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Emma heaved in a shuddering breath. ‘The Breton? No. Duke William’s messenger said he would follow shortly, so I left as soon as I might. Cecily, I can’t marry him, so don’t talk to me of duty!’
‘Who am I to do that when I have delayed committing myself to God for so many years?’ Cecily said gently.
Emma’s expression softened. ‘I know. You never asked to be a nun. You follow our father’s will in that. I have often thought it unfair that simply because I was born first I should be the one expected to marry while you, the younger girl, were sacrificed to the Church and a life of contemplation even though you had no vocation.’
‘We both know it was a matter of riches. The Church accepted me with a far smaller dower than any thane or knight ever would. Father could not afford to marry us both well.’
Emma brightened. ‘Think, Cecily. Father is gone; the Church has had your dower, such as it was—what is to prevent your leaving?’
‘Emma!’
‘You were not made to be a nun. I know Father promised you to the Church, but what promise did you ever make?’
‘I swore to try and do his will.’
‘Yes, and that you have done. Four years mewed up in a convent. And look at you.’ Emma’s lip curled as she plucked at the stuff of Cecily’s habit. ‘This grey sackcloth does not become you. I’ll warrant it itches like a plague of lice…’
‘It does, but mortification of the flesh encourages humility—’
‘Rot! You don’t believe that! And look at the state of your hands. Peasant hands—’
‘From gardening.’ Cecily lifted her chin. ‘I work in the herb garden. It’s useful and I enjoy it.’
‘Peasant hands, as I said.’ Emma lowered her voice. ‘Cecily, be bold. You can leave this place.’
Cecily made an exasperated sound. ‘Where would I go? Back to Fulford, to your Breton knight? Be realistic, Emma, what use has this world for a dowerless novice?’ She smiled. ‘Besides, I’m wise to you. You only suggest this as a sop to your conscience.’
Emma stiffened. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Like it or not, Emma, your duty is at Fulford. You are, as you say, the eldest daughter, born to wed. The people at Fulford need you. Who else will speak for them? And what of our new brother? I’ll warrant Duke William doesn’t even know of his existence. How do you think his knight will react when he finds that Fulford has a male heir after all? No, Emma, your duty is plain and you cannot shirk it. You must return to Fulford and wait for the knight Duke William has chosen for you.’
Emma was very pale; her mouth became a thin line. ‘No.’
‘Yes!’
‘No!’
Cecily shook her head, thinking how little she knew her sister now. Emma was more concerned to avoid marriage with the Duke’s man than she was about her baby brother. ‘Emma, please think of our people, and of Philip. What chance does that tiny baby have when his identity becomes known? One of us should be near, to guard him from harm.’
A pleat formed on Emma’s brow, and her eyes lost their warmth. ‘Save your breath for your prayers. I will not submit to a lowborn Breton, especially one whose hands may be stained with our family’s blood. And even if all the saints in heaven were to plead alongside you, I would not move on this.’
‘Not even for Philip’s sake?’ At Emma’s blank look, Cecily sighed. ‘You must marry this knight. Run away, and at best you condemn Philip to a false life as Gudrun’s son. At worst…’ Cecily let the silence spin out, but she could see her words were having little effect. She looked down at the ashes in the hearth, and poked at a charred log with her boot. ‘What would Father wish, Emma? And Maman? Would she have wished her son to lead the life of a house-serf? Besides, where would you run to?’ She looked up as a new possibility dawned on her. ‘You have a sweetheart, don’t you? Someone you—’
‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ Emma clenched her jaw. ‘Since you are so hot to see our brother safe, then you may return—yes, you! Get you back in the real world and see how you like it. Go to Fulford yourself. Marry the Duke’s precious knight. Then you can see that Philip is safe. You are as much his sister as I.’
Stunned, Cecily stared. Her sister’s suggestion that she, a novice, should consider leaving the convent to marry was shocking indeed. And yet…if she were honest…shock warred with a curl of excitement.
What did he look like, this Breton knight?
‘No…no.’ Cecily’s cheeks burned. ‘I…I could not.’
