Medieval Brides - Anne Herries Mills & Boon Series Collections

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impatient father, rest his soul, would have beaten the truth out of her.

      Would Adam Wymark beat her? She stared up at him, a tall, broad-shouldered silhouette with the torchlight behind him, but his expression was lost in the half-light and she could not read him. Had he seen the hoofprints? He was certainly looking in that direction…

      To distract him she burst into speech. ‘In truth, sir, I know little of such matters. And you may beat me, if you like, but I’ll know no more afterwards than I do now.’

      ‘Beat you?’ His tone was startled. ‘I don’t beat women.’

      Cecily snorted. Most men beat women. Her father certainly had. He had loved her, and yet he hadn’t hesitated to take a switch to her on a number of occasions—most notably when she had at first refused to enter the convent. Beatings had been part of her life for as long as she could remember, and even at the convent they continued. To Mother Aethelflaeda, physical chastisement—‘mortification of sinful flesh’—was a means of enforcing discipline and instilling the necessary penitence and humility in the nuns in her care.

      ‘I don’t beat women,’ he repeated softly.

      Cecily bit her lip. He sounded as if he meant it. ‘Not even when they cross you?’

      ‘Not even then.’

      His gaze went briefly to her mouth, lingering long enough for Cecily, despite her lack of experience, to realise that he was thinking about kissing her. As his particular form of chastisement? she wondered. Or mere curiosity on his part? Or—more unsettling, this—would he think it a pleasure to kiss her? And would it pleasure her to kiss him? She had never kissed a man, and had often wondered what it would feel like.

      Shocked at the carnal direction of her thoughts, Cecily took a couple of hasty steps back. ‘Be careful, my lord—’

      ‘Sir,’ he reminded her. ‘I told you, I am but a mere knight…’

      ‘Sir Adam, if you seek to rule my father’s hold, you’ll find velvet gloves may not be enough.’ She frowned. ‘What would you do to my sister, if she were to return?’ Surely then he must see Emma chastised? By rejecting his suit so publicly, her sister had shamed Fulford’s new knight before his tenants. Might he want revenge? On the other hand, perhaps he had heard of Emma’s beauty—perhaps he still wanted to marry her? Her confusion deepened as she discovered that this last thought held no appeal. How strange…

      Sir Adam was her enemy. Of course—that must be it. What kind of a sister would she be to wish an enemy on her sister?

      He had tucked his thumbs into his belt, and was looking at her consideringly. ‘What would I do with your sister? That, my Lady Cecily, would depend.’

      ‘On…on what?’

      He took his time replying. From the direction of the stable came the clinking of chainmail and the odd snatch of conversation as his men settled their warhorses for the night. The wind cut through Cecily’s clothes, chilling her to the bone, and despite herself she shivered. Adam Wymark glanced at the north gate, and Cecily thought he was smiling, but in the poor light she could not be certain.

      ‘On a number of things,’ he murmured.

      And with that the Breton knight Cecily’s sister had rejected gave her one of his mocking bows and a moment later was stalking back to the stable.

      ‘Tihell!’ he called.

      One of the men broke away from the group in the yard. ‘Sir?’

      ‘Don’t get too comfortable, Félix. I’ve a commission for you,’ Sir Adam said.

      His voice gradually faded as he and his subordinate moved away. ‘I want you to rustle up a couple of sharp-eyed volunteers…’

      Wishing she had more time to get used to the day’s turn of events, for her head was spinning, Cecily stumbled towards the cookhouse. Lifting the wooden latch, she was instantly enveloped in a comforting warmth.

      Yellow flames flickered in the cooking hearth, and grey smoke wound up to the roof-ridge. A fire-blackened cauldron was hanging over the centre of the fire on a long chain suspended from a cross beam. At the hearthside, a three-legged water pot was balanced in the embers, bubbling quietly. Some chickens were roasting on a spit. Cecily inhaled deeply. Roast chicken and rosemary. The chickens were not destined for the novitiate, but that didn’t prevent her mouth from watering.

      Two novices were in charge of that evening’s meal—Maude, Cecily’s only true friend at the convent, and Alice. With one hand Maude was stirring the contents of the cauldron, and with the other she steadied it with the aid of a thick cloth. Her skirts and apron were kilted up about her knees, to keep them clear of the flames, while her short leather boots—serviceable ones, like Cecily’s—protected her feet from straying embers. As was Cecily’s habit when working, Maude had rolled up her sleeves and discarded her veil and wimple. A thick brown plait hung down her back, out of the way. Dear Maude.

      Alice was kneading dough at a table, shaping it into the round loaves Mother Aethelflaeda so liked. Alice’s loaves would be left to rise overnight, and in the morning they would be glazed with milk and finished with a scattering of poppy seeds.

      It was part of a novice’s training to learn all aspects of life in the convent, and Cecily knew how to make the loaves, as well as the many varieties of pottage that the nuns ate. Pottage was the usual fare, unless it was a saint’s day—or, Cecily thought ruefully, one was fasting or doing penance. This evening the aroma coming from the stockpot was not one of Cecily’s favourites, yet on this shocking, disturbing, distressing evening it was strangely reassuring to observe the familiar routine.

      Here, in the cookhouse, all seemed blessedly normal. So normal it was hard to believe that a troop from Duke William’s army had just invaded St Anne’s.

      ‘Turnip and barley?’ Cecily asked, wrinkling her nose.

      Maude nodded. ‘Aye—for us. There’s roast chicken for Mother Aethelflaeda and the senior sisters.’

      ‘We’ve guests,’ Cecily told her. ‘They’ll want more than barley soup.’

      ‘I know. So I saw.’ Maude grinned and ruefully indicated a reddened cheek that bore the clear imprint of Mother Aethelflaeda’s hand. Wiping her forehead with the pot cloth, she continued, ‘Mother beat you to it, and she made a point of insisting that the foreign soldiers were to have the same as us novices. Oh, except they can have some of that casked cheese…’

      ‘Not that stuff we found at the back of the storehouse?’

      Maude’s grin widened. ‘The same.’

      ‘Maude, we can’t. Is there none better?’ Cecily and Maude had found the casket of cheese, crumbling and musty with mould, when clearing out the storehouse earlier in the week. It looked old enough to date back to the time of King Alfred.

      Maude winced and touched the pot cloth to her slapped cheek. ‘Not worth it, Cecily. She’ll check. And think how many Ave Marias and fast days she’d impose upon you then…’

      ‘No, she won’t. I’m leaving.’

      And while Maude and Alice turned from their work to goggle at her, Cecily quickly told them about her sister Emma and her sad news; about Emma’s proposed marriage to Sir Adam and her subsequent flight; about the reason for Sir Adam’s arrival at St Anne’s; and finally—she blushed over the telling of this—about her indecorous proposition to a Breton knight she’d only set eyes on moments earlier.

      ‘So you see, Maude,’ she finished on a rush, ‘we must say our goodbyes this night, for I’ll be leaving with these knights in the morning—before Prime. I’m returning to Fulford.’

      While Maude still gaped at her, Cecily turned for the door. ‘Mind that pottage, Maude. You’ve not stirred it in an age.’

      Cecily snatched a few moments in the chilly gloom of the chapel to try

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