Medieval Brides. Anne Herries
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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.
‘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