Emma raised an eyebrow, and a small smile appeared, as though she knew that Cecily was tempted.
‘Emma, I couldn’t. What do I know of men and their ways?’ Cecily waved a hand to encompass the convent. ‘Since I was twelve years old all I have known is the company of women. Prayers, chanting, fasting, growing herbs, healing, doing penance for my sins.’ She gave a wry smile. ‘These things I know. But life outside these walls—it’s a mystery.’
Emma shrugged. ‘You are not entirely ignorant. You must remember something of life at Fulford before you came here. You’ve seen the stallion put to our mares…’
Cheeks aflame, Cecily bit her lip and shook her head. ‘Does…does he have a name, this knight Duke William has chosen for you?’
Emma frowned, wearily rubbing her face. ‘Yes, but I forget. No, wait…it’s Wymark, I think. Sir Adam Wymark…And I give him to you, Cecily, for I do not want him.’
Chapter Two
As soon as they were clear of the forest, Sir Adam Wymark reined in his chestnut warhorse, Flame. They were a couple of hundred yards short of St Anne’s Convent. Though he’d not come this way before he knew it at once, thanks to the cross that topped the tower of the only stone building in the vicinity. Somewhere, a cock crowed.
With a swirl of blue, Adam tossed his cloak over his shoulder and waved his troop—a dozen mounted men—to a halt behind him. Flame snorted and sidled, churning up the mud. Harness clinked. ‘This must be the place,’ he said, addressing his friend, Sir Richard of Asculf.
Richard grunted assent, and both men took a moment to absorb the lie of the land, eyes narrowed while they assessed the likelihood of the troop being attacked. True, they were armed and mounted to a man, but they were the hated invaders here, and they could not afford to relax their guard for a moment—even if, as now, there was not a soul in sight.
Of the men, only Richard and Adam, the two knights, wore hauberks—mail coats—under their cloaks. As for the troopers, the cost of a mail coat put such an item far beyond their reach. Had Adam been a rich lord he would have equipped them with chainmail himself, but he was not rich. However, he did not want to lose anyone, and he had done his best for them, managing to ensure they had more than the basics. Under their cloaks each man wore a thickly padded leather tunic; they each had a conical helmet with a nose-guard; they all carried good swords and long, leaf-shaped shields.
The nunnery was surrounded by a wooden palisade and tucked into a loop of the river near where it snaked into the forest. The river was swollen, its water cloudy and brown. Cheek by jowl with the convent, on the same spit of land, stood a small village. It was little more than a hotch-potch of humble wooden cottages. Adam wondered which had come first—the village or the convent. He’d put his money on the convent. It was probably filled to the seams with unwanted noblewomen, and the village had sprung up around it to provide them with servants.
As far as he could see, the cottages were roofed with wooden shingles. A clutch of scrawny chickens pecked in the mud in between two of the houses; a pig was scratching its hindquarters on the stake to which it was tied, grunting softly. A dog came out of one of the houses, saw them, and loosed a volley of barks. Other than these animals the place looked deserted, but he was not fooled. The villagers were likely keeping their heads down—he would do the same in their place.
It had stopped raining some half-hour since, while Adam and his troop had been picking their way through the trees. The sky remained overcast, and the wind—a northerly—nipped at cheeks and lips.
Cheek and lips were the only parts of Adam’s head that were exposed to the elements, for his dark hair was hidden by his helm, and the nose-guard obscured his features. Under his chainmail Adam wore the usual leather soldier’s gambeson—a padded one—in addition to his linen shirt and undergarments. His boots and gloves were also of leather, his breeches and hose of finespun wool, his cross-gartering blue braid. For this day’s work Adam had elected to wear his short mail coat, leaving his legs largely unprotected, much to Richard’s disgust. Adam was ready to build bridges with the Saxon population, but Richard, a Norman, had a distrust of them that went bone deep, and thus was mailed top to toe.
The rain-soft dirt of the road which bypassed the convent had been ploughed into a series of untidy ridges and furrows, like a slovenly peasant’s field strips.
