LITMIR.BIZ

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to Adam, as Father Aelfric coughed and signalled quiet for Grace.

      ‘Mmm?’

      ‘Get the villagers in here.’

      ‘Father Aelfric told them of our betrothal. They have come to see you, my lady.’ Adam’s eyes met hers, a slight frown between his brows. ‘They honour you, and will take their lead from you.’

      Cecily bowed her head for Grace. Would that that were so, she thought, bitterly aware that it was likely to be a mixture of fear and curiosity that had brought everyone to the Hall that evening. Earlier, she had asked every Saxon she had seen if they knew where Lufu might be, and she had got nowhere. People knew, but now that Cecily was about to ally herself with Adam they had closed ranks against her. Even Gudrun and Matty had not let her winkle anything out of them. And Edmund had called her a collaborator. Did the entire village share his views?

      Grace having been said, Adam took her hand. ‘My lady,’ he said, and with a formal bow saw her seated. As he took his place next to her on the top bench, his thigh brushed hers.

      Cecily flicked back her veil. Absurdly conscious of the physical contact with Adam, slight though it was, she made to edge away, but a slight pressure on her wrist brought her eyes up.

      He gave his head a slight shake. ‘I need you close.’ His quiet murmur barely reached her above the scraping of benches and the buzz of conversation. ‘They need you close. If we act in harmony it will go better for everyone’s sake.’

      Was that a threat? What would Adam do to the villagers if she did not openly support him? If it was in their interests that she smile at him, then smile at him she would, trusting that her father’s tenants would know her for a peacemaker rather than a collaborator. His watchful eyes ran over her face. She had the distinct sense that he was holding himself in check, that he was waiting for her to make some move. Had he overheard her conversation with Edmund? Was he capable of understanding it?

      ‘That blue becomes you,’ he murmured unexpectedly, ‘and I’m glad you have shed that wimple at last.’

      Startled by his compliment, self-conscious all over again, Cecily dipped her head in acknowledgement and extended her hand to him. She was still wearing her convent boots, but he had obviously not noticed. However, she would play the formal part he had allotted her, even if she could not mask that slight trembling of her fingers. Adam raised her hand to his lips. Butterflies. One small kiss and he had butterflies dancing in her stomach. How did he do that?

      Breaking eye contact, Cecily realised their interplay had been noted. At the far end of the table Gudrun’s face had relaxed. Matty gave a little giggle and dug her mother in the ribs. Wat grinned. She didn’t look at Edmund.

      Something thudded against the door. Heads turned as Brian Herfu booted it open and carried in the chickens on a huge serving dish. The flames in the hearth rocked like marigolds in a breeze. Brian hefted the dish onto the trestle with a thud and went back out into the dark yard.

      Spit-roasted chickens glazed with onions. The chickens were so tender that the meat was falling off the bone. Cecily’s mouth watered. By the look of it, Adam had understated Brian’s talents in the kitchen. The young man was a miracle-worker.

      Sliding a platter into place, so that they could both reach it, Adam dropped a trencher of bread on it, apparently intending to share his food with her. Cecily had never observed this custom herself, but her French mother had taught her that it was part of formal etiquette in France that a knight should share his food and drink with his lady. As an overt statement of their union on the morrow, it couldn’t be more clear.

      Tonight, Adam’s every move was designed to prove their unity. He honoured her because it was in his interests to do so.

      The door banged again. Lamps and torches flickered as Harold staggered in with a round of white cheese and a bowl of cobnuts. Moments later Brian returned with a dish of steaming dumplings, which he set on the hearth to keep warm. Apple dumplings. Cecily could smell fruit and cinnamon. Carl carried in mead and ale, the jugs so full their contents slopped over the rims, and flasks of red wine appeared on the trestle.

      Sir Richard sighed with pleasure and reached for a flask. ‘Adam ordered this in Winchester for you, my lady,’ he said. ‘He thought you would like to try it—it’s sweeter than most.’

      ‘My thanks.’ Adam had bought wine with her in mind?

      The smell of the glazed chicken mingled with that of the apple dumplings, and after the meagre convent fare Cecily was hard put to it not to fall on the food like a ravening wolf. ‘Brian Herfu is more than a good cook,’ she observed.

      ‘Aye.’ Adam’s stomach growled. ‘Like most of us, he is more than just a soldier.’ He speared a joint of chicken on the end of his knife and eased it onto their trencher. ‘Would you have gravy, my lady?’

      ‘Thank you.’ Cecily stole a glance at Edmund, sitting at the far end of the trestle, below Adam’s men. As Adam spooned gravy onto their meat, Edmund’s scowl deepened.

      What should she do about Edmund? She could not warn Adam that Edmund had plans for Philip, for not only would that reveal that Philip was no more the housekeeper’s child than she was, but it would also betray the fact that Edmund’s loyalties still lay with Wessex and put him in danger. And in any case Edmund had not actually told her anything. He had not trusted her with details.

      Adam’s stomach rumbled a second time. With a grimace, he abandoned formality and, cutting a generous portion of chicken breast, nudged it to her side of the trencher. ‘For pity’s sake eat, my lady,’ he said. ‘I’m near fainting for want of real food.’

      ‘It’s Friday,’ Cecily muttered, assailed by guilt even as she picked up her knife. ‘By rights we should be serving fish.’

      Reaching for the wine cup, Adam shook his head. ‘I thank God for this chicken. In any case, as I recall you should not even be eating fish—didn’t Mother Aethelflaeda impose a fast upon you as penance?’

      ‘Aye, bread and water. I feel guilty to be eating so well.’

      ‘Don’t—those years are gone.’ He leaned close, eyes serious. ‘Tell me truthfully…you are glad to be free of the convent?’

      Was that doubt she could read in his eyes? Could her wishes be important to him? It did not seem likely, yet he had asked, so she answered honestly. ‘Yes, sir, I am glad.’

      ‘For the sake of the food, of course,’ he said, his mouth lifting up at one corner.

      Forgetting herself, Cecily smiled back. ‘Naturally for the sake of the food.’

      He set the cup down with a clunk. ‘You must test me now.’

      ‘Test you?’

      ‘My English. We will converse in English.’

      ‘As you wish.’

      He gestured around the Hall. ‘This is Fulford Hall,’ he said, in clear but heavily accented English.

      ‘Yes, that is good.’

      ‘My name is Adam Wymark. I am a Breton knight. You are the Lady Cecily of Fulford. You are Saxon and you are my betrothed. We will be married tomorrow before Advent commences.’

      ‘Begins. Yes, very good,’ Cecily said, astonished at Adam’s swift progress. She lowered her eyes to hide a growing sense of alarm. Had he overheard her conversation with Edmund? She prayed not. He had only begun to learn, so his understanding must be poor, mustn’t it?

      ‘Wilf and Father Aelfric have been trying to teach me,’ Adam said, reverting to Norman French. ‘You see, like Herfu, I am not just a soldier, I am also a linguist.’

      ‘I see that.’ Saints, the one thing Cecily did not need was a husband with a swift turn of mind…

      ‘Now, this is where I will need your help,’ he continued. ‘How do you say, “I hope our marriage will be a successful one”?’

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