Medieval Brides. Anne Herries

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      ‘To say that Thane Edgar’s armoury is a disappointment would be to understate the case,’ Adam said.

      Richard grunted agreement.

      Adam eyed the Saxon weaponry that Maurice had laid out on the workbench for his inspection: a rusty hauberk, the links of which were coming apart; a couple of cracked shields; a sword so clumsy that it would have taken a giant to wield it—the list ran on. True, there were a couple of dozen arrows, but they were unfletched, and the two bows were of ashwood and not yew. He picked up one of the bows, weighing it in his hand. Some idiot had left it in the damp—it was warped and would be impossible to sight.

      Sighing, Adam met Richard’s sympathetic gaze. He thrust the bow at his friend and took up the other, which seemed equally twisted. Without a word, they set about stringing them.

      Nocking one of the unfletched arrows, Adam stepped outside the armoury and drew the bow, sighting along the arrow. ‘God’s blood!’ he said, exasperated at the wanton waste of what had once been a reasonable practice weapon.

      ‘No good?’ Richard murmured, and, drawing his own bow, pointed it round the edge of the Hall towards the green, where the bedraggled cook was sitting amid her vegetable peelings.

      ‘You’d not hit an ox at five paces with this,’ Adam said, unnocking his arrow.

      ‘Hmm.’ Testing the drawing power of his bow, Richard sighted it at the mead hall roof ridge.

      Cecily hurtled round the corner and stormed straight for them, skirts lifted out of the mud, veil flying. To his great annoyance, Adam’s heart lurched just at the sight of her. Hell, had he ever mooned over Gwenn like this? He did not think so. But then he had known Gwenn all his life, and no one, not even the little novice, could ever replace his Gwenn. As she stalked up to him his gaze sharpened. A blind man could sense the fury in her—it was rolling off her in waves. So, Cecily Fulford kept a temper hidden beneath all that golden beauty, did she? Interesting.

      Matty hurtled round the corner, running to keep up. The girl took one look at Richard, aiming the bow at the roof-ridge, and squealed.

      Richard grinned and lowered the bow. ‘My apologies, Mistress Matty.’

      ‘My father never permitted weapons of any sort to be drawn near the Hall unless it was an emergency,’ Cecily said stiffly, a pleat in her brow. ‘He said accidents happen without our help.’

      Adam made a non-committal noise. He couldn’t argue with that. She was slightly out of breath, and he had to make a conscious effort to keep his eye on her face, not the enticing shape of her breasts. That blue dress…it revealed so much more of her than her old habit.

      Cecily looked directly at him, blue eyes cold as the sky above them. ‘The practice field is at the back of the stables, Sir Adam. We walked directly into your line of fire.’

      Sir Adam. Had he done anything in particular to incur her wrath? he wondered. Or was she was only now showing the natural anger that she must feel against the Duke’s regime? ‘It’s overrun with sheep,’ Adam said, more defensively than he intended. ‘But in any case you weren’t in our firing line, because we weren’t going to fire. The arrows are not fletched and the bows are impossible to sight.’ He gestured towards the door. ‘I had hoped to find something worth saving in here.’

      Huffing out a breath, she stepped past and poked her head into the armoury. Leaning on the doorjamb, bow in hand, Adam watched her look at the piles of his men’s arms arranged on the left, and the meagre selection left behind by Thane Edgar on the right. He had dealt gently with her thus far, on account of the grief she must be feeling. He knew that she had had some time to come to terms with the loss of her father and her brother, but the grief she must feel for her mother was fresh, the wound very recent, and he had been trying to respect that. She had such a fragile, delicate appearance. But at this moment, with a muscle jumping in her jaw and her fists clenched, she looked as though she could take on the world and emerge victorious. She was magnificent in her anger. He wondered what she would do if he kissed her. Hit him, most likely.

      ‘My father,’ the magnificent girl said, slowly and with great clarity, as though she were a queen talking to peasant, and a simpleton at that, ‘will have taken the best weapons with him to support our King Harold.’

      Yes, she would definitely hit him.

      Behind him in the yard, Richard was talking to Matty in French, his voice light and teasing. Matty muttered something about not understanding him, and then her voice faded as she moved off—probably back to the Hall or to the stables, where her brothers were meant to be mucking out the horses.

      Chest still heaving, Cecily picked up a Saxon arrow-head, testing the point with her forefinger. ‘I expect Father armed as many of the home guard as he could,’ she said, still in that insultingly slow voice, edged with anger.

      ‘Aye.’ Adam shifted. He ought to get her out of here. An armoury was no fit place for a bride on her wedding day, and he did not want her dwelling on her father and fighting—not today. ‘Did you wish to speak to me, my lady?’

      ‘Yes, about Lufu.’

      He tapped the bow against his side. ‘The girl Le Blanc put in the stocks?’

      She stiffened. ‘Your sergeant put her there?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘But I thought you—’

      ‘I СКАЧАТЬ