‘A fair amount of traffic’s been this way,’ Adam said. He frowned, and wondered if his scout had been right in declaring that his intended bride, Lady Emma Fulford, had come this way too. It was possible that she had kin here—a sister, a cousin. In the aftermath of Hastings confusion had reigned, and his information was sketchy.
The soldier in Adam took in at a glance the fact that the wooden palisade around the convent would offer little resistance to anyone seriously desirous of entering. His scowl deepened as he wondered if Lady Emma was still at St Anne’s. He misliked today’s errand; forcing an unwilling woman to be his wife left him with a sour taste in his mouth. But he was ambitious, and Duke William had commanded him to do what he may to hold these lands. Since that included a marriage alliance with a local noblewoman in order to bolster his claim, then he would at least meet the girl. The good Lord knew he had little reason to return to Brittany. Adam was grimly aware that here in Wessex the people had more cause to hate Duke William’s men than most, for the Saxon usurper, Harold, had been their Earl for well over a decade before he’d snatched the crown promised to Duke William. Local loyalties ran deep. Adam’s task—to hold the peace in this corner of Wessex for Duke William—would not be easy. But he’d do it. With or without Lady Emma’s help.
Misliking the absence of villagers, Adam was torn between fear of a Saxon ambush and the desire not to approach the convent and his intended bride in the guise of robber baron. He signalled to his men to pull back deeper into the meagre cover offered by the leafless trees and shrubs. There were enough of his countrymen using the excuse of uncertain times to plunder at will, and that was one accusation he was not about to have levelled at him. With Brittany no longer holding any attraction for him, he intended to settle here, make it his home. Making war on helpless women and alienating the local population was not part of his plan.
Pulling off his helmet, and hanging it by its strap from the pommel of his saddle, Adam shoved back his mail coif. His black hair was streaked with sweat and plastered to his skull. Grimacing, he ran a hand through it. ‘I’d give my eye teeth for a bath. I’m not fit to present myself to ladies.’
‘Give me some food, rather.’ Richard grinned back. ‘Or a full night’s sleep. I swear we’ve neither eaten nor slept properly since leaving Normandy.’
‘Too true.’ Ruefully, Adam rubbed his chin. He’d managed to find time to shave that morning, but that had been the extent of his toilet.
‘You look fine, man.’ Richard’s grin broadened. ‘Fine enough to impress Lady Emma, at any rate.’
Adam gave his friend a sceptical look, and flushed. ‘Oh, aye. She’s so impressed she’s taken to her heels rather than set eyes on me.’ He swung from his horse and held Richard’s gaze over the saddle. ‘As you know, there’s been no formal proposal as yet. Notwithstanding Duke William’s wishes, I’ve a mind to see if we’d suit first. I wouldn’t marry the Duchess herself if we didn’t make a match.’
Richard stared blankly at him for a moment before saying, ‘Admit it, Adam, you want to impress this Saxon lady.’
‘If she’s not here, it would seem impressing her will not be easy.’
An unholy light entered Richard’s eyes. ‘Ah, but think, Adam. If you do get her safely wed you can impress her all you will.’
Adam scowled and turned away, muttering. He pulled on Flame’s saddle girth to loosen it.
‘Don’t tell me, Adam,’ Richard went on quietly, ‘that you hope to find love again. You always were soft with women…’
Silently Adam turned, and led Flame under cover of the trees at the edge of the chase. He threw the reins over a branch. Richard followed on horseback.
‘Stop your prodding, man, and do something useful,’ Adam said after a moment. ‘Help me with my mail.’
Not above squiring for his friend, Richard dismounted. Dead leaves shifted under their feet. ‘You do, don’t you?’ Hands at his hips, Richard continued to needle him. ‘Not content with Gwenn, you still want to marry for love…’
‘My parents wrangled through my childhood,’ Adam said simply, as he unbuckled his sword and tossed it over. ‘I’d hoped for better.’
