Medieval Brides. Anne Herries

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СКАЧАТЬ huffed. Indeed, Sir Richard was not wrong—she could see for herself that Matty was encouraging him. Stupid girl—did she have no sense? Cecily must warn her about the dangers of trying out her wiles on men like Sir Richard Asculf.

      ‘Sir Richard,’ she said, ‘Matty is very young. She is only fourteen.’

      ‘She is enchanting. My sister Elizabeth was married at thirteen,’ he said, utterly unrepentant.

      ‘I do not think it is marriage you have in mind with Matty, Sir Richard. Leave her alone.’

      Richard shrugged. ‘As you wish.’ Putting his hand on his heart, he caught Matty’s gaze, and with a ridiculous expression of yearning on his face he shook his head.

      Cheeks aflame, Matty tossed her head. Adam gave a snort of laughter.

      ‘It’s not funny!’ Cecily said, glowering. She caught at his sleeve, and murmured, ‘He will leave her alone, won’t he?’

      ‘Be calm. He said as much. Richard is a man of his word.’

      ‘Good, because otherwise Matty can sleep with me.’

      ‘My lady,’ Sir Richard said, his eyes sparkling with good-natured mischief. ‘Your maid’s virtue is safe. I can see she is innocent. I will sleep at this end of the Hall, with our men. Adam can keep his eye on me.’

      ‘Truly?’

      ‘Truly.’

      There was no malice in his face, nothing of the marauding conqueror. Cecily nodded. ‘My father’s people may sleep at the bottom end of the Hall, behind the curtain.’

      ‘Who would you put in charge?’ Adam asked. ‘Edmund or Wilf?’

      ‘Wilf.’

      ‘Very well. Wilf can see to the sleeping arrangements.’

       Chapter Thirteen

      Rushlight in hand, Cecily toiled up the stairs to the loft room. It was past midnight by the candle clock in the curtained area below, and she could barely keep her eyes open, but at last the inhabitants of Fulford were settled for the night.

      Harold and Carl had elected to sleep in the stables, Edmund and Wat were nowhere to be seen, having melted away as soon as the trestles were put up for the night, and the villagers—Father Aelfric and Sigrida among them—had returned to their cottages. Of the Saxons only the household retainers had chosen to remain in the Hall. Gudrun, Wilf, Matty and the two babies were tucked out of sight behind the sleeping curtain, having surrendered the fire to Adam and his men. The newcomers hugged the flames, murmuring over dregs in wine flasks and mead jugs.

      Before going upstairs, Cecily had contrived to rock her brother to sleep. Philip’s basket had had to be moved while the bedding was being laid out, and this had disturbed him. Thanks to Gudrun saying, ‘Here, my lady, you always did have a way with babies,’ she had taken him from Gudrun perfectly naturally, and no one had raised so much as an eyebrow. She was pretty confident none of the Franks dreamed she was his sister. It had been good to hold him—though she had had to swallow down some tears at the thought that Philip would never know either his mother or his father. Vowing to give him as much love as she could, she had finally passed him back to Gudrun and gone to seek her own bed.

      As she clambered onto the landing, a sudden draught raised goosebumps on her arms. It was turning bitter. Edmund was more than capable of looking after himself, but Wat’s disappearance was a concern. Had he found somewhere warm for the night? His father’s cottage was a ruin—she must remember to see to that on the morrow. Hopefully Wat would be in the stables, with Carl and Harold…

      In the loft room both braziers glowed a welcome, and a lighted candle stood on the bedside coffer. Blowing out her rushlight, Cecily warmed her hands at one of the braziers before sinking down onto the bed. She had not dreamed of asking for such comfort—had Adam done so on her behalf?

      Lord, but she was tired.

      Unpinning her veil, she loosened her hair. Her whole body ached from so much riding—she was not used to it. Wanting to do nothing more than melt into the mattress, she kicked off her boots. Forcing herself back onto her feet, she laid her belt carefully on Emma’s coffer and removed the blue gown. Shaking it out, she hung it on a hook to keep the creases out of it. Vaguely she noticed rush matting underfoot. It had not been there earlier. New? She was too tired to care. Shrugging, she flipped back the bedcovers and, still clad in her—in Emma’s—linen undergown and hose, she slid into bed. Her feet encountered a warm brick. She wriggled her toes. What bliss. Thank you, Matty.

      In a few moments Cecily was almost as warm as when she had woken in Adam Wymark’s arms. Had that only been this morning?

      Was Adam cold, down in the Hall? Was his pallet hard and lumpy?

      She yawned, and her thoughts ran into each other. Home at last, free of St. Anne’s, but how the faces had changed. No Mother, no Father, no Cenwulf, no Emma. And Franks at every turn. Adam’s green eyes took shape in her mind. Smiling, watchful—Fulford’s new lord. Was she really going to marry him? Could tomorrow really be her wedding day?

      She woke to a woman’s laughter in the hall under the loft room. Gudrun.

      Refreshed by a night on what must be the most comfortable mattress in Christendom, relishing the softness of her pillow, Cecily smiled and stretched. Light was creeping round the edges of the shutter above the bed.

      Below, Matty was singing a lullaby, interspersing each verse with a giggle.

      A baby gurgled in response. It had to be Agatha. Philip was too young to gurgle like that. Happy, homely sounds, floating up through the cracks in the floorboards. What joy to waken to lullabies and laughter after years of wakening to the cold chime of the Matins bell, to the sterile chant of plainsong.

      Smiling, Cecily bounced upright, pushed her hair back from her face and surveyed the loft room with guilty delight. This was hers to enjoy—hers. The boarded floor with its rush matting, the whitewashed walls, the sloping roof, the pottery washbasin, the two braziers—though admittedly they had burned down to ash some time in the small hours.

      She was not going to spend her nights in a dreary cell. She’d spend them here in this large and airy loft. And from tonight—her smile faded and she drew the covers more tightly round her shoulders—from tonight she would share it with Adam Wymark, a Breton who could not even speak her language properly.

      His travelling chest was shoved against the wall, where Matty had left it after tidying away his clothes. Only one travelling chest? His hauberk and helmet must be stowed in the armoury, along with his sword and gambeson, or else he had them at his side, for they were not here. What else had Adam Wymark seen fit to bring with him from Brittany?

      Clambering to her knees, Cecily reached up to open the overhead shutter. Light poured in. Getting out of bed, she padded across the matting to the travelling chest. The lid was heavy and creaked as it opened. A jumble met her eyes.

      A dirty linen shirt, screwed up in a ball; another, frayed at the neck; a pair of braies; two pairs of hose, one with a nasty rent in it and stained with what looked like blood. Shuddering, she set the dirty shirt and bloody hose aside СКАЧАТЬ