The Novice Bride. Carol Townend

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      A chill winter wind was tossing straw about the yard. Woodsmoke gusted out of the cookhouse, and their breath made white vapour which was no sooner formed than it was snatched away.

      Emma drew the burgundy velvet cloak more tightly about her shoulders.

      Cecily, who had not touched a cloak of such quality since entering the convent, and in any case was not wearing even a thin one since she was within the confines of the convent, shivered, and ushered her sister swiftly across the yard towards the south gate.

      The portress’s lodge, a thatched wooden hut, sagged against the palisade. Abutting the lodge at its eastern end was the convent’s guest house, a slightly larger, marginally more inviting building; Cecily led her sister inside.

      Even though the door was thrown wide the room was full of shadows, for the wooden walls were planked tight, with only a shuttered slit or two to let in the light. Since no guests had been looked for, there was no fire in the central hearth, only a pile of dead ashes. November marked the beginning of the dark months, but Cecily knew better than to incur Mother Aethelflaeda’s wrath by lighting a precious candle. If she added the sin of wasting a candle in daylight to the sin of her broken retreat, she’d be doing penance till Christmas ten years hence.

      Dropping Emma’s riding crop and gloves on the trestle along with her rosary, Cecily wrenched the shutters open. The cold and ensuing draughts would have to be borne. Emma paced up and down. Her pink gown, Cecily now had time to notice, was liberally spattered with mud about the hem, her silken veil was awry, and the chaplet that secured it was crooked.

      ‘You rode fast to bring me this sad news,’ Cecily said slowly, as her sister strode back and forth. Now that the first shock was passing, her mind was beginning to work, and she had questions. ‘And yet…if Maman died three days since, you must have delayed your ride to me. There is more, isn’t there?’

      Emma stopped her pacing. ‘Yes. The babe lives. A boy.’

      Cecily gaped. ‘A boy? And he lives? Oh, it’s a miracle—new life after so much death!’ Her face fell. ‘But so early? Emma, he cannot survive.’

      ‘So I thought. He is small. I took the liberty of having him christened Philip, in case…in case—’

      Emma broke off with a choking sound, but she had no need to add more. Having lived in the convent for four years, Cecily knew the Church’s view as well as any. If the babe did die, better that he died christened into the faith. For if he died outside it, he would be for eternity a lost soul.

      ‘Philip,’ Cecily murmured. ‘Maman would have liked that.’

      ‘Aye. And it’s not a Saxon name, so if he survives…I thought his chances better if he bore a Norman name.’

      ‘It is a good thought to stress Maman’s lineage rather than Father’s,’ Cecily replied. The son of a Saxon thane could not thrive if in truth England was to become Norman, but the son of a Norman lady…

      Emma drew close, touched Cecily’s arm, and again Cecily became conscious of the incongruous fragrance of roses in November, of the softness of her sister’s gown, of the whiteness of her hands, of her unbroken lady’s nails. All the mud in England couldn’t obscure either the quality of Emma’s clothing or her high status.

      She brushed awkwardly at her own coarse skirts in a vain attempt to shake out some dust and creases, and hide the hole at the knee where she’d torn the fabric grubbing up fennel roots in the herb garden. There were so many holes in the cloth it was nigh impossible to darn.

      ‘I would have come at once to tell you, Cecily, if I had not had my hands full caring for our new brother.’

      ‘You were right to put Philip first. Do you think he may thrive?’

      ‘I pray so. I left him with Gudrun. She was brought to bed a few months since herself, with a girl, and she is acting at his wet nurse.’ The restless pacing resumed. ‘He would not feed at first, but Gudrun persevered, and now…and now…’ A faint smile lit Emma’s eyes. ‘I think he may thrive, after all.’

      ‘That at least is good news.’

      ‘Aye.’ Emma turned, picked up her riding crop from the trestle and tapped it against her side. She stood with her back to Cecily, facing the door, and stared at the cookhouse smoke swirling in the yard. ‘Cecily…I…I confess I didn’t really come to tell you about Philip…’