‘Be realistic, man. You and I know we come to add teeth to William’s legitimate claim to the English throne. What Saxon heiress would take you or me willingly? They’re more like to name us murderers—of their fathers, brothers, sweethearts…’
Adam shrugged. ‘Nevertheless, I had hoped to win some regard.’
Richard shook his head, watching, amused, as Adam struggled to do the impossible—get himself out of his hauberk unaided. ‘You’ve turned dreamer. That knock on the head you took when we first arrived has addled your brain. And why in the name of all that’s holy do you want to take that off? Those pious ladies in there—’ Richard jerked a thumb in the direction of St Anne’s ‘—those sweet Saxon ladies you so want to impress, would as soon stick a knife between your ribs as parley with the Duke’s man. Especially if they knew you were the knight who rallied his fellow Bretons when their line broke…’
‘Nevertheless,’ Adam repeated, ‘Emma Fulford may be in there, and I do not choose to meet my lady mailed for battle.’ He stopped wrestling with his chainmail and gave Richard a lopsided grin. ‘And, since it was your testimony that won me Fulford Hall, you can damn well help me. Get me out of this thing, will you?’
‘Oh, I’ll squire you, but don’t blame me if you end up on a Saxon skewer.’
Adam raised his arms above his head and bent. Richard gripped his mail coat and heaved, and the mail slithered off, leaving Adam in his brown leather gambeson, marked black in places where the metal rings had chafed. Breathing a sigh of relief, Adam straightened and rolled his shoulders.
‘You’ll keep on your gambeson?’ Richard advised.
‘Aye, I’m not that much of an optimist.’
Without his helm and mail coat, Adam looked more approachable. Instead of a hulking metalled warrior who kept his face hidden from the world, there was a broad-shouldered, slim-hipped young man, with long limbs and unruly dark hair. With his open countenance and striking green eyes he made a stark contrast to Richard in his full mail and helm. Reaching for his sword belt, Adam refastened it. His fingers were long and slender, but criss-crossed with scars, and his right palm was callused from long bouts of swordplay.
‘Glad to see you’ve kept some sense.’
‘Enough to know we can’t afford to alienate these women more than they are already. The Lady Emma must consent to marry me. Remember, Richard, we need a translator, if nothing else. Neither of us knows more than a dozen words of English.’ Adam smiled at his fellow knight. ‘You’ll await me?’
‘Of course.’
‘Keep the men and the horses out of sight while I scout around. There may be no-one abroad now, but that’s not surprising. It’s possible the villagers got wind of our arrival and have hidden. I’ll shout if I need you.’
Face sobering, Richard nodded. ‘At the least sign of trouble, mind.’
‘Aye.’ Saluting, Adam twisted his blue cloak about his shoulders and strode purposefully out of the trees and onto the path that led into the village.
The road between the houses was a mess of muddy ridges. Old straw and animal bedding had been strewn across it, but had not yet been trampled in—proving, if proof were needed, that the village was not utterly deserted; earlier that day someone had tried to make the path less of a quagmire.
A rook cawed overhead and flew towards the forest. Adam glanced up at the clouds and drew his cloak more securely about him, thankful for the fur lining. More rain was on the way. Cautious, aware that his lack of English would betray him if he was challenged, he paused at the edge of the village. The tracker in him noted the line of hoofprints that he and his men had left at the edge of the woodland. Where he and Richard had dismounted their destriers had sidled, and their great iron hoofs had obliterated other tracks, which had also come from the direction of the wood.
Attention sharpening, Adam retraced his steps along the road. Yes—there, leading out from under the tracks he and Richard and his troop had made. Two other sets of hoofprints. Smaller horses. Ponies, not destriers. Animals such as an Anglo-Saxon lady and her groom might ride…
The tracks led straight as an arrow to the convent gate and vanished. No tracks came out, implying that unless there was another gate his lady would seem to be still at the convent…
Just then, a bolt was drawn back and the convent gates shifted. Adam darted behind the wall of the nearest house. The door in the palisade yawned wide, and out slipped a nun. Peering round the wall, Adam caught a glimpse of a dark habit, a short veil and a ragged cloak. The nun, who was carrying a willow basket covered with a cloth, headed for the village, hastening to one of the wood-framed houses. Behind her, the convent gate clicked shut and bolts were shot home.
