Medieval Brides. Anne Herries
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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