Medieval Brides. Anne Herries
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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