Medieval Brides. Anne Herries

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      By mid-morning the following day Cecily was in the cookhouse, breaking her fast with a thick wedge of Lufu’s latest batch of wholewheat bread. She was sinfully late rising—again.

      Still glowing as a result of the carnal love she had discovered with Adam during the previous night, she smeared a wedge of bread with honey and sat on a three-legged stool to warm her toes by the central cooking fire. Who would have thought one of William’s knights could be so gentle? He’d made it beautiful for her. Carnal love. The love that Mother Aethelflaeda had railed against. With Adam it was…She sighed, aware that the colour in her cheeks owed as much to the memory of her wedding night as it did to Lufu’s cooking fire. Even with so much horror between them Adam had made it beautiful. Recalling how he’d overcome her reluctance and had winkled them out of their clothes, down to the last stitch, she hid a smile behind her bread.

      ‘My lady?’

      ‘Oh! Sorry, Lufu, what did you say?’ Really, she must try to give more than half an ear to the girl.

      ‘I was talking about Brian, my lady. He’s a miracle-worker. Not bad—for a foreigner…’

      The cookhouse was indeed improved beyond recognition. Logs and kindling were stacked high to one side, ready for use. Well-scoured pots and pans hung in neat array on the walls; the workbenches and tables had been scalded; months of dirt had been scrubbed away; the floor was clean.

      ‘I’m glad he was helpful.’

      ‘Aye. He had those useless miller’s boys jumping about and no mistake.’

      ‘Where are they this morning?’

      ‘Gone to see to the slaughtering. Brian said it was long overdue.’

      Cecily stared. Brian was in the right. The slaughtering was long overdue—it was not for nothing that November was known as the month of blood. She had observed as much to Adam upon their arrival back at Fulford. ‘Evidently there really is more to Brian than soldiering,’ she murmured, recalling something Adam had said.

      The rumble of cartwheels sounded on the track outside. Bread in hand, Cecily left the fire to look through the cookhouse door. A moth-eaten mule was drawing a heavily laden cart towards the mead hall, its hooves cutting through the last shreds of mist which clung to the ruts in the road.

      Lufu joined her in the doorway, wiping her hands on a cloth. Saucepans and ladles hung from the sides of the cart, clanging as the cart swayed and rattled over the bumps. ‘Tinkers?’ Lufu clucked her tongue. ‘That poor mule could do with a good feed—just look at its ribs.’

      But Cecily only had eyes for the man and the woman hunched into their cloaks on the cart. ‘Not tinkers, Lufu. It’s Evie and Leofwine!’

      ‘Evie?’

      ‘Judhael’s sister, from Winchester.’ Dropping her half-eaten bread on the workbench, Cecily hurried out. The cart was filled to breaking point—bedding, a travelling chest, a couple of trestles and a tabletop, stools, several bundles. Whatever could be wrong? It looked as though Evie and Leofwine had brought their entire house with them apart from the four walls. She reached them as they drew up in front of the Hall.

      Evie had been crying; her eyelids were puffy and swollen. One hand was clinging to the side of the cart, the other was folded over her belly, as though protecting her unborn child. Her cheeks were pale as parchment, her lips had a blue tinge to them, and she was shuddering with cold.

      In his beard, Leofwine’s mouth was one grim, СКАЧАТЬ