Medieval Brides. Anne Herries
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told Cecily they had been dried by her mother in the summer just past. Damping down a rush of emotion, Cecily forced herself to continue with her review. Adam and his men must be fed…
Above the main cooking fire and slightly to one side of it the hook on which a smoked ham usually dangled was empty. She sighed. A cooking vessel sat empty on the coals, the water having boiled away hours ago. Reaching for a cloth, Cecily took the pot from the fire and set it on a flat stone to cool. Filthy, unwashed pots lay everywhere. Dirty serving dishes were piled high on the table. Used knives and spoons had been thrown down beside them. The sour stench of unwashed pot-cloths filled the air.
It got worse. The bread oven was so cold it could not have been fired in days. The fire under the washtub was also out. If her father had been alive he would have had Lufu in the stocks for such slovenliness…
Afraid that the state of the cookhouse was the least of Lufu’s negligence, Cecily picked up her skirts and climbed the short flight of stairs which led to the storeroom. The door swung open at a touch when it should have been locked.
Gripped by a growing sense of urgency, she tapped one of the barrels where the salt meat should be stored. It rang hollow. She tapped another—that too was empty. And another. Again, empty. The costly sacks of salt were there, ready for use, but as she had feared the killing and salting had yet to be done. If it wasn’t done soon the salt would grow damp and spoil. Adam would have to be told of the state of the storeroom, and the thought filled her with dread. In like circumstances, her father would have gone beserk.
Someone had made a start with the apples, though. Neat rows of green cookers and lines of rosy russets filled two of the shelves, but the apples should be up in the apple loft by this time, packed away in straw. There were three casks of ale and a couple of wine. Several sacks of grain. A heap of turnips. Half a dozen rounds of cheese, wrapped in sacking. Preparations for winter had begun, but not enough had been done—not nearly enough. The meat was the worst of it, for without it everyone would be tightening their belts in weeks, if not days. Tempers would start to get frayed, as if there wasn’t enough to worry about…
Cecily needed no seer to tell her that her mother, great with the child that she had been too old to be bearing, and weighed down with grief on learning of the deaths of her husband and her son at Hastings, must have lost heart.
Where was Lufu? The girl’s short-sighted laziness would see everyone suffering this winter. And Godwin? In her mother’s absence, the reeve too must share the responsibility for what had not been done here. Sins of omission, as Mother Aethelflaeda would say.
A movement in the cookhouse had her whirling around as a tall streak of a boy shuffled into the storeroom. He stooped his head as he passed under the doorframe. Cecily half recognised him. Of about her own age, he wore a coarse brown peasant’s tunic that was torn at the shoulder and in dire need of a wash. The bindings of his chausses were unravelling. He looked a shambles, but his face was alight with honest pleasure. ‘C…C…Cec?’ he said. ‘Yes! Cec!’
‘Wat? Oh, Wat, I am glad to see you well.’ It was Alfred’s motherless son. He was in need of a scrubbing, but hale, thank the Lord. Apparently, he was just about coping without his father.
Wat grinned and nodded. ‘Cec, Cec.’ He had always liked Cecily, though he had never managed her full name. He reached for her hand. ‘Cec!’ he repeated, and, still grinning, clumsily raised her fingers to his lips. ‘Cec come home!’
‘Yes, Wat. I’m home. Wat, do you know where Lufu is?’
‘Lufu?’ His brow wrinkled.
‘Yes, I’m looking for Lufu.’ Still holding his hand, she led him, docile as a lamb, back into the deserted cookhouse. ‘We need help if anyone is to eat tonight. Where’s Lufu?’
Wat shook his head. ‘Gone up?’
‘Up?’
Wat looked blankly at her, and Cecily sighed. ‘Oh, dear—never mind.’ She rolled up her sleeves. ‘We had best make a start on it ourselves. Wat, please fetch some water—the pail’s in that corner.’
Wat pursed his lips.
‘Won’t you help me, Wat?’
Eagerly, he nodded.
‘Then take the bucket—that one, over there.’
Still clinging to her hand, not moving, Wat swung it from side to side. Smiling he repeated, ‘Cec home.’
‘Yes, Wat, I’m home.’
And then, to her mingled astonishment and horror, Wat fell to his knees, pressed his face into her belly, and burst into tears. He clung like a baby, shaking and sobbing. A pain in her chest, Cecily put her arms around him.
And naturally Adam Wymark chose that moment to walk into the cookhouse.
Adam stood just inside the cookhouse door, blinking at the sight of the beggarly lad in filthy homespun who was sobbing into Cecily’s skirts. The lad reeked—Adam could smell him from the doorway—but Cecily was embracing him with no sign of revulsion. Far from it—she was stroking his lank hair back from his brow, hugging his unwashed person to her, and murmuring soft words that he could not understand into the boy’s ear. Saxon words. Words that could speak treason and he would never know it until it was too late. But somehow he did not think treason was being spoken here. Fool that he was, he did not want it to be treason that was being spoken here…
‘Clearly one has to be Saxon to win your favour,’ Adam said, forcing a smile.
They sprang apart. The boy edged sideways, sleeving his tears. Cecily’s chin came up. ‘This is Wat,’ she said. ‘An old friend.’
Adam leaned against a littered table and folded his arms. His stomach was churning with doubts concerning her loyalties, but he’d be damned before he’d let her see it. But, hell, both Cecily and the boy looked the picture of guilt. He adopted a dry, teasing tone. ‘First Edmund—you kiss him. And now Wat. He is embraced. How many other admirers are hiding in the woodwork? Will I have to fight for your hand?’
‘No, S…Adam. It’s not like that,’ she said, biting her lip and flushing.
‘No?’ Adam tipped his head to one side. The boy Wat was watching them open-mouthed; the tear-tracks had left clean streaks on his face. ‘Cecily, come here.’ Adam wanted to have it out with her about her little visit to Golde Street, but he could not—must not. The waiting game, he reminded himself. You are playing the waiting game.
Hesitantly, still biting that lip, she took a step towards him. Something was worrying her. She was holding herself in a way that told him she half expected him to hit her. Guilt? Or something else?
‘Closer. I have something to tell you.’
She took another step towards him as, behind her, Wat edged past and made a dash for the door. ‘What is it?’
‘Closer.’ Their feet almost touched. Her blue eyes were wide. Innocent. Guileless. Charmingly hesitant, if he could but believe what he was seeing. If only he had never heard her in the goldsmith’s house…if only she did not look so afraid…
‘Adam, is something amiss?’
Leaning forwards, he took her hands and stared into her eyes. Her pupils were dark, her lashes long. He could see the light from the doorway reflected in them, the shadow of his own self. ‘Cecily,’ he muttered, and shook his head. Hell, why was it so important that she did not hate him?
‘Adam?’
‘I’ve spoken to Father Aelfric. He speaks a little French, and I speak a little Latin, and between us I think we managed to understand each other. He has agreed to marry us on the morrow. I gather that if we don’t wed then we’ll have to wait till after Christmas—because it will be Advent, and it is bad luck to marry in Advent.’
‘That’s true.’
‘So.’ He gave her a lopsided smile. ‘Reasoning