Loe raamatut: «The Novice Bride»
The Novice Bride
Carol Townend
MILLS & BOON
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For Granny
With thanks to John, my first reader,
Den for the Breton Hero,
and Claude at Les Chênes who helped me finish.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter One
Novice Cecily was on her knees in St Anne’s chapel when the shouting began outside. According to the candle clock it was almost noon, and Cecily—who in her former life had been called Lady Cecily Fulford—was in retreat. She had sworn not to speak a word to anyone till after the nuns had broken their fasts the next morning. A small figure in a threadbare grey habit and veil, alone at her prie-dieu, Cecily had about eighteen hours of silence to go, and was determined that this time her retreat would not be broken.
Lamps glowed softly in wall sconces, and above the altar a little November daylight was filtering through the narrow unshuttered window. Ignoring the chill seeping up from the stone flags, Cecily bent her veiled head over her prayer beads. ‘Hail Mary, full of grace, blessed art thou amongst women and blessed is—’
A thud on the chapel door had her swinging round. Another harder one had the thick oak door bouncing on its hinges.
‘Cecily! Cecily! Are you in there? You must let me speak to you! It’s—’
The woman’s voice was cut off abruptly, but Cecily’s prayers were quite forgotten. For though the voice did not belong to any of the nuns, it seemed vaguely familiar. She strained to hear more.
Two voices, arguing, and none too quietly. One belonged to Sister Judith, the convent portress. The other voice, the outsider’s, went up a notch in pitch, touched on hysteria…
Part curious, part anxious, Cecily scrambled to her feet. Not more bad news, surely? Hadn’t the loss of both her father and brother at Hastings been enough…?
She was halfway up the aisle when the door burst open. Lamps flickered, and her blood sister, the Lady Emma Fulford, threw off the restraining arms of the portress and hurtled into the chapel.
One year Cecily’s senior, seventeen year-old Emma was a vision in flowing pink robes and a burgundy velvet cloak. Dropping a riding crop and a pair of cream kid gloves onto the flagstones, she flung herself at Cecily.
‘Cecily! Oh, Cecily, you must speak to me. You must!’
Finding herself enveloped in a fierce embrace that bordered on the desperate, Cecily fought free of silks and velvets and the scent of roses so that she could study her sister’s face. One look had her abandoning her vow of silence. ‘Of course I’ll speak to you.’
Emma gave an unladylike sniff. ‘She—’ a jerk of her head at Sister Judith set her long silken veil aquiver ‘—said you were in retreat, not to be disturbed. That you may at last be going to take your vows.’
‘That is so.’ Emma had been crying, and not just in the past few minutes either, for her fine complexion was blotched and puffy and her eyes were rimmed with shadows. In the four years since Cecily had been brought to the convent she and her elder sister had become strangers, but her sister’s delicate beauty had lived on in her mind. This distraught, haggard Emma made her blood run cold.
Sister Judith shut the chapel door with a thump and stood just inside the threshold. Folding her arms, she shook her head at Cecily, the novice who once again had failed to keep her retreat.
Cecily took Emma’s hand. Her fingers were like ice. ‘Something else has happened, hasn’t it? Something dreadful.’
Emma’s eyes filled and she gave a shuddering sob. ‘Oh, Cecily, it’s Maman…’
‘Maman? What? What’s happened to Maman?’ But Cecily had no need to wait for an answer, for she could read it in Emma’s expression.
Their mother was dead.
Knees buckling, Cecily gripped Emma’s arms and the sisters clung to each other.
‘Not Maman,’ Cecily choked. ‘Emma, please, not Maman too…’
Emma nodded, tears flooding openly down her cheeks.
‘Wh…when?’
‘Three days since.’
‘How? Was it…was it the babe?’ It had to be that. Their mother, Philippa of Fulford, had been thirty-seven—not young—and she had been seven months pregnant at the time of the battle at Hastings. Of Norman extraction herself, she had found the great battle especially hard to cope with. Cecily knew her mother would have taken great pains to hide her emotions, but the deaths of her Anglo Saxon husband and her firstborn son would have been too much to bear.
Many women died in childbed, and at her mother’s age, and in her state of grief…
Emma dashed away her tears and nodded. ‘Aye. Her time came early, her labour was long and hard, and afterwards…Oh, Cecily, there was so much blood. We could do nothing to stem the flow. Would that you had been there. Your time at Sister Mathilda’s elbow has taught you so much about healing, whereas I…’ Her voice trailed off.
Cecily shook her head. It was true that she had greedily taken in all that Sister Mathilda had chosen to teach her, but she also knew that not everyone could be saved. ‘Emma, listen. Maman’s death was not your fault. Once bleeding starts inside it’s nigh impossible to stop…and besides, it’s possible she simply lost the will to live after father and Cenwulf were killed.’
Emma sniffed. ‘Aye. We were going to send for you. Wilf was ready to mount up. But by the time we realised the dangers it…it was too late.’ Emma gripped Cecily’s hands.
