LITMIR.BIZ

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ride to Winchester from St Anne’s could have been accomplished in two hours at full stretch, but Adam, conscious of the tension in the girl perched behind him on the saddle, didn’t push it. True, he wanted his despatches to reach Duke William in London as soon as possible, but wording them would not be easy, and he could use the time to compose his thoughts and justify the decision he had made.

      The horses forged on through a dense, largely leafless woodland. Overhead, twisted branches formed a black latticework against the grey backcloth of the sky. The rain held off. On the ground, leaf-litter muffled their hoofbeats; briars curled like coiled springs by the wayside. Glossy rosehips and stale blackberries hung from spindly twigs.

      Keeping a wary eye out for Saxon rebels, they passed a series of holly bushes, bright with red berries. They had dark leaves in abundance—good cover for those preparing an ambush. Glancing at Le Blanc, Adam saw he was already alert to the dangers as he waved two men out of line—one to watch the right hand, one the left.

      They rode on.

      Aware that ahead of them lay a barren stretch of downland before they gained the city, Adam found himself wondering not about how Tihell, his captain, was faring on his mission to find the missing Lady Emma, not about rebellious Saxons, not even about the wording of the letters he intended to send from Winchester, but about Cecily Fulford herself. What was going through her mind?

      He couldn’t begin to imagine what her life had been like in the convent, but of one thing he was certain: it would have been restricted in the extreme. She might once have been a horsewoman, but it did not appear that the Prioress gave leave for any of the novices to exercise the pony in the stable. Any riding skills that Cecily Fulford had once possessed had to be rusty. For the first mile or so through the forest her demeanour confirmed this. She held herself stiffly, jouncing up and down behind him like a sack of wheat.

      Then Adam realised his mistake—it wasn’t lack of expertise that kept her so lumpen, she was intent on avoiding bodily contact with him. Whether that was because she was unused to men, or whether it was because she mistrusted and misliked him, he couldn’t tell. She must think of him as the enemy.

      Suffice it to say here she was, a lone Saxon girl who had put herself into the hands of her conquerors, willingly, without duress, while her sister had fled. Cecily Fulford might be lacking in worldly experience, but she did not lack courage.

      What Adam had yet to fathom was why she had offered to go with them, and why she had asked to take her sister’s place. He could only think that she sought to distract him from following the Lady Emma. He smiled wryly at such innocence. Distract him she certainly did, but not in the way she sought. And little did she know that he had sent Tihell after Emma Fulford, notwithstanding. Those hoofprints that left St Anne’s by the north gate simply could not be ignored.

      Acutely conscious of the slight body held so stiffly behind him, of the small hands that were clinging to his sword belt, Adam held his peace as the miles passed. He simply urged Flame steadily on and willed the girl behind him to relax.

      This should not matter to me, he told himself. But it did. He wanted Cecily Fulford to feel at ease in his company—although this was, as Richard had been swift to point out, something of an impossibility. Not only was he the invader of her father’s land, but class lay between them too. Maude had known that instinctively. Cecily Fulford—Lady Cecily Fulford—was highborn, while he…Impatient with himself, Adam snapped the thread of his thought. This should not matter. This did not matter. Especially given that he had sworn off emotional entanglements.

      Adam and his troop ploughed on, and the wording for his dispatches continued to elude him. The trees thinned. The wind rose, chilling Adam’s ungloved hands, turning them red. His men’s breath and the breath of the horses turned to smoke in the air about them. Woodland gave way to downland, and the track was a chalky mire which sucked at the horses’ hoofs.

      Adam tightened his grip on the reins. Overhead, a buzzard circled.

      As they crested a treacherous rise Flame stumbled. Adam almost dislodged his shield when he thrust an arm behind him to keep Cecily safe. Simultaneously she flung both arms round his waist. Flame regained his footing. Through his mailcoat Adam felt Cecily press herself against his back. His heart lightened. At last.

      Again Flame skidded as he picked his way down the incline.

      When they reached the bottom Cecily shifted in the saddle behind him, bringing her thighs and body closer yet. She did not let go of his waist.

      Yes, Adam thought. Yes.

      And thus it was that as they covered the final miles towards the capital of Wessex Adam found the wording of his despatches came more easily than he would have dreamed possible.

       Chapter Six

      From time to time Cecily rested her head against Adam Wymark’s broad back, pillowing her cheek with the fur-lined hood of his cloak. His leather jacket was visible through the links of his hauberk.

      Fulford’s new lord was right-handed, so his shield was slung on his left. Whenever Flame broke into a trot it banged her thigh—she would have a bruise there for certain—but that was the least of her worries. Every muscle in her body was shrieking so loudly it was a wonder the whole troop couldn’t hear; every bone ached. Biting her lip to stifle her moans, Cecily clung to Sir Adam, and prayed that St Christopher, Patron Saint of all travellers, would keep her glued to Flame’s back. Once, riding had been a pleasure, today it had to be endured.

      Circling thoughts had had her tossing and turning the night through, but one night’s loss of sleep was not the sole cause of her exhaustion. Rather, it was the series of night vigils that Mother Aethelflaeda had imposed on her in the week before Emma had run to the convent. That, and being permanently put on a fast. Fasting might be good for the soul, but it certainly weakened the body. Surreptitiously shifting her position, Cecily held down another groan. For all that she had rested her face against Adam Wymark’s cloak, by now it must bear the imprint of his chainmail. She was beyond caring.

      At a moss-covered milestone which announced they had reached the outskirts of Winchester, they joined a steady stream of knights and pilgrims heading for the heart of the city. She was struck by how many men there were.

      Ill at ease, she pushed herself upright. For the most part the men looked hairy and unwashed. Rough, and not a little frightening. Her convent eyes were to blame for this perception, no doubt. But they all looked so…so vigorous—though not quite as vigorous as the man sitting before her. They looked more alarming, however. More alarming than Duke William’s knight? Cecily puzzled over this for a moment, for the men were Saxons, like herself. But there was not one within sight that she would care to run into on a dark night, and she did not think the knight would hurt her. She caught her breath. She trusted him? That was not possible, Adam Wymark was her enemy.

      Setting her jaw, telling herself she must keep her wits about her, Cecily glanced about. She had only entered the capital of Wessex once before, on the day her father had brought her to the convent, and that day had been so coloured by anger and grief and, yes, bitterness at being sent away from home that she had taken in little.

      Winchester was circled by ancient Roman walls, and successive Saxon Kings from Alfred down to Harold had kept them in good repair. Wondering if the Normans had breached the walls in taking the city, Cecily craned her neck, but for the most part they looked intact, a solid line of grey stone which followed the course of the River Itchen. The river was wide and in full spate, and it flowed along just outside the walls. They would have to cross the river to enter the city.

      Ahead of them was Eastgate and the bridge. The road filled with traffic. Dozens—no, hundreds of men here: bearded Saxons with shaggy manes of hair, clean-shaven foreigners. She saw Saxon women too, carrying babies on their backs, a priest on a mule, two dogs fighting—it was a stomach-churning contrast to the peace and quiet of the convent. One could so easily get lost if separated from one’s companions. Unconsciously, she tightened her grip on Adam Wymark’s belt.

      He

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