trapped her forefinger in his teeth.

She gave a little laugh and his eyes flew open.

A curl of long yellow hair peeped out from under her wimple. Idly, still using every ounce of control not to pounce on her and devour her as he wished, he wound it round his fingers. With her cheeks flushed, her lips red with his kisses and her bosom heaving, she was temptation incarnate.

The Cathedral bell tolled.

‘Oh!’ In a trice, the dreamy expression vanished from her eyes and she stepped back, muttering, ‘Th-the Angelus bell.’

She made as if to cross herself, noticed he had her hair wound round his finger, and tugged it free. ‘I…I must tidy myself, sir.’ Hastily she pushed the curl back under the wimple and drew his cloak more closely about her.

The bell tolled on.

She continued to fuss with the sackcloth that passed as her clothing, straightening her veil, her wimple.

Adam grinned. ‘Be calm, Cecily. You are not in the convent now.’

‘I know. It’s just that it…it’s the first time I’ve missed the Angelus in four years. It feels wrong—like a sin.’

Shaking his head, he took her hand, kissed it. ‘It’s no sin if you are my betrothed. You were not made to be a nun. What age are you?’

‘Sixteen.’ Her blue eyes regarded him gravely. ‘And you, sir, what age are you?’

‘Twenty-two.’ He bent to murmur in her ear. ‘And you called me Adam a moment ago.’

‘Adam.’ She whispered his name and blushed, but would no longer meet his eyes. The Cathedral bell had reminded her of who she was, and who he was. Cecily had reverted, and was once again the shy Saxon novice he had taken from St Anne’s, and he was a Breton knight, Duke William’s man. Their tryst was ended.

Gently, Adam took her hand again and cleared his throat. ‘We ride for Fulford in half an hour, in order to make the most of the light.’ He eyed her wimple and grey veil with distaste, remembering how far Fulford was from Winchester’s market. ‘But first, if there is anything you need to buy here, I have some silver.’

She blinked. ‘I thank you, S…Adam. But until I see what state my parents’…that is…your holding is in, I cannot say what provision we may need.’

‘I’d have you better gowned. My wife will not walk around in rags.’

Cecily looked down at her skirts as though seeing them for the first time. ‘Oh.’

He tugged at her wrist. ‘Come—there’s bound to be a mercer’s stall at the market.’

She hung back, shaking her head.

‘Cecily?’

‘I would not waste your money. My mother used to keep bolts of fabric in a chest. There should be enough stuff for a gown for me.’

He bit back a smile. ‘I see I am marrying a thrifty soul.’

‘It’s the convent, Sir—’

‘Adam—remember?’

‘Adam. The convent made me so. The Rule of Holy Benedict…’

Raising her hand to his lips, Adam took pleasure in the colour that washed into her cheeks. ‘Tomorrow,’ he said softly.

‘Sir?’

‘We’ll get to Fulford tonight, and tomorrow we’ll wed.’

‘S-so soon?’

Leaning forwards, he pressed a kiss on the part of her brow not hidden by her wimple. ‘I see no reason to delay. Once at Fulford Hall you will have time to renew old acquaintance and—’ he flicked at the wimple with a grimace of distaste ‘—set a maid to see to your clothing. And then we’ll marry.’

Leading her back round the north wall of the transept, Adam marched to the Cathedral forecourt, where Richard was waiting. As he buckled on his sword he intercepted one of Cecily’s shy smiles. His heart felt lighter than it had in years.

Adam had not known what to expect when he had first gone to Normandy to uphold Duke William’s claim to the English throne. Setting out from Brittany, he had hoped for land and favours, for a new life away from the places where Gwenn’s ghost haunted him at every turn. He had thought he might win himself a new wife, but he’d never dared hope for one as lovely as this. One who might, if he were not on guard, tempt him into losing his heart again. He’d certainly not reckoned on an innocent novice for a bride either, but that was of no matter. Her smile alone was worth the crossing of several seas.

He was, he realised with baffled astonishment, feeling an emotion that was too complicated to be expressed as happiness, but it came close—damn close. And for that Cecily Fulford was entirely responsible.

His lightheartedness lasted as long as it took to walk back to the Saxon Palace, where the troop was stationed. The guards jumped to attention as they entered the main hall. Cecily kept close, white teeth still nibbling at her lip. That pretty flush was gone. ‘You’ve been here before?’ he asked.

She swallowed. ‘Once, years ago. With my father—with Thane Edgar.’

Adam nodded. This must be hard for her, and he had no words to make it easy. In her place he would be counting the differences between now and then.

He had not seen the Palace of the Kings when the Duke’s men had first entered the city, but he’d heard about beautiful wall-hangings ripped from the walls—even now the hooks and rods on which they had hung were still visible, bent awry by careless hands. He’d heard about antique arms that had hung proudly over the main dais where the Royal family of Wessex had taken their seats to break bread. Telltale white marks on the smoke-blackened limewash were all that remained of them. He’d heard about costly silver plate—looted, most likely, from the self-same sideboard that Cecily was gazing at. One of the sideboard doors hung askew on one hinge, and one of its legs was broken. He’d heard of a great shield, emblazoned with the dragon of Wessex. There was no sign of that, either. No, Adam decided ruefully, nothing he could say would make this easy.

His captain, Félix Tihell, was back, talking to Maurice on the other side of the central fire. Adam steered his betrothed to a bench by the wall. ‘Wait here,’ he said, and left her gazing up at the gallery constructed at one end of the hall, on the first-floor landing, well away from the central fire. The room on the gallery had served as a private solar for the Earls of Wessex. The garrison commander had taken it over.

It was warm by the central fire, which was a proper roaring fire, piled with dry logs, not like the sulky affair at the convent guest house. Tihell had his helm under his arm, and he was out of breath, with a light sheen of sweat coating his forehead as though he had been running. He broke off at Adam’s approach.

‘Sir Adam.’ Tihell saluted. ‘In your absence, I was about to give Maurice my report.’

‘Give it to me direct,’ Adam said, waving his squire away. ‘Don’t tell me the trail went cold?’

‘No, sir,’ Tihell said, chest heaving as he caught his breath. ‘I followed the pony tracks from the convent, out of the north gates as you directed, but they did not continue north, as we expected. Instead they circled round to the west in a wide loop. Lady Emma stayed overnight with her groom at a tavern called the Green Man, and the next day they continued, eventually hitting the road to Winchester.’

Adam tensed. ‘Winchester? She came here? Lady Emma came here today?’

His captain nodded. ‘Aye. We made good time, and I managed to catch up with her. Actually, I came through Hyde Gate behind her. Followed her straight to the Cathedral.’

Feeling as though he’d been kicked in the gut, Adam’s eyes went involuntarily to Cecily, sitting demurely on the bench on the other side of the fire, with her hands folded nun-fashion in her lap. Smoke and flames curled between them, but she intercepted his gaze and sent a shy smile across the hall. When he did not return it, her smile faltered. Something within him twisted. ‘The Cathedral?’ he repeated slowly. ‘Which one? Old Minster or New Minster?’

‘The one which holds their saint’s relics.’

‘Old Minster. Hell, I should have known,’ Adam said, closing his eyes as Cecily’s reaction when she had caught sight of him flashed into his mind. That sudden pallor…that frantic scramble for the Cathedral door.

Cecily had known her sister was in the Minster and was playing him for a fool. Had she met secretly with Emma? Were they hatching a plot between them to see to his downfall? He shoved his hand through his hair and braced himself to turn back to Félix, to confirm the worst. ‘You’re stating that Emma Fulford definitely entered St Swithun’s Cathedral today?’

‘Yes, sir.’

His belly was full of cold stones.

When Adam remained silent, Tihell added, ‘A couple of the lads are keeping watch on her, but I’d best not stay long. They’re young and untried, and I don’t want to lose her. Unless…unless you want me to bring her in, sir?’

Adam’s gaze was drawn back to the girl on the bench. So pure. So innocent. Or so he had thought. His jaw tightened. Those kisses—had they meant something to her? Or had they been a blind—a cover to hide the fact that she had been meeting with her sister? His eyes narrowed. He had let a woman close before, and her death had all but torn his heart to shreds. Grimly, he wondered which was worse: the death of a loved one, or betrayal by a loved one.

Not that that was about to happen here. Thane Edgar’s youngest daughter was nothing to him. Nothing. His hands curled into fists. Sitting there so pale and so pretty, so demure, Cecily Fulford did not look as though she had any guile in her. But she was Saxon, and he must not forget that. He had hoped she was warming to him, but he’d clearly been blinded by his attraction to her person. He had quite forgotten that to her he would always be Duke William’s man, a conqueror.

‘Sir Adam? Is…have I done wrong?’ Tihell asked, shifting his helm to his other arm.

Adam forced a smile. ‘Nothing’s wrong but the times we live in.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Tihell paused. ‘Sir?’

Adam tore his gaze from Cecily. ‘Mmm?’

‘Do I continue my surveillance of Emma Fulford, or do I bring her in?’

‘Continue to watch her. Take careful note of everywhere she goes, of everyone she meets. I’m to marry the younger sister—’ he jerked his thumb towards the small figure on the bench and his lips twisted ‘—and I want to know most especially of any communication between the two of them.’

‘Aye, sir.’

Félix Tihell snapped his heels together and clapped on his helm, leaving Adam to stare through the smoke at his betrothed and wonder what he was marrying. A sweet novice bride with whom he might build a new world? Or a scheming Saxon witch who would thrust a seax in his back the first time it was turned?

Abandoned to her own devices in the great hall while Adam stalked into the upstairs chamber, presumably to confer with the garrison commander, Cecily had never felt so alone. Of course she was not really alone. How could she be when she was surrounded by so many of Duke William’s men? Men. Life at the convent had left her unused to their company. She would have been uncomfortable even among men of her own people, but as for these…these invaders: her skin crawled; her mouth was dry.

The Saxon Palace was alive with hulking Franks in chainmail who thundered in and out, who charged up and down the stairs, oblivious of the graves over which they trampled. On her bench, Cecily held herself as still as a mouse in the presence of several cats, trying not to draw attention to herself. She was not afraid. She was not.

She was the only woman present. Had they murdered all the other women? A wave of nausea swept through her and she buried her face in her hands.

‘Don’t be sad, chérie,’ a strange voice said. It was full of false sympathy and something else—something dark and unknown that had Cecily shuddering behind her hands and her blood running cold. She refused to lift her head. ‘Come here, chérie. I will warm you.’

Covertly, she peered through her fingers. A brace of Norman knights who had been hugging the fire were winking and gesturing in her direction. She sat very straight. They would not do anything. She was betrothed to one of their number, so she would be safe, wouldn’t she? But where were Sir Adam’s men? Not one of them was in sight…

‘Chérie…’

One of the knights was rising to his feet. Cecily closed her eyes—she felt sick, she actually felt sick. That edge in the man’s voice had visions of assault—rape—running rampant in her mind. If he touched her she would vomit. She—

‘My lady?’

Adam’s squire, Maurice Espinay, was at her elbow, and Cecily all but slumped in relief. Politely, he offered her his arm and escorted her to a bench at the far end of the hall. Others of Adam’s troop had staked a claim there, she realised, for men she recognised were dicing on an upturned packing crate. Warriors from another land, to be sure, but ones who answered to Sir Adam. More of her tension ebbed away.

With another bow, Maurice turned and marched back to the Normans at the fire. She could not catch what he said to them, but it proved effective, for afterwards they did not so much as glance her way.

Returning to her side with her bundle, Maurice dropped it at her feet and remained nearby, rooting through a saddlebag that must belong to Sir Adam. Adam must have asked him to watch over her, but whether that was for her safety or because he did not trust her she could not say. Whatever his reason, Cecily was grateful. Being taken from the convent with so little warning was hard enough. She had no experience of fending off foreign knights.

Was she really going to marry one of them? It did not seem possible. Adam Wymark’s acceptance of her wild proposal seemed to have knocked the sense from her head. She glanced towards the fire, frowning at the two knights as she took a moment to absorb the implications of marrying Sir Adam. Like them, Adam Wymark was her enemy. She chewed her lip. She had offered to take her sister’s place on impulse. A foolhardy move, perhaps, but she had not been certain that volunteering to be Adam’s interpreter would be enough to convince him to take her with him. One thought had been clear: her brother and the people of Fulford must not be abandoned to the enemy. In order to be certain to get home she would have offered to marry the devil himself.

And now he had accepted her. The devil—the foreign devil who had sailed with Duke William and stolen her father’s land. By rights she should fear him as she feared those Norman knights. Yet she felt safe at this end of the hall, in the company of his men. How could that be when only moments ago she had looked at his fellow Franks and had feared…?

‘Sir Adam said to tell you that his plans have changed,’ Maurice said. ‘We will not be returning to Fulford till tomorrow at the soonest.’

‘Oh?’ She was uncertain whether to be relieved or dismayed. It would mean her wedding to Adam Wymark would be delayed, but it would also mean not meeting her baby brother for another day. Thank the Lord that Fulford’s new lord did not fill her with revulsion, as those other knights had done. How curious. Adam Wymark had come with the Normans, and yet he did not revolt her or fill her with fear. He was not like those others. How strange.

Maurice was industriously hauling bedding from a heap at the far end of the hall. More soldiers tramped in. Normans, Bretons…invaders.

‘Maurice, where will I sleep?’

Being in the Palace of the Kings in these circumstances was hideously unsettling, with reminders of how life had changed at every turn. By the Minster, in those few brief moments when she had been alone with Adam, when they had kissed, she had been able to forget about the changes. Adam had seemed a different person then—handsome, smiling and approachable, someone who would take note of her feelings and show genuine concern for her.

By the Minster it had seemed that a small miracle had taken place, and that everything might yet turn out well, but the moment they had crossed the Palace threshold Adam’s demeanour had altered. One word with his captain and his smile had gone. He had glowered, positively glowered across the fire at her.

Were military matters so pressing that they drove all finer feelings from his mind? Or, worse, had he somehow found out about Emma and Judhael’s presence in the city? She prayed not. For if Adam Wymark—Adam—were to challenge her on that subject, she did not know how she would answer him.

The key point, though, and the one she must hold fast to, was that she should get to Fulford to see to her brother’s safety. She must also keep an eye on her father’s people.

Were they the only things that mattered? a little voice wondered as she recalled the warmth of Adam’s smile after they had kissed. A genuine warmth, she would swear. And yet, set that next to the way he had scowled and glowered at her only a few moments ago. But, scowl and glower though he may, she did not fear him. She sighed. Life might have been bleak in the convent, but it had been so much simpler.

‘Maurice, where will I sleep?’ she repeated, inwardly praying there was a ladies’ bower. Given that she was the only woman in the hall, it seemed a faint hope.

Maurice spread his hands. ‘Sir Adam didn’t say. You’d best ask him at supper.’

She rose from her bench. ‘Is there anything I can do?’

The squire shot her a startled look. ‘Do, my lady?’

‘I’m not used to being idle. I’d rather do something.’

‘Such as?’

She shrugged. ‘Anything. Is there an infirmary? I could help there. Or I might be of use in the cookhouse…’

Maurice looked shocked. ‘No, my lady. Sir Adam wouldn’t want you wandering off. Besides…’He rolled his eyes towards the knights hogging the central fire. ‘There’s plenty more like them roving the city. You’d do best to keep your head down, if you see my meaning. You’ll be safe enough here, among Sir Adam’s troop.’

Shifting the bench nearer to the men who were dicing, Maurice indicated that she should take her seat.

Sighing, Cecily settled in for a long afternoon. With something of a jolt she realised she would feel happier if Adam was here in person. While she was still uncertain of what to make of him, she did prefer it when he was around, even if all he did was glower at her.

Chapter Eight

By the time Adam returned to the Royal mead hall night had long since fallen. Torches chased the shadows away, candles glowed in beaten metal wall sconces, the central fire crackled and spat. The room was filled with the gentle buzz of conversation, the occasional roar of laughter.

Adam’s hair was damp from recent washing, and he was wearing his dark blue tunic, belted at the waist with a chased leather sword belt, and a serviceable brown wool cloak bought from the garrison’s quartermaster. His leather gambeson dangled from his fingers. Slinging it over one shoulder, he rested his other hand on his sword hilt and paused just inside the threshold, searching for Richard and his men and…

No sign of that petite figure in her drab veil and gown. He’d left her alone deliberately, to see what she might do. Where the devil was she? His stomach tightened into several knots. That night’s rations were to blame—not the fact that he didn’t know where she was. He had eaten with the Duke’s commanders in the upstairs solar. Food had been plentiful, but too much bread and ale and oversalted pork after weeks of hunger was not good for a man’s digestion.

He grimaced. Who was he fooling? She was the cause of his indigestion; he wanted to think the best of her. Damn it, how could that have happened already? He’d not known the woman more than a few hours…

Groups of men were clustered in the various pools of light made by the torches. Laughter floated out from under the nearest torch, where men were drinking and dicing. Farther down the hall came the rhythmic scrape, scrape, scrape of a whetstone on steel. A blue spark flashed—a squire sharpening his knight’s sword. From under another torch came a quiet muttering as friends simply talked.

There—there she was. Perched on a bench at the wall at the far end, in an oval pool of light. Brian Herfu, the youngest in his troop, sat next to her, and she was turned towards him, veil quivering as she listened to what he was saying. A string of rosary beads was wrapped round her wrist, and a missal lay on top of her small bundle of belongings. A missal? She could read? Wondering if Cecily could write—that would be a rare and wonderful accomplishment in a wife—Adam started towards them.

Brian had lost his older brother shortly after Hastings, and when Adam saw that the lad’s eyes were glistening with tears he had little doubt but that they were discussing Henry’s death.

Cecily touched Brian’s arm. The movement made the rosary swing gently to and fro. ‘How did Henry die?’ she was asking.

Brian’s dark head bent towards Cecily’s. ‘Blood loss, my lady. A leg wound. He—’

Not needing to hear the rest, Adam turned away. He had been beside Brian at Henry’s deathbed, and did not begrudge him any comfort that Cecily might give him. Catching Maurice’s eyes, he motioned him over.

‘You’ve eaten, sir?’ Maurice asked.

‘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 eye she could see his green eyes gazing into hers, as they had done outside the Cathedral…darkening, softening. She could feel the warmth of his fingers as they had twined with hers, the light touch of his lips; she could hear the huskiness in his voice as he had called her sweetheart and asked her to open her mouth to his…

So much weighed in his favour. If only he had not come to England with Duke William to win lands for himself—if only those lands had not belonged to her father.

Turning her shoulder, she gave him a swift glance. He was shaking out another blanket, making a bed near enough that he could reach her. Near enough and yet not too near. No one can come between us, she realised with a jolt.

He caught her eye and gave her a crooked smile. ‘If you need me, you only have to say.’

Cecily gave him what she hoped was a haughty look to cover a peculiar increase in her heart-rate—why was it he had this effect on her? It was most unsettling. She turned to face him properly. Not because her eyes were hungry for him—most certainly not! No, one simply could not converse peering over one’s shoulder. ‘’ Tis not seemly to lie so close.’

In a trice he was at her side. Drawing one of her hands out of its hiding place in the blue cloak, he brought it to his lips and a frisson of awareness ran all the way up her arm. How did he do that? And why did her body react in such an unpredictable way whenever he came near?

‘My lady, you are my betrothed.’ He gestured around the hall. ‘But if you would prefer some other protector you only have to say the word. I bid you recall that my right to Fulford Hall rests on Duke William’s gift, and is in no wise connected to any union with you.’

She stared past him, her face as wooden as she could make it. The only protector she wanted was looking right into her eyes, but she could not bring herself to admit it. He is your enemy…your enemy. Unaware that her fingers had tightened momentarily on his, she darted a fearful glance towards the fire, towards the knight who had tried to solicit her attention, but he was no longer there.

Her eyes met Adam’s, and for all his hard words she found gentleness in their expression. His pupils were darkening, his smile softening, and she sensed he was waiting for her response. He had washed his hair, she noticed irrelevantly. It was wet and neatly combed, save for one dark lock which fell over his eye. But what could she, a Saxon, say to him, one of Duke William’s knights?

Abruptly, he released her, and pushed his hair back. Jaw tight, he turned away and shifted his belongings a little farther off.

Cecily felt the loss of him like an icy draught. He was only a yard away—the seemly distance she had asked for—yet now he had retreated, perversely she wanted him closer. She did not face the wall again. It was comforting to be able to see him in the gloom. And now was not the time to wonder why this should be so, any more than it was the time to wonder about the extraordinary effect he had on her senses. Later she would think about these things, when she had slept…

The floortiles grew harder, and colder. Fingers and toes were turning into icicles, goosebumps rose on the back of her neck. Cecily shrank deeper into his cloak.

The hall was quietening. One by one torches were doused, save a couple by the door and a lantern or two hanging from the rafters. Shadowy figures hunched around the hearth, faces shiny in the firelight. The knight who had so discomposed her might have gone, but her unease remained, and a low murmur of voices ran on, broken occasionally by a crack of laughter. Male laughter, predatory male laughter. Duke William’s men.

Cecily’s eyelids closed, but her nerves were stretched tight as a bowstring. She had had four years in the convent, with scarcely a glimpse of a man, and suddenly she was sleeping with a roomful. What penance would Mother Aethelflaeda impose for that?

A mild commotion near the door had her eyes snapping open. A drunk staggered in, held upright by two companions. Drawing in a shaky breath, she stole another look in Adam’s direction. He was lying on his side, head on his hand, watching her. His face was in shadow, but she thought his eyes were cool.

‘Be at peace, Cecily,’ he said softly. ‘If you mean to make me a good wife, you will want for nothing.’

His long, sword-callused fingers lay relaxed on his blanket a few feet away. Never had so short a distance seemed so large.

‘I want…’

‘Yes?’

‘Don’t leave me here alone,’ she whispered. ‘Tonight—that’s all I want.’ Tentatively, she reached across the ravine.

Warm fingers closed on hers. ‘Be loyal to me and I will never leave you. But fail me…’ His voice trailed off.

A cold knot made itself felt in Cecily’s stomach even as she clung to his hand. Did he know about Emma?

But the contact must have soothed her, for very soon after that her eyelids closed of their own accord and sleep took her.

Some time later, she stirred and came slowly back to consciousness.

Warm. Warm.

What a delightful, impossible dream. She had not been warm at night in winter since entering the nunnery. Giving a comfortable little moan, she wriggled closer to the source of that warmth. Willing the dream to continue, she tried to slide back into sleep, but instead came more awake.

Her breath caught. Adam. It was he who was giving her his warmth. She was lying next to—no, her head was pillowed on Adam’s bicep, and her nose was pressed into the warmth of his ribcage. His scent surrounded her: alien, male, seductive. And until yesterday absolutely forbidden. She had her arm over his chest, which rose and fell gently under her palm.

Warm, so warm.

Fully awake, she readied herself to pull away if he made the slightest movement. Lying in a man’s arms like this was so far beyond unseemly that Mother Aetheflaeda would have had her drummed out of the convent for even imagining such a thing.

Carefully, she lifted her head. Yes, he was asleep. She allowed herself to relax. His arms were linked loosely about her, and at some point he must have wrapped the blankets round them both. The warmth—oh, dear God, the warmth. One could marry a man for the warmth alone, she thought with a wry smile.

In the dim light of a glass hanging-lamp that had miraculously survived the Normans’ depredations, she studied his face. He was a joy to look upon—particularly now, when he was unconscious of her gaze. Usually she felt too shy. Dark eyelashes lay thick on his cheek. She gazed at the high cheekbones and the straight nose and frowned, for she longed to touch, to stroke, but such longings were surely sinful—and in any case she did not want to wake him.

Staring at him like this was a secret, private pleasure. She had not been outside the convent a day, but already she was learning that other men did not draw her gaze in the same way. Adam Wymark muddled her thoughts; he muddled her senses. He disturbed her, but it was by no means unpleasant…

A dark shadow was forming on the strong jawline, telling her that Adam’s beard, were he to grow one, would be thick and dark as his hair. How often did he have to shave to keep his cheeks smooth, in the Norman fashion? His lips were parted slightly in sleep—beautifully shaped, firm lips—lips that could…

He stirred, turning his head and nuzzling her. That stray lock of hair fell across his face.

Repressing an impulse to nuzzle him back, Cecily lifted her palm from his chest and lightly stroked his hair out of the way. Then she replaced her hand on his broad chest and slowly lowered her head back onto that warm bicep. Softly.

It might be sinful, but they had come together thus in sleep. His warmth, and the long, strong length of him next to her was so delicious she did not care if it was a sin. And in truth it did not feel wicked or depraved, which surely sin always did? It was comforting to lie thus with Adam. It was…cosy. The palace floortiles might be hard, but she would lie on nails if it meant she could awaken again like this.

Someone coughed. Belatedly, Cecily was reminded of the others in the Old Palace. Normans for the most part—men who had used Duke William’s disagreement with King Harold as an excuse to come to England to plunder in the wake of the Duke’s conquest, men whom Cecily had cause to fear. Adam Wymark had come with them. This she could not deny. But now, lying at the side of the hall, wrapped in his arms, she felt safer than she had ever felt. The irony was not lost on her.

Snuggling closer, safe in the arms of the enemy, breathing in the comfort of his forbidden, alien scent, Cecily slid back into sleep.

Some time before dawn someone slipped stealthily into the hall and found a place among Adam’s men. Stirring in Adam’s arms, so full of sleep that she didn’t realise he was still holding her, Cecily lifted her head from his chest.

Sir Richard. Returning from whatever business had kept him last eve. With a sigh, she let her head fall back, and sleep took her again.

At cock crow, gentle fingers were playing in her hair, loosening her braid. Green eyes smiled into hers. ‘Good morning, betrothed,’ he murmured.

‘G-good morning.’ Cheeks hot, Cecily steeled herself to ignore the dark warmth of his gaze. He was looking at her lips, with no trace of the coldness of manner that she had noticed on their arrival at the palace. Her chest constricted, and she thought of the kisses they had shared outside the Cathedral. Breathless. His look made her breathless.

Catching her braid, Adam gave a small tug and realigned her body against his. ‘A good-morning kiss,’ he whispered. His lips met hers, warm and soft. Lazily, his tongue outlined her mouth.

For a moment, hazy with sleep, Cecily let the disordering pleasure wind through her—then she stiffened. What was she doing? She had to keep her wits about her.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘For shame, Sir Adam. Remember where we are! And in any case we are not wed that we should lie this close.’

Eyes laughing, he pulled her tight against him, so she could feel the length of his strong, lean body from breast to thigh. Despite herself, she gloried in it—she actually ached with wanting to press even closer. He seemed to sense it, for under cover of the cloak and blankets his hand ran lightly down her back and came to rest possessively over one of her buttocks.

She gasped. Never had she been touched so intimately.

‘Damn the conventions,’ he said with a grin. ‘No one knows what we’re about. They can’t see.’

Cecily’s loins felt as though they were melting. She longed to run her hand over that broad chest and discover the feel of his skin. Biting her lip, she strove to hide such a sinful reaction. Did Judhael make Emma feel this way? If so, she was beginning to understand why her sister might take Judhael as a lover—even though it was a sin and she risked giving birth out of wedlock.

Adam’s touch filled her with wanton longings. He was yet a stranger to her, so she could not fathom why her senses swam when he kissed her, but swim they did. Why, she could almost believe the man would turn Mother Aethelflaeda wanton! The image of Adam with the Prioress was so ludicrous a gurgle of laughter escaped her.

‘What now?’

She shook her head. ‘Nothing—I…I was just thinking of you and Mother Aethelflaeda.’

A dark eyebrow twitched. ‘Me and Mother Aethelflaeda?’ Shaking his head, not understanding, he ran his hand back up her spine and loosed a shiver of delight through her body. He pushed his fingers into the hair at the base of her plait. ‘One more kiss,’ he muttered, tipping her face to his.

‘Remember where we are…’

‘That’s Mother Aethelflaeda speaking, not you.’ Smiling, he pressed a firm, all too brief kiss on her mouth. ‘But have no fear, little Cecily, you’ll not lose your maidenhood in a room full of soldiers.’

‘Adam!’ She thumped at his chest with her fist. ‘Someone will hear!’

He caught her hand, toying with her fingers. When he caressed her palm with his thumb, the tingle raced to her toes. ‘Relax, sweetheart. I’ve better plans for you—if you will be my true and faithful wife.’

His reference to her being a true and faithful wife gave her pause. Hadn’t he said something similar last night?

‘Sir…?’

‘Mmm?’ Idly he ran a finger down her cheek and throat to the neck of her gown.

When his fingers lingered, her pulse raced. She wanted to run. She wanted to stay. She struggled to keep her mind clear. ‘Your wife—Gwenn…?’

His hand stilled. An arrested look came into his eyes, as though for a moment he could not recall having had a wife. ‘Mmm?’

The questions were piling up in her head. What had happened to Gwenn? Had he had her set aside? Did he have children? The questions were burning into her soul, for the answers would reveal much about his nature.

Was she marrying a man who would set his wife aside the first time she crossed him? Clearly Adam Wymark could charm the finches from the trees if he had a mind, but how would he react if he found out about her newborn brother? How would he react if he knew she had concealed the fact that she had seen Emma yesterday? How would he react if he knew Cecily had seen her with one of her father’s housecarls in the Minster and—?

A cold fist gripped her heart. She knew where Emma and Judhael had gone! Why had she not realised before?

Hastily lowering her eyes, for Adam’s keen gaze was on her, and he seemed to possess an uncanny ability to read her mind, she let her thoughts run on. Judhael’s sister, Evie, had married one of Winchester’s goldsmiths—Leofwine. Judhael would take Emma to his sister’s house, to Evie and Leofwine…

This was yet another secret to keep from Adam. She hid a groan. Another secret—as if she were not already the keeper of more secrets than anyone in Christendom.

If Adam discovered any of them, how would he react? So far he had shown her only his gentle side, but he was the Duke’s man. Would he reject her out of hand? His trust would certainly be forfeit.

Taking in a breath, Cecily raised her eyes and forced a smile. She would have to be very circumspect if he was not to find her out. She could not risk being set aside—not if she was to succeed in her aims.

‘What happened to Gwenn?’ she asked, and immediately wished she hadn’t, because his face became hard.

‘I do not wish to speak of her.’

Easing himself back, Adam rolled away and out from under the blankets. Cecily was left to follow him with her eyes as he stretched his long body and combed his dark hair with his fingers. Then, without so much as a backward glance, he snatched up a cloak and strode towards the morning light that was creeping through the main door of the hall. It was as though, Cecily thought with a pang, they had never spent the night in each other’s arms; it was as though they had never kissed, had never agreed to marry.

Adam Wymark, my betrothed. A Breton knight, the Duke’s man. He was once married to a woman named Gwenn, of whom he will not speak. What will he do if he discovers the secrets I am hiding from him? Will he ever love me? And why, Cecily thought with a grimace, should I be so concerned about that?

Breakfast was taken in the Old Palace hall. Small ale, warm bread and a creamy white cheese that—luxury of luxuries—showed no sign of mould.

Afterwards, Cecily picked up the blue fur-lined cloak and draped it over her arm. She had not seen Adam since he had left at cock crow.

‘Maurice?’

‘My lady?’ Maurice was sitting cross-legged on the floor, to all intents and purposes occupied in restitching a saddlebag.

‘Where is Sir Adam?’

‘He is…elsewhere in the city, on the Duke’s business.’

She fiddled with the girdle of her habit. ‘Did he say when he will return?’ Not for some hours, she hoped.

‘No, lady.’

‘I’m going to the Minster. If he asks after me, please tell him.’

Maurice glanced up. ‘You won’t go farther, my lady?’

‘No…no.’ Liar. Liar.

Maurice’s 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.

Chapter Nine

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 racks on the wall, there were delicate hammers and tweezers, and to one side a miniature anvil. It looked as though it had been some time since Leofwine had been at work. A crucible lay on its side in the far corner, next to a small brick furnace. Several sets of long metal tongs hung from hooks on the adjoining wall.

A skirt swished, and something dark moved at the back of the workshop, by the door that led to the private family chamber. A white face appeared. ‘Evie!’ Cecily cried, almost choking as Leofwine pressed the point of his blade into her throat. ‘Come out! Please, speak for me!’

Skirts rustled. Leofwine slackened his grip and scowled over his shoulder. ‘Well, Evie? Is this yet another Fulford woman come to put us in peril?’

Cecily looked an appeal at Evie. There were tight lines around the girl’s eyes, and she clutched protectively at her belly, her large belly, with both hands. Evie was heavy with child.

‘Evie, you remember me, don’t you? It’s Cecily—Cenwulf’s sister.’

More rustling of skirts as Evie came to stand close. She tipped her head to one side, examining Cecily’s profile, raising her hand to draw back the edge of the novice’s veil. Slipping her fingers under Cecily’s wimple, Evie extracted a long strand of yellow hair. Then she nodded and stepped back.

‘Aye.’ Her sigh was heavy. ‘It is Cecily Fulford. The likeness to Cenwulf is remarkable. If you think back, Leo, Cecily was the sister they sent to the convent…’ Briefly, Evie touched the wooden cross at Cecily’s breast. ‘Both this and her habit attest that she speaks true. This can be none other than Cecily of Fulford.’

Leofwine’s seax vanished. Taking Cecily by both arms, he shook her so her teeth rattled.

‘Listen, Cecily of Fulford, I don’t know why you have come visiting, and to be frank I do not care. I want you to leave. Evie and I have enough to contend with without your family stirring things up for us.’

Manhandling Cecily to the door, he reached for the latch.

‘A moment, please.’ Cecily bit her lip and gestured apologetically at Evie. ‘I…I’m sorry, but I saw my sister Emma at the Cathedral yesterday, talking to Judhael. I thought they might have come here.’

Evie and Leofwine gazed blankly at her.

‘Did they?’

Leofwine set his teeth, unlatched the door, and attempted to shove Cecily into the street.

‘Did they? Evie?’ Resisting Leofwine with all her might, Cecily felt the words tumble out. ‘I would have talked to them if I could, but it…it was not possible. I only want to know Emma is well…that she is not alone. Do you think she’s with Judhael, Evie?’

Evie turned her head away, chewing her lower lip.

‘Evie? Please…’

Evie spun back, and with little more than a swift headshake stopped Leofwine ejecting Cecily into the street. ‘Cecily…my lady…in the past your family were more than good to mine. Would that we could help you…’ again her hand rested upon her belly ‘…but we have our own family to consider—’

‘Aye,’ Leofwine all but growled. ‘Years without her quickening, then now, of all times, when the saints have deserted us and the world is in turmoil…’

‘Babies choose their own times,’ Cecily murmured, and sent Evie a warm smile. ‘I am happy for you.’

Evie inclined her head. ‘I thank you. But you must see how difficult it is for us. I will tell you what I told Emma—’

‘So she did come here. I knew it!’

‘Evie—’ Leofwine’s face darkened ‘—be wary.’

Evie placed a hand on her husband’s arm. ‘Think, love. Since Judhael told us less than nothing of his plans, there’s not much we can tell. But we can at least put her mind to rest on one score. Emma is with Judhael, Lady Cecily.’

‘They have left Winchester?’

‘I believe so.’

‘But you don’t know where they’ve gone?’

‘No—and we will have no part in any scheme of yours. As we will have no part in any of Judhael’s. I told both him and your sister as much. We are ordinary working people, my lady, and even at the best of times we walk a tightrope. Now—’ she lifted her shoulders ‘—we have to tread even more carefully.’

Cecily’s shoulders drooped, and she scrubbed wearily at her forehead. ‘I’m sorry. Perhaps I shouldn’t have come. I’d hoped to see Emma—to convince her that flight is not the only road open to her, to persuade her to come back to Fulford with me.’

‘She’ll never do that. Not while a Norman is suing for her hand.’

Cecily met Evie’s gaze, thankful that the poor light hid the hot colour that rushed into her cheeks. ‘Adam Wymark is from Brittany, not Normandy.’

Evie shrugged. ‘What’s the difference? Breton, Norman—marauders all. Your sister will have none of them.’

Cecily swallowed. She had heard similar words from Emma’s own lips. And if Judhael was Emma’s lover, Emma’s flight was all the more understandable. ‘Emma need have no fear of Adam Wymark. Not now,’ she said. ‘Evie, if you should see her again, I’d like to leave a message—’

‘No,’ Leofwine broke in curtly. ‘No messages.’

‘A few words only—should you chance to meet her.’ Suddenly it was vital that Emma knew of Cecily’s betrothal to Adam. ‘Please tell her that the Breton knight has agreed to marry me in her stead.’

Evie’s jaw dropped. ‘You, my lady? You’d marry one of them?’

Cecily lifted her head. ‘Aye. I am returning to Fulford. Please tell her.’

‘You’re mad. Being cooped up in that convent’s sent you mad.’

‘You may have something there,’ Cecily said quietly. ‘I loathed it.’

Evie’s face softened, and impulsively she took Cecily by the hand. ‘You poor thing. It must have been bad to make marrying one of them a better choice.’

‘Adam Wymark is not an evil man,’ Cecily said, knowing it to be the truth, but wondering how she knew this.

‘No?’ Evie patted her hand, her face the image of disbelief. ‘You poor thing.’

‘He’s not!’

Another pat. ‘I’m sure he is not.’

But Cecily intercepted the look Evie sent her husband, and she knew that Evie did not believe her. In Evie’s mind all the Duke’s men had souls as black as pitch. But life was not that simple. It would be easier if it were, for then she would not feel so guilty. It was as if, merely by talking to Leofwine and Evie, she was somehow betraying Adam. But there was no time to examine her guilt—which was misplaced anyway—she had a newborn brother and the villagers of Fulford to look to. They must come first.

‘If you please, I will leave now.’

Leofwine gave her a mocking bow and pushed open the door. A stream of sunlight rushed into the room. Momentarily blinded, Cecily picked up her skirts and stepped over the threshold.

‘Don’t fear for your sister, Lady Cecily,’ Evie called. ‘Judhael will look after her.’

Cecily nodded, though she had to push aside a nagging memory of the cold, almost callous expression on Judhael’s face when he had been talking to Emma in the Minster.

‘He will—I swear it.’ Evie smiled through the doorway and opened her mouth to say more, but Leofwine swung the door shut and cut off her words. The bolt scraped home.

Hunching into her cloak, Cecily glanced swiftly to left and right. At the southern end of Golde Street the sullen workmen were receiving their orders from a crop-headed Norman overseer in a scarlet tunic. The overseer’s shoulders were wrapped in a purple velvet cloak the emperor of Byzantium would have been proud to call his own. The booty of war, perhaps? By comparison the Saxon workmen were dull, in their brown and grey homespun. At their backs, the oxen were being roped to a series of metal grappling hooks that glinted menacingly in the sun.

Not that way. Turning on her heel, Cecily retraced her steps, hoping to be back before any of Adam Wymark’s company marked her absence. If questioned, she had a story ready, may the Lord forgive her for the lie: she would say she had been visiting Nunnaminster, the nunnery founded by KingAlfred’s Queen Ealhswith.

In the sunless alley running along one side of Leofwine Smith’s workshop, Adam Wymark and his captain exchanged glances. They were standing under the eaves, two men who had stood still and silent for some time, cloaks firmly wrapped about them to ward off the chill.

‘My apologies, Tihell, I should not have doubted you,’ Adam murmured, a grim set to his jaw. Since Félix Tihell, like him, came from Brittany, he was speaking in his native Breton. ‘Emma Fulford must have come here. You say you saw her leave the city afterwards?’

‘Aye, sir. She left by the Hyde Gate—the one that bypasses the abbey.’

An overwhelming surge of emotion was building inside Adam. It had been building from the moment he had heard Cecily in the workshop. Struggling to contain it, for a cool head was needed here, he lifted a brow. ‘So the Lady Emma does go north?’ He was furious: he wanted to tear the workshop apart plank by plank; he wanted it never to have existed. Cecily Fulford had come here. Cecily Fulford was a devious, lying witch. Damn her—damn her and her betraying blue eyes—damn her to hell.

‘So I believe.’

Adam’s hands were curled into fists. He forced them to relax. ‘I wonder…We thought that before and were wrong. Was Lady Emma on her own or did she have an escort?’

‘One Saxon man accompanies her—a groom, I think. I’ve a man tracking them. Told him to send word back to the garrison from her next stopping place.’

‘Good lad.’ Adam scowled at the workshop’s rough wooden planking. It was green with damp. ‘You say that the man who lives here is a goldsmith?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Why should both Fulford ladies come here? What is the connection?’

‘As yet, I don’t know,’ Tihell said. ‘Could you make out what they were saying?’

‘No, damn it. My English is not yet up to it. Yours?’

‘Sorry, sir. Mine is no better. I caught a name or two—Emma, Judhael, your Lady Cecily…’

‘My Lady Cecily.’ Adam’s tone was bleak.

‘What will you do, sir?’

‘Do?’

Tihell peered round the corner of the workshop and looked meaningfully down the street, the way Cecily had gone. ‘About her. I doubt she was exchanging recipes for pancakes.’

Adam’s mouth twisted. ‘Hell’s teeth, Tihell—’

‘Will you report her to the garrison commander?’

Adam stepped out into the street and stood, hands on hips, staring towards Westgate, but in truth he saw nothing. ‘Hell’s teeth,’ he repeated. ‘One minute I’d swear she was the sweetest girl in Christendom, and the next I wonder if I’ve contracted to marry a viper.’

Tihell was eyeing the shuttered window and the closed door of the workshop. He leaned a broad shoulder testingly on the wood. ‘You want to see inside, sir?’

Adam held up a hand. ‘No—no need for that as yet. It would give the game away.’

‘Sir?’

‘You and I know that the Fulford ladies have been here, but I don’t want our knowledge proclaimed from the rooftops.’

‘Sir?’

Lowering his voice, tamping down the irrational anger that was burning inside him, Adam leaned closer. ‘We play a waiting game, Tihell. Watch, pretend to know less than nothing, and we may draw them out. Don’t mention Lady Cecily’s visit here to the men, will you?’

‘No, sir.’

Clenching his teeth against the pitying look his captain sent him, Adam started off up the street.

Tihell kept pace alongside. ‘On the other hand, sir,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘it may not be as bad as it looks.’

‘Rebels are known to be in the area,’ Adam said curtly.

‘Yes, sir, I know. But Lady Cecily is not necessarily—’

Adam checked. ‘You seek to advise me? Out of your great wisdom?’

‘No, of course not. It’s just that I…Will you report her to the commander?’

‘Since we didn’t understand above a word of what was said, we’ve no proof of what she’s up to either way. Anyway, what’s it to you if I do report her?’

His captain shrugged. ‘Nothing. But she does have a way with her.’

‘Oh?’

‘No need to look daggers at me, sir, but she does have a way with her, and you can’t deny it. I’ve seen you watch her. And young Herfu told me that last night you and she—’

‘Tihell, you’re on thin ice. An old friendship can only be tested so far.’

‘Yes, sir.’

They continued in silence for a pace or two.

‘Sir?’

Adam sighed. ‘Captain?’

‘Herfu likes her. And Maurice. Already.’

‘And I. That’s the hell of it,’ Adam said softly.

‘She seems kind—genuinely kind,’ Tihell went on, as they reached Westgate and started down the hill behind a man rolling a barrel towards the market. ‘No foolish airs and graces. Will you hand her over to the commander?’

Adam made a dismissive movement. ‘Damn it, man, can’t you sing another tune?’

His captain flushed. ‘My apologies, sir.’

‘Listen, Tihell—listen carefully. Rather than see Lady Cecily put in some dank cell when we’ve no solid proof of her disloyalty, I intend to take her back to Fulford. I can keep better watch over her there—if she is in contact with the Saxon resistance, she will act as bait.’

‘You intend to use her?’

‘I do indeed. Lady Cecily will draw them out. If I handed her over to the garrison commander Duke William’s cause would not be advanced one whit. Watch her and we may uncover an entire nest of vipers—’

‘But, sir, there is another possibility…’

‘Something warns me that you’re about to tell me what that might be.’

Tihell gave him an earnest nod. ‘There might be a perfectly innocent reason for Lady Cecily’s visit to Golde Street.’

Adam stared. ‘It seems that Herfu and Maurice are not her only conquests. You also seek to be her champion.’

Tihell kicked a chicken bone into the gutter and would not meet his eyes. ‘Don’t rush to judgement, sir, that’s all,’ he muttered. ‘If she is disloyal, time will tell.’

‘We’re all fools,’ Adam said slowly.

‘Sir?’

‘Have done, man, have done. I’ve a mind of my own and have already decided on Lady Cecily’s fate.’

‘Aye, sir.’

Adam smiled. ‘Perhaps another commission will put a stop to your philosophizing?’

‘Sir?’

‘When the troop leaves for Fulford I want you to stay behind. Wait for your man to send word, and then get on Lady Emma’s trail yourself.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And be wary, Tihell. I don’t want to lose you.’

‘Sir.’

‘Then, regardless of what you discover, we shall rendezvous in three days’ time, at the garrison. Noon. You can give me your report then.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Chapter Ten

He caught up with the little novice before he had worked out what he was going to say to her. There was a flash of blue ahead of him—his cloak—moving swiftly along the path through the cemetery. At least she is not running off, like her sister, he thought, and some of the tension he had been carrying fell away. He did not want to lose her.

Hell, that was not right. He did not want to lose the chance of using her. Give her some rope and she would help flush out resistance to Duke William’s rule. Yes, that was it: he was planning to use her…

Adam shook his head at the chaos an innocent-looking face was bringing to his normally orderly mind, and began closing the distance between them. That hideous veil was lost beneath the hood of his cloak. A strategist by nature, Adam fought to compose his thoughts. He misliked entering a field of battle in disarray.

Was that was this was? A battle? Damn it, a couple of hours ago he had woken with the girl in his arms, soft and pliant from sleep. Her morning kisses had tasted of welcome; they had seemed to hint that they might deal well together, had seemed to promise affection, if not love itself, given time. Hah! The little novice might well have been moved by love this morning, when she had visited the goldsmith’s house, but it was not love for him. No. He must strive to remember that.

But, with his eyes fixed on that diminutive cloaked figure, his thoughts refused to get back into line. The touch of her…the smell of her…somehow she had driven out his longing for Gwenn. Temporarily, of course, but it had been a first to awaken and not ache for Gwenn. That should have alerted him. The little novice was not as harmless as she appeared. He was treading on treacherous ground.

His lips curved into a self-deprecating smile. Wonderful. He had no clear strategy; he did not have the lie of the land; he was about to engage with the enemy. Bloody wonderful.

Cursing himself for the worst kind of fool, Adam stared at that slender back and narrowed the distance between them. If only he could read minds. She was hoping, no doubt, that her visit to Golde Street had gone unobserved. Gritting his teeth, ignoring a bitter taste in his mouth, he waved his captain on with a muttered, ‘Look to the horses, man, and get the troop in order. We’re leaving for Fulford in half an hour.’

‘Yes, sir.’

He strode up to the little novice and caught her by the shoulder. ‘Lady Cecily?’

‘Sir Adam!’ She practically leapt out of her skin. ‘I…I was just wondering where you were.’

I’ll bet you were, Adam thought, missing neither the nervous smile nor the guilty flush. For his part, he was wondering what lies she would feed him. ‘Where have you been?’

‘I…I…thought I would take a look round the town. It’s been so long since I was last here.’

Taking her hand, placing it carefully on his arm, he urged her towards the garrison. ‘Where is Maurice? He should have escorted you.’

Her eyes were wide, her expression earnest. ‘I did not think I would go far,’ she said. ‘I told him I was only going to the Cathedral, but then I…I thought I would like to see the convent at Nunnaminster.’

Liar, liar, Adam thought, fighting to school his expression to one of polite interest. ‘What was it like?’

‘The nunnery?’

‘What else?’ A tendril of hair was curling out under the edge of her wimple, gleaming gold in the sun. He tore his gaze away and reminded himself of what he must do. Nothing. He must do nothing because this was a waiting game. Give her some rope and see what she does with it.

It would be easier, cleaner, quicker—an end to this torment, this polite fencing that left so much unsaid—to shake the truth out of her once and for all. He grimaced. Direct confrontation might put an end to the ache that was not knowing whether he could trust her or not, but it would not advance Duke William’s cause. No, he must play the waiting game. It should not be hard. A pretty Saxon face and a soft, warm body would not distract him from his duty to his lord.

‘I…I could not find the convent,’ she was saying. ‘I l-lost my way at the top of Market Street and came straight back.’

She was the most terrible liar. No, it was more than just that. She did not like lying to him. Unaccountably Adam’s heart lifted. Nodding at her almost cheerfully, he covered her hand with his and they proceeded towards the Old Palace, outwardly a Breton knight, with his lady at his side. And inwardly? Her fingers were trembling under his and she would not meet his gaze. Adam might be deluding himself, but he did not consider that all was lost if she disliked feeding him lies.

Adam had borrowed a horse from the garrison for Cecily to ride home. It was a wreck rather than a horse. Gripping the reins, Cecily glared at the back of the animal’s head and, using her heels, tried vainly to urge it into a trot. She was riding astride, no ladies’ saddle being available at the Palace stables, and today that was a blessing. Had she been riding sidesaddle she doubted she would have been able to get the wreck to do more than shuffle, and she was lagging behind as it was. Astride, there was some measure of control, or so she liked to imagine. The wreck was spavined and flea-bitten—not fit even to be a packhorse.

Struggling with her mount left Cecily with no energy to worry about displaying darned stockings or watching their route. It left her with little energy for worrying about the disturbing conversation she had had with Adam outside the Palace walls. She could not put her finger on why the conversation had disturbed her, but she could not set it behind her. Nothing overt had been said, and yet dark undertones had been present. Of course she did not know Adam Wymark well enough to know his every mood. He might have a nature as volatile as her father’s, but she did not think so. Outside the Palace she had sensed…she had sensed…

Had Adam found out about her visit to Leofwine’s house? It was certainly possible, but he had not said as much. Throughout his manner had been polite, watchful—yes, very watchful—and ever so slightly off. He must know more than he was saying.

She glanced over the ears of the wreck she was riding. She had no idea how far they had gone. Apart from Maurice, who rode silently at her side, everyone else in Adam’s troop, including Adam himself, was several hundred yards in front of them. Sighing, Cecily reapplied her heels to the wreck’s ribs.

The road was bordered by spindly hawthorn bushes that were peppered with berries. Old man’s beard snarled in the leafless branches of blackthorn bushes and tangled in thin, red-stemmed dogwoods.

As their party rounded the next turn they came to a crossroads, where the way was scarred with deep ruts, white with the chalk that told her they were nearing the downlands—sheep-farming country. In the summer the downs were a haze of bees and blue butterflies, and as for the skylarks…But this was November, Cecily reminded herself. The downs would be quiet. There would be no skylarks spiralling in the heavens—the downs would be resting, like the convent herb garden.

They passed a moss-covered milestone with the name ‘Fulford’ carved deep into its surface and she realised with a jolt that they were almost home.

Home. Perhaps it had been a mercy that for the past few miles her mind had been occupied, for now they were almost there her stomach began to churn. What would she find at Fulford? Was there anyone left who would recognise her? Would she be able to keep her brother safe?

Cecily dug in her heels and the horse’s ears flickered, but the beast must have a hide of iron and the will of a mule, for its pace was unalterable. Slow, slow, slow.

Ahead of them, Adam shoved his cloak back over one shoulder and leaned a hand on the cantle of his saddle. ‘Maurice, take Lady Cecily’s reins, will you? She’s obviously in difficulties, and it’s dangerous to be strung out along the road like this.’

Without waiting for any response, he about-faced, pulling his cloak back into place.

Since returning with her to the Palace, the man she had agreed to marry had not spared her so much as a glance. He must know about her visit to Golde Street. The warm, considerate, handsome man who had kissed her that morning had been transformed into a harsh, glacial-eyed warrior. Were they one and the same person? First thing this morning Adam had seemed kind—almost sweet, if a man could be sweet. But after she had returned to the Old Palace he had been cold and distant. Unapproachable.

And now he was bent on humiliating her in front of his squire. She huffed out a breath. She was not in difficulties. It was the pitiful shambles of a horse she’d been given. Poor bony nag, it could barely stand. Her father would never have mounted her on such a beast; he would have deemed it only fit for dog meat.

Maurice reached down and took her reins.

‘It’s not me,’ Cecily muttered, glaring at Adam’s broad back.

Maurice urged his own destrier on, and its sheer size and strength forced the wreck to keep up. ‘I know,’ Maurice said. Behind the nose-guard of his helm, his dark eyes were smiling. ‘And so does Sir Adam.’

‘Then why did he choose such a horse for me?’

‘Sir Adam was lucky to get a horse at all. It was the last in the stables.’

‘The last? I wonder why? I should have thought the Duke’s men would have fought to the death over it.’

‘Quite so, my lady.’ Maurice’s lips twitched. ‘But it must be better than sharing Sir Adam’s.’

‘Oh, yes, Maurice. At least I’ve been spared that.’

Trotting along with Maurice, several yards behind Flame, Cecily ignored the sharp look that Adam’s squire gave her and concentrated instead on keeping the horse moving.

The Wessex countryside slid by, becoming more and more familiar with every step. The road ran up a rise and down the other side, beginning a gentle descent into a lightly wooded valley that sliced a long bite out of the downland. Flocks of sheep moved placidly over the downs, and below, on the floor of the valley, the River Fulford flowed slowly on. It would eventually reach the Narrow Sea. Generations of Cecily’s family had lived near the River Fulford. Its waters had ground their corn, kept their fish fresh in the fish pond, helped them grow cress…

In no time Cecily was looking at strips of farmland that had been cut out of the woodland. Ahead, Adam reined in, and allowed them to draw level with him.

‘Familiar, my lady?’ Maurice asked.

‘Aye. Fulford Hall.’ She cleared her throat. ‘It’s very close.’

‘I’ll take it from here, Maurice,’ Adam said, taking her reins from his squire. He pulled off his helm, looped the strap round the pommel of his saddle and pushed back his coif. ‘See to the horses, will you?’

‘Aye, sir.’ Maurice spurred on ahead.

Adam’s profile was stern. And then he looked at her and smiled. But it seemed Cecily was getting to know him. His smile was false.

‘Sir?’

‘Be my guide, will you? When we took possession we were hard pushed to make out a word that was said to us, and I would know the name and station of everyone on this holding—down to the last soul. You swore to be my guide, remember? And I want you to teach me English.’

When we took possession. Cecily swallowed and nodded, lowering her gaze to hide a flash of anger. She did not know what she had expected to feel at her homecoming, but she had not thought to feel anger. Could he not allow her a few moments to come to terms with the changes—parents and brother gone, sister fled? Callous, cold, insensitive brute.

But then, surprisingly, anger was pushed aside, for their horses were walking past the peasants’ field strips on the outskirts of Fulford village, and there was too much she wanted to see.

The woods had been cut back in the four years she had been away, and two whole new fields had been made. Each peasant’s strip was clearly marked out from his neighbours—ridge, furrow, ridge, furrow, ridge, furrow. As expected, the wheat field had been harvested, and several pigs were tethered there, rooting about in the stubble, digging, manuring, turning all to mud. The fallow field had turned into a sheep-pen, and the frost-scorched grasses and clover had been nibbled down to the bare earth.

Cecily frowned.

‘What is it? What’s wrong?’ Adam asked.

‘Too many animals,’ she told him, her frown deepening. The thatch on one farmer’s cottage needed repair; another had a door falling off its hinges. ‘Far too many. And the winter feed has not been cut.’

‘Explain, please?’

Cecily sent him a sharp look, wondering how deep his interest went. Did he intend to strip Fulford of what riches it possessed, leaving it so impoverished that it would no longer be able to sustain itself? Or was he intending to husband her father’s land carefully? Was Adam Wymark a locust, or a good steward?

‘I need to know,’ he said, his expression earnest. ‘I’m a soldier, not a farmer. I was brought up in a town; there’s much I must learn.’

She nodded, prepared—for the moment—to give him the benefit of the doubt. ‘It’s November,’ she said. ‘Hard enough to keep more than a handful of animals alive through the turn of the year, even with plenty of winter feed—but that lot is far too many. They’ll starve, and the breeding stock will be weakened. They should have chosen the best animals to keep, and the rest should have gone to slaughter.’ Seeing she had his attention, she continued, waving at the cottages. ‘Look at those houses. People will be freezing come January. It’s in no one’s interests if half the village succumbs to lung fever.’

Adam gave her a lop-sided smile, and this time it did reach his eyes. ‘Cecily, I can work that one out for myself.’

‘I can’t think what Godwin’s about—’

‘Godwin?’

‘The reeve—at least he was reeve four years ago. He was old then. Perhaps he’s ill.’ She scowled meaningfully at him. ‘Or maybe he’s dead too.’

His smile fell away. ‘Who lives in that cottage?’

‘The one that’s lost most of its thatch? Oswin and May.’

‘And that one?’

‘Alfred. Poor Alfred lost his wife when his son Wat was born. Wat is my age.’ And Wat is simple, she thought, damaged at birth. She said nothing of this to Adam. Alfred’s cottage looked abandoned. What had happened to him? As a farmer, Alfred had not been one of her father’s housecarls, but perhaps he had formed part of the local levy, and had been drummed up to go to Hastings with billhook or pitchfork. If something had happened to Alfred, who was caring for Wat?

They drew level with the mill. Its wheel was larger than a tall man. Water gushed noisily into the channel, machinery clanked and banged, wooden cogs creaked and rattled. The hoist shutters on the upper floor were closed to keep out the November chill, and no one came to the door to watch their passing—but then the sound of their horse’s hooves was no doubt muffled by the mill workings.

‘How do you call this in English?’

‘It’s a mill.’

‘Mill,’ Adam said carefully, trying the word out. ‘Mill.’

Did he really intend to learn English? Covertly, hungrily, Cecily examined his profile, baffled by a most powerful need to lock every last detail of him safely in her mind—from the precise colour of his dark hair, so like the wing of a blackbird, to the perfect straightness of his nose. She was gazing with something that felt oddly like longing at the compelling curve of his lips when he glanced across at her. Hurriedly, she dropped her gaze and lurched into speech.

‘The miller’s name is Gilbert. He’s married to Bertha, and when I left they had a girl called Matty, and two boys, Harold and Carl. Matty should be about fourteen and the boys would be eleven and twelve by my reckoning.’

Adam nodded. ‘Mill,’ he repeated.

They rode on. The noise of the mill diminished as the village church, a simple thatched building with a cross on the roof ridge, rose up in front of them.

‘And this building? What is the English word?’

‘The word is church.’

‘Church,’ Adam murmured. ‘Church.’ He reverted to Norman French. ‘It’s wooden, like the cottages and the mill. There are no stone buildings in Fulford. At my home in Brittany it is the same; in the main only great lords’ castles and cathedrals are built in stone.’

Absently, Cecily nodded. Her eyes were drawn to the glebeland next to the church, to the graveyard. And there, through the split-rail fence, she found what she was looking for—a wreath of evergreens someone had placed on some freshly turned earth. Her mother’s grave?

Her hands jerked on the reins; her eyes filled. Quickly averting her head, she forced her gaze past the cemetery, on to the priest’s house and Fulford Hall, which stood facing each other on opposite sides of the village green.

Tears ran hot down her cheeks once again, and the sheep-nibbled grass of the village green, trampled and muddied as it was by many horses’ hoofs, blurred and wavered like a field of green barley in a March wind. Swallowing down the lump in her throat, Cecily tried to speak normally. ‘As you may guess, the cottage next to the glebeland belongs to the priest. He lives off the tithes everyone brings him. Father Aelfric—’

Adam gave a snort of laughter. ‘I’ve met Father Aelfric. And his wife.’

Forgetful of the tears drying on her cheeks, Cecily whipped her head round. ‘I…I did not know that Father Aelfric had taken a wife.’

As Adam’s green eyes met hers his expression sobered. ‘Ah, Cecily, what a fool I am.’ He reached across and gently traced a tear-track with his finger. ‘Your mother…my apologies.’

Fiercely Cecily shook her head and batted away his hand. ‘Don’t. Please. Not here. Not now.’ She would break down if he offered sympathy, and she would not be so shamed—not in front of his men and the whole village. She was her mother’s daughter.

Adam took up the reins again, and perhaps he understood her need for distraction, for he went on conversationally, ‘Father Aelfric has two small children.’

Cecily dashed away her tears with her sleeve. ‘Oh?’

‘Is it common in England for priests to have wives?’ Adam asked, and she realised that, yes, he was giving her time to compose herself before they reached the Hall. He was not a complete boor.

‘Sometimes they do.’

‘Duke William does not approve of such practices.’

Cecily shrugged. Monks, nuns and priests all took the vow of chastity, but priests, and even bishops, did sometimes make their housekeepers their ‘wives’. She wondered who Aelfric had ‘married’. He had always been fond of Sigrida, and she of him…

Fulford Hall. Finally she was home.

The Hall overlooked the village green. It was a long building, taller and wider than any for miles. On either side of the door unglazed windows with sliding wooden shutters stared across the green towards the church opposite. The thatch was weathered, grey in parts, mossy in others—in short it looked to be in no better condition than the thatch on many of the serfs’ cottages. Smoke made a charcoal smudge in the sky above the roof. Ordinarily, Cecily’s heart would have lifted to see it, but today…

They drew rein by the door. Maurice and Geoffrey were leading their horses towards the stables, swapping jokes. Inside, by the fire, Sir Richard was tossing his cloak at one of the men, laughing with another. Shadowy silhouettes moving about in her father’s hall. Normans. Bretons. Conquerors.

She could hear the murmur of conversation, the snicker of a horse, the honking of geese. Where was Philip? Where was her brother? Gripped by a sense of unreality, Cecily focused on the wooden carvings around the doorframe of the Hall, on the snake winding up its length, at the trailing vine, the flowers and twisting patterns she had traced with her fingers so many times, and she felt…she felt nothing. Her father’s hall was in the hands of a stranger from Brittany and she felt empty, scoured of emotion.

The stranger was looking her village over with a proprietorial eye. In the middle of the green, under the branches of an oak that had been ancient when her father had been born, stood the village stocks and the pillory post. The stranger, the invader, frowned and pointed at the stocks. ‘We have these in Quimperlé. What are they called in English?’

‘The stocks.’

‘And the other? Is it the whipping post?’

‘That is a pillory. Sometimes my father used it as a whipping post.’