‘It was not your fault.’
‘Nobody’d trained me! Oh, Cecily, if you could have seen her after the messenger came from Hastings. She could not eat or sleep. She wandered round the Hall like a ghost. It was as though, with Father dead, a light went out within her. Father was not an easy man, and Maman was not one to wear her affections openly—’
‘“Displays of sentiment are vulgar, and not suited to a lady,”’ Cecily murmured, repeating a well-worn phrase of her mother’s.
‘Quite so. But she loved him. If any doubted that—’ Emma gave Cecily a penetrating look, knowing that Cecily and her father, Thane Edgar, had crossed swords on more matters than the delaying of her profession. ‘If any doubted that, this last month would have set them right. And Cenwulf.’ Emma’s gaze brimmed with sympathy. ‘I realise you did adore him too.’
‘Maman’s heart was broken.’
Emma gulped. ‘Aye. And twisted.’
‘Because her own countrymen were the invaders?’
Emma squeezed Cecily’s hand. ‘I knew you’d understand.’
‘Lady Emma…’ Sister Judith’s voice cut in, reminding the girls of the portress’s presence by the chapel door.
It was Sister Judith’s duty to give or deny permission for outsiders to enter the convent. Since the order was not an enclosed one, permission was granted more often than not, but never when a nun or novice was on retreat. Hands folded at her girdle, silver cross winking at her breast, the nun regarded Emma sternly, but not unkindly. She had been moved, Cecily saw, by what she had heard.
‘Lady Emma, since you have seen fit to break your sister’s retreat by this conference, may I suggest that you continue in the portress’s lodge? The Angelus bell is about to strike, and the rest of the community will be needing the chapel.’
‘Of course, Sister Judith. Our apologies,’ Cecily said.
Bending to retrieve Emma’s riding crop and gloves, Cecily took her sister’s hand and led her out of the chapel.
A chill winter wind was tossing straw about the yard. Woodsmoke gusted out of the cookhouse, and their breath made white vapour which was no sooner formed than it was snatched away.
Emma drew the burgundy velvet cloak more tightly about her shoulders.
Cecily, who had not touched a cloak of such quality since entering the convent, and in any case was not wearing even a thin one since she was within the confines of the convent, shivered, and ushered her sister swiftly across the yard towards the south gate.
The portress’s lodge, a thatched wooden hut, sagged against the palisade. Abutting the lodge at its eastern end was the convent’s guest house, a slightly larger, marginally more inviting building; Cecily led her sister inside.
Even though the door was thrown wide the room was full of shadows, for the wooden walls were planked tight, with only a shuttered slit or two to let in the light. Since no guests had been looked for, there was no fire in the central hearth, only a pile of dead ashes. November marked the beginning of the dark months, but Cecily knew better than to incur Mother Aethelflaeda’s wrath by lighting a precious candle. If she added the sin of wasting a candle in daylight to the sin of her broken retreat, she’d be doing penance till Christmas ten years hence.
Dropping Emma’s riding crop and gloves on the trestle along with her rosary, Cecily wrenched the shutters open. The cold and ensuing draughts would have to be borne. Emma paced up and down. Her pink gown, Cecily now had time to notice, was liberally spattered with mud about the hem, her silken veil was awry, and the chaplet that secured it was crooked.
‘You rode fast to bring me this sad news,’ Cecily said slowly, as her sister strode back and forth. Now that the first shock was passing, her mind was beginning to work, and she had questions. ‘And yet…if Maman died three days since, you must have delayed your ride to me. There is more, isn’t there?’
Emma stopped her pacing. ‘Yes. The babe lives. A boy.’
Cecily gaped. ‘A boy? And he lives? Oh, it’s a miracle—new life after so much death!’ Her face fell. ‘But so early? Emma, he cannot survive.’
‘So I thought. He is small. I took the liberty of having him christened Philip, in case…in case—’
Emma broke off with a choking sound, but she had no need to add more. Having lived in the convent for four years, Cecily knew the Church’s view as well as any. If the babe did die, better that he died christened into the faith. For if he died outside it, he would be for eternity a lost soul.
‘Philip,’ Cecily murmured. ‘Maman would have liked that.’
‘Aye. And it’s not a Saxon name, so if he survives…I thought his chances better if he bore a Norman name.’
‘It is a good thought to stress Maman’s lineage rather than Father’s,’ Cecily replied. The son of a Saxon thane could not thrive if in truth England was to become Norman, but the son of a Norman lady…
Emma drew close, touched Cecily’s arm, and again Cecily became conscious of the incongruous fragrance of roses in November, of the softness of her sister’s gown, of the whiteness of her hands, of her unbroken lady’s nails. All the mud in England couldn’t obscure either the quality of Emma’s clothing or her high status.
She brushed awkwardly at her own coarse skirts in a vain attempt to shake out some dust and creases, and hide the hole at the knee where she’d torn the fabric grubbing up fennel roots in the herb garