Medieval Brides - Anne Herries Mills & Boon Series Collections

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      Rushlight in hand, Cecily toiled up the stairs to the loft room. It was past midnight by the candle clock in the curtained area below, and she could barely keep her eyes open, but at last the inhabitants of Fulford were settled for the night.

      Harold and Carl had elected to sleep in the stables, Edmund and Wat were nowhere to be seen, having melted away as soon as the trestles were put up for the night, and the villagers—Father Aelfric and Sigrida among them—had returned to their cottages. Of the Saxons only the household retainers had chosen to remain in the Hall. Gudrun, Wilf, Matty and the two babies were tucked out of sight behind the sleeping curtain, having surrendered the fire to Adam and his men. The newcomers hugged the flames, murmuring over dregs in wine flasks and mead jugs.

      Before going upstairs, Cecily had contrived to rock her brother to sleep. Philip’s basket had had to be moved while the bedding was being laid out, and this had disturbed him. Thanks to Gudrun saying, ‘Here, my lady, you always did have a way with babies,’ she had taken him from Gudrun perfectly naturally, and no one had raised so much as an eyebrow. She was pretty confident none of the Franks dreamed she was his sister. It had been good to hold him—though she had had to swallow down some tears at the thought that Philip would never know either his mother or his father. Vowing to give him as much love as she could, she had finally passed him back to Gudrun and gone to seek her own bed.

      As she clambered onto the landing, a sudden draught raised goosebumps on her arms. It was turning bitter. Edmund was more than capable of looking after himself, but Wat’s disappearance was a concern. Had he found somewhere warm for the night? His father’s cottage was a ruin—she must remember to see to that on the morrow. Hopefully Wat would be in the stables, with Carl and Harold…

      In the loft room both braziers glowed a welcome, and a lighted candle stood on the bedside coffer. Blowing out her rushlight, Cecily warmed her hands at one of the braziers before sinking down onto the bed. She had not dreamed of asking for such comfort—had Adam done so on her behalf?

      Lord, but she was tired.

      Unpinning her veil, she loosened her hair. Her whole body ached from so much riding—she was not used to it. Wanting to do nothing more than melt into the mattress, she kicked off her boots. Forcing herself back onto her feet, she laid her belt carefully on Emma’s coffer and removed the blue gown. Shaking it out, she hung it on a hook to keep the creases out of it. Vaguely she noticed rush matting underfoot. It had not been there earlier. New? She was too tired to care. Shrugging, she flipped back the bedcovers and, still clad in her—in Emma’s—linen undergown and hose, she slid into bed. Her feet encountered a warm brick. She wriggled her toes. What bliss. Thank you, Matty.

      In a few moments Cecily was almost as warm as when she had woken in Adam Wymark’s arms. Had that only been this morning?

      Was Adam cold, down in the Hall? Was his pallet hard and lumpy?

      She yawned, and her thoughts ran into each other. Home at last, free of St. Anne’s, but how the faces had changed. No Mother, no Father, no Cenwulf, no Emma. And Franks at every turn. Adam’s green eyes took shape in her mind. Smiling, watchful—Fulford’s new lord. Was she really going to marry him? Could tomorrow really be her wedding day?

      She woke to a woman’s laughter in the hall under the loft room. Gudrun.

      Refreshed by a night on what must be the most comfortable mattress in Christendom, relishing the softness of her pillow, Cecily smiled and stretched. Light was creeping round the edges of the shutter above the bed.

      Below, Matty was singing a lullaby, interspersing each verse with a giggle.

      A baby gurgled in response. It had to be Agatha. Philip was too young to gurgle like that. Happy, homely sounds, floating up through the cracks in the floorboards. What joy to waken to lullabies and laughter after years of wakening to the cold chime of the Matins bell, to the sterile chant of plainsong.

      Smiling, Cecily bounced upright, pushed her hair back from her face and surveyed the loft room with guilty delight. This was hers to enjoy—hers. The boarded floor with its rush matting, the whitewashed walls, the sloping roof, the pottery washbasin, the two braziers—though admittedly they had burned down to ash some time in the small hours.

      She was not going to spend her nights in a dreary cell. She’d spend them here in this large and airy loft. And from tonight—her smile faded and she drew the covers more tightly round her shoulders—from tonight she would share it with Adam Wymark, a Breton who could not even speak her language properly.

      His travelling chest was shoved against the wall, where Matty had left it after tidying away his clothes. Only one travelling chest? His hauberk and helmet must be stowed in the armoury, along with his sword and gambeson, or else he had them at his side, for they were not here. What else had Adam Wymark seen fit to bring with him from Brittany?

      Clambering to her knees, Cecily reached up to open the overhead shutter. Light poured in. Getting out of bed, she padded across the matting to the travelling chest. The lid was heavy and creaked as it opened. A jumble met her eyes.

      A dirty linen shirt, screwed up in a ball; another, frayed at the neck; a pair of braies; two pairs of hose, one with a nasty rent in it and stained with what looked like blood. Shuddering, she set the dirty shirt and bloody hose aside for laundering, thought better of it, and replaced them as she had found them. Near the bottom she found a clean shirt. A tangle of leg-bindings. A crumpled green tunic, a dark blue one. The quality of Adam’s clothing was good—serviceable, but not extravagant. A sheathed dagger. A leather purse, rattling with coins. She set the purse aside unopened, and her gaze fell on a ladies’ eating knife, its hilt set with pretty blue stones.

      Catching her breath, Cecily picked up the knife and turned it over. Had this been Gwenn’s? Adam must have loved her. Ill-at-ease, she glanced once more into his coffer. There was little else. More clothes. A small, hard object wrapped in cream linen. But seeing the ladies’ eating knife had somehow stolen her curiosity. She might be marrying Adam Wymark, but she had not earned the right to root through his belongings.

      Shoving the knife back where she had found it, Cecily replaced the rest of the clothing and quietly closed the chest.

      After a quick wash, Cecily dragged on Emma’s blue gown and hurried downstairs.

      Gudrun was changing Philip’s linens in the sleeping area, and Matty was no longer blithely singing lullabies. Her newly appointed maidservant was standing in the doorway, Agatha on her hip, scowling at some activity in the yard.

      ‘Matty, what’s amiss?’

      Matty’s blue eyes were troubled. ‘It’s Lufu, my lady. She came back at dawn, and Sir Adam’s had words with her. Right stern he was, if I understood him right. She’s been put in the stocks, and that sergeant of his has just told their cook to tip pigswill on her.’

      ‘What? Let me see.’

      Matty stood aside, and with a growing sense of disbelief Cecily saw that she spoke no less than the truth. For there, in the middle of the horse-trampled grass of the green, sat Lufu, in the stocks. Cecily clenched her fists. The use of the stocks was a common enough punishment, and humiliating though it was it was mild compared to some punishments. But she had thought, she had hoped…

      ‘Sweet Jesus!’

      ‘My lady!’ Matty gasped, turning startled eyes on her.

      Normally, Cecily never blasphemed. But the truth was that Cecily had hoped that Fulford had been given a more temperate lord, and she was bitterly disappointed. Clenching her fists, wishing her eyes were deceiving her, she stared at Lufu.

      The years had hardly changed her, though at present she was far from the carefree girl who lived in Cecily’s memory. Her broad face was streaked with grime and tears, and her plaits were unwound. Bedraggled brown strands stuck to her cheeks like rats’ tails. Her skirts were hiked up to her knees, enabling her ankles as well as her wrists to be locked in the stocks. Her hose had a hole at one knee, and her veil was nowhere to be seen.

      Scattered about Lufu were vegetable

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