Medieval Brides. Anne Herries

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      His lightheartedness lasted as long as it took to walk back to the Saxon Palace, where the troop was stationed. The guards jumped to attention as they entered the main hall. Cecily kept close, white teeth still nibbling at her lip. That pretty flush was gone. ‘You’ve been here before?’ he asked.

      She swallowed. ‘Once, years ago. With my father—with Thane Edgar.’

      Adam nodded. This must be hard for her, and he had no words to make it easy. In her place he would be counting the differences between now and then.

      He had not seen the Palace of the Kings when the Duke’s men had first entered the city, but he’d heard about beautiful wall-hangings ripped from the walls—even now the hooks and rods on which they had hung were still visible, bent awry by careless hands. He’d heard about antique arms that had hung proudly over the main dais where the Royal family of Wessex had taken their seats to break bread. Telltale white marks on the smoke-blackened limewash were all that remained of them. He’d heard about costly silver plate—looted, most likely, from the self-same sideboard that Cecily was gazing at. One of the sideboard doors hung askew on one hinge, and one of its legs was broken. He’d heard of a great shield, emblazoned with the dragon of Wessex. There was no sign of that, either. No, Adam decided ruefully, nothing he could say would make this easy.

      His captain, Félix Tihell, was back, talking to Maurice on the other side of the central fire. Adam steered his betrothed to a bench by the wall. ‘Wait here,’ he said, and left her gazing up at the gallery constructed at one end of the hall, on the first-floor landing, well away from the central fire. The room on the gallery had served as a private solar for the Earls of Wessex. The garrison commander had taken it over.

      It was warm by the central fire, which was a proper roaring fire, piled with dry logs, not like the sulky affair at the convent guest house. Tihell had his helm under his arm, and he was out of breath, with a light sheen of sweat coating his forehead as though he had been running. He broke off at Adam’s approach.

      ‘Sir Adam.’ Tihell saluted. ‘In your absence, I was about to give Maurice my report.’

      ‘Give it to me direct,’ Adam said, waving his squire away. ‘Don’t tell me the trail went cold?’

      ‘No, sir,’ Tihell said, chest heaving as he caught his breath. ‘I followed the pony tracks from the convent, out of the north gates as you directed, but they did not continue north, as we expected. Instead they circled round to the west in a wide loop. Lady Emma stayed overnight with her groom at a tavern called the Green Man, and the next day they continued, eventually hitting the road to Winchester.’

      Adam tensed. ‘Winchester? She came here? Lady Emma came here today?’

      His captain nodded. ‘Aye. We made good time, and I managed to catch up with her. Actually, I came through Hyde Gate behind her. Followed her straight to the Cathedral.’

      Feeling as though he’d been kicked in the gut, Adam’s eyes went involuntarily to Cecily, sitting demurely on the bench on the other side of the fire, with her hands folded nun-fashion in her lap. Smoke and flames curled between them, but she intercepted his gaze and sent a shy smile across the hall. When he did not return it, her smile faltered. Something within him twisted. ‘The Cathedral?’ he repeated slowly. ‘Which one? Old Minster or New Minster?’

      ‘The one which holds their saint’s relics.’

      ‘Old Minster. Hell, I should have known,’ Adam said, closing his eyes as Cecily’s reaction when she had caught sight of him flashed into his mind. That sudden pallor…that frantic scramble for the Cathedral door.

      Cecily had known her sister was in the Minster and was playing him for a fool. Had she met secretly with Emma? Were they hatching a plot between them to see to his downfall? He shoved his hand through his hair and braced himself to turn back to Félix, to confirm the worst. ‘You’re stating that Emma Fulford definitely entered St Swithun’s Cathedral today?’

      ‘Yes, sir.’

      His belly was full of cold stones.

      When Adam remained silent, Tihell added, ‘A couple of the lads are keeping watch on her, but I’d best not stay long. They’re young and untried, and I don’t want to lose her. Unless…unless you want me to bring her in, sir?’

      Adam’s gaze was drawn back to the girl on the bench. So pure. So innocent. Or so he had thought. His jaw tightened. Those kisses—had they meant something to her? Or had they been a blind—a cover to hide the fact that she had been meeting with her sister? His eyes narrowed. He had let a woman close before, and her death had all but torn his heart to shreds. Grimly, he wondered which was worse: the death of a loved one, or betrayal by a loved one.

      Not that that was about to happen here. Thane Edgar’s youngest daughter was nothing to him. Nothing. His hands curled into fists. Sitting there so pale and so pretty, so demure, Cecily Fulford did not look as though she had any guile in her. But she was Saxon, and he must not forget that. He had hoped she was warming to him, but he’d clearly been blinded by his attraction to her person. He had quite forgotten that to her he would always be Duke William’s man, a conqueror.

      ‘Sir Adam? Is…have I done wrong?’ Tihell asked, shifting his helm to his other arm.

      Adam forced a smile. ‘Nothing’s wrong but the times we live in.’

      ‘Yes, sir.’ Tihell paused. ‘Sir?’

      Adam tore his gaze from Cecily. ‘Mmm?’

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