He repeated the words under his breath as he dismounted, and Cecily watched his mailed figure, wondering whether he would be as stern a judge as her father had been. Thane Edgar had once removed a serf’s hand for stealing. He had occasionally used the branding iron, and both the stocks and the pillory had seen regular use. The stocks and the pillory, however, were usually effective enough as deterrents.

But Philip…where was baby Philip? Her gaze glided over Godwin the reeve’s house, on past the sheep-pens, the piggery, over the cookhouse. Someone was swinging towards them on crutches, scattering hens before him, silver bracelets chinking on his wrists. ‘Edmund!’

The same age as Judhael, Edmund had been another companion of her brother Cenwulf, and a housecarl of her father’s. The bracelets would have been gifts from her father to a favoured warrior, in return for loyal service. He looked thin and haggard. His light brown hair hung lankly about his shoulders, and his grey eyes seemed to have sunk into his sockets.

‘Cecily?’

Cecily dismounted and flung herself at her brother’s friend, almost unbalancing him. ‘Oh, Edmund, I’m so glad to see you! I feared that you too might be gone.’

Edmund grunted, adjusted his crutches, and glanced coldly at Adam. ‘Have a care, Cecily,’ he said in English. ‘You’ll have me over.’

‘Speak French, will you?’ Fulford’s new lord asked, frowning.

‘He can’t. My apologies. Oh, Edmund, it is so good to see you.’ She drew back, smiling, for the moment ignoring the man she had agreed to marry. Adam stood slightly to the side, his horse’s reins in hand, and that watchful look in his green eyes.

The hose of Edmund’s left leg, instead of being bound with braid, had been slit, and his leg was in a splint. He looked as though he’d not slept in a month, but he was alive. ‘What happened to your leg?’

Leaning on his crutches, Edmund lifted his shoulders. ‘Fell from my horse. Bad break, or so your mother said. Otherwise I’d have been at Hastings with your father. Every housecarl went but me.’ He let out a bitter laugh. ‘Even Alfred went.’

‘As home guard?’

‘Yes.’ He paused. ‘None returned.’

Unable to speak for the knot clogging her throat, Cecily nodded.

‘Gudrun splinted my leg for me.’

‘Gudrun?’

‘Under your mother’s supervision.’ Edmund met her gaze directly. ‘Cecily, I’m so sorry about Lady Philippa. We all are. The day she died—’

Swiftly, lest Edmund let fall anything about her brother that Adam might understand, Cecily leaned forward and pressed a kiss on his mouth. Placing a hand over his, she squeezed it meaningfully and ignored Adam’s gaze boring into her back. ‘We will talk later. We have much to catch up on. But I am more than glad to see you whole.’ She turned towards the hall. ‘Gudrun?’

Edmund’s grey eyes met hers. ‘Within. With your…with the new babe. You know about that?’

‘Emma told me the news.’

Edmund shifted on his crutches, moving his splinted leg so it was bearing more of his weight. He winced, and immediately repositioned himself. ‘Holy God! It’s not healing as it should.’

‘I’ll look at it before supper,’ Cecily promised. ‘Before we lose daylight.’

‘My thanks. I hear you’re as skilled as your mother was.’

Glancing uncertainly at Adam—his expression was quite definitely stormy—Cecily swept past him into the hall.

Inside, Cecily had no thoughts for Breton knights who could not speak English. She only had eyes for Gudrun. She found her sitting on a wall bench, partially screened by the looped-back sleeping curtain. The veil that covered Gudrun’s brown hair was drawn forward round her shoulders for modesty as her gown was unlaced at the front. She was discreetly suckling a newborn baby.

Philip! Cecily hurried over, trying to disguise her eagerness. Philip was smaller than she had imagined, with a wrinkled face and an astonishing crest of thick dark hair. One tiny hand was splayed out on Gudrun’s breast, and his eyes were shut, but he was feeding strongly. Her brother. The rightful heir to Fulford Hall.

‘Lady Cecily!’ Gudrun’s gasp quickly turned into a smile of relief and welcome. ‘This is Philip.’

Cecily dropped to her knees on the rushes and reached out to stroke the tiny head. ‘Oh, Gudrun. He’s beautiful.’

Gudrun’s expression softened. ‘Isn’t he?’

Another baby, a plump, rosy-cheeked bundle, was asleep in a reed basket by Gudrun’s feet. Gently, Cecily stroked a chubby little foot that was sticking out of its coverlet. ‘And this? Who is this?’ She tucked the cover back in place.

Gudrun smiled. ‘That is my Agatha.’

‘Agatha. She is lovely too.’

Cecily’s gaze was drawn back to her brother. And while she struggled with yet more tears Gudrun lowered her voice. ‘I’m right glad you are come, my lady. Wilf and I have been afraid with these—’ she jerked her eyes in the direction of Richard and his companions by the central hearth ‘—come here. Afraid of what they might do. Not knowing what would be best for this little one—whether to stay, or go like your sister. But with you home…you will know what to do. You will stay, won’t you, my lady?’

‘Yes, I’m to marry Sir Adam.’

Gudrun’s eyes widened, and she looked at Cecily’s habit, at the wooden cross on her breast. ‘You, dear?’

Cecily had to smile. Gudrun had not changed, thank the Lord. Sometimes she would remember, and call Cecily by her title, but more often a simple ‘dear’ would suffice. Cecily would have had it no other way.

A shadow fell across the entrance. Adam. He’d removed his chainmail and sword, and a plain green tunic covered those broad shoulders; a belt with a silver buckle encircled that slim waist. As Cecily had observed in the convent, he appeared slighter without his armour. His shape pleased her eyes. He was her enemy but, unlikely as it seemed, she liked looking at him. It was most disorientating. He marched to the fire, holding his hands out to the blaze. Nail-bitten fingers, she recalled. Sir Richard addressed him and Adam answered, even as his eyes roamed the room and came to rest on her.

He always does that when he enters a room and I am already there. He looks for me. He watches me. And I do not think it is because I please his eyes—no, he is suspicious of me. I must be on my guard, for Philip’s sake.

‘Well, I don’t know,’ Gudrun was saying. ‘I thought you were promised to God. But, since your sister would have none of him, perhaps it’s for the best.’

‘Yes. I…I think so. Tell me how things stand at Fulford.’

Gudrun rattled on, bringing Cecily up to date: Lufu the cook had vanished; they were short of butchered meat; Gudrun and her husband Wilf needed help with running the household as Marie, her mother’s maidservant, had been worse than useless since Lady Philippa’s death…

While Gudrun talked, Cecily searched for changes in the Hall itself. The whitewashed walls, blackened by smoke from the central hearth, the lofty roof space, criss-crossed with dark oak beams—all were blessedly familiar. As was the curtained recess used as sleeping quarters by married couples in the Thane’s household since her grandfather’s time. Around the recess, the walls were dotted with storage chests and people’s bundles. Cloaks hung from wall pegs. Her mother’s tapestry brightened the south wall.

Nothing was obviously out of place. Nothing appeared damaged. The world had been turned on its head in the past month, and the only fault that Cecily could find was that the clay floor was covered with rushes that smelt as though they had needed freshening weeks ago.

‘Gudrun?’ Cecily interrupted the flow of talk.

‘Yes, dear?’

‘No looting seems to have gone on.’

Gudrun’s brow creased, ‘No,’ she agreed, her voice puzzled. ‘That’s true. I feared it might happen, but he—’ she looked past the fire at Adam ‘—keeps his men in order.’

‘What about my father’s wolfhounds? Where are they? Did Lightning and Greedy go with him to Hastings? And is Loki still with us?’

‘No, dear, Loki died last winter. But Thane Edgar left Lightning and Greedy behind to keep your mother safe. And they would have done so too, if she’d still been with us. You should have seen them when these foreigners rode in. I learnt then how a wolfhound can turn into a wolf.’

Cecily caught her breath. ‘The dogs weren’t killed?’

‘No, dear. The new lord had them chained in the yard out back, by the stables.’ Gudrun gave a reminiscent grin. ‘Right carry-on there was—snarling, snapping. They’d have torn his throat out, given half a chance.’

Glancing at the men by the fire, Cecily rose. ‘I’d better see to their needs.’

Gudrun’s lips twitched. ‘Whose needs, dear? The men or the hounds?’

‘Both,’ Cecily said, on a laugh such as she’d not expected to make this day. ‘Oh, Gudrun, it is good to see you.’

Gudrun’s veil quivered as she nodded agreement. ‘Aye, dear, so it is. Now be off with you—before yon lord wonders why a mere servant so commands your attention. Best keep them sweet. And our secret safe.’

‘Aye. No one has brought them refreshment yet. Where is Wilf? If Lufu is not to be found, he can give me a hand.’

‘Oh, no, dear. A wheel on the cart was wobbling, so Wilf took it to the smithy. He should be back any time.’

‘Marie, then. Surely she can help?’

Gudrun made an impatient sound. ‘I’ve not seen her. Try the church. Since your mother went, rest her soul, Marie’s all but moved in there.’ She winked. ‘I expect Sigrida would be glad if you prised her out of there.’