Medieval Brides. Anne Herries
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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