By skirting the dwellings at the margin of the wood Adam was able to keep the nun in sight, and when the slight figure knocked at a cottage door he was in position himself behind the same cottage. It was a matter of moments to find a crack in the planking where the daub had fallen away…
Inside, the cottage was similar in style to many peasants’ dwellings in Adam’s native Brittany: namely one large room with a fire in a central hearth. The smoke wound upwards, and found its way out through a hole in the roof. To one side of the fire a hanging lamp illuminated the scene. A string of onions and some dried mushrooms dangled from the rafters. By twisting his head, Adam could just make out a rough curtain that hung across one end of the room. The curtain was made out of sackcloth, crudely stitched together. Behind the curtain someone—a woman, if Adam was any judge—cried out in pain.
At the nun’s knocking there was a scrape of curtain rings, and out strode a lanky young man with a back bent like a bow and a face that was creased into a worried frown. On seeing his visitor, the young man’s brow cleared as if by magic. ‘Lady Cecily, thank God you got my message!’
That much Adam could understand, though the young man’s accent was thick.
The nun moved to set her basket down on the earthen floor and stretched her hands out to the fire for a moment, flexing her fingers as though they were chilled to the bone—which they well might be, since she had no gloves. ‘Is all well with Bertha, Ulf?’
Whoever lay behind the curtain—presumably Bertha—gave another, more urgent groan, and two small children, a girl and a boy, came out of the shadows to stand at the young man’s side.
‘My apologies for not coming at once,’ the nun said, moving calmly towards the recess.
‘Lady Cecily, please…’ The lanky young man took her unceremoniously by the hand to hurry her along, proving by his mode of address and familiarity that St Anne’s Convent was no enclosed order.
Odd though, Adam thought, that the nun should be addressed as ‘Lady’. Doubtless old habits died hard, particularly if this man had known her before her profession and had been her vassal.
A series of panting groans had Lady Cecily whisking out of Adam’s line of sight, deep into the curtained area. ‘Bertha, my dear, how goes it?’ he heard.
A murmured response. Another groan.
Then the nun again, her voice soft, reassuring, but surprisingly strong. Adam made out the words ‘Ulf’ and ‘light’, and another word he did not know, but which he soon guessed when Ulf left the recess and hunted out a tallow candle from a box by the wall. Then the Saxon for ‘water’, which he knew.
Ulf dispatched the girl and boy with a pail, returned to the curtain, and was gently but firmly thrust away, back into the central room. The curtain closed, and the young man took out a stool and sat down, hands clasped before him so tightly Adam could see the gleam of white knuckles. Ulf fixed his gaze on the closed curtain and chewed his lips. Each time a groan came forth from behind the curtain he flinched.
Despite the gulf that yawned between them, Adam knew a pang of fellow feeling for the man. Had his Gwenn not died early on in her pregnancy this would no doubt have been his lot, to sit on a stool tearing his hair out, waiting for her travail to be ended. Well, he was spared that now. His pain was over. Richard might tease him about wanting to find love in his new bride, but Adam was not so ambitious. Affection, yes. Respect, by all means. Lust—why not? Lust at least could be kept in its place. But love?
Ulf had started chewing on his nails, a look of helpless desperation in his eyes as he kept glancing towards the recess.
Love? Adam shook his head. Never again. He had had enough pain to last him several lifetimes…
The hour wore on. More groans. Panting. A sharp cry. A soft murmur. And so it continued. Ulf twisted his hands.
The girl and the boy returned with a pail of water and were directed to set it in a pot by the fire.
More groans. More panting.
Adam was on the point of withdrawing to fetch Richard and seek entry to St Anne’s when a new sound snared his attention. The cry of a newborn baby.
‘Ulf!’
The nun Cecily appeared at the curtain, all smiles. In her role as midwife she had discarded cloak, veil and wimple, and had rolled up her sleeves. For the first time Adam had a good look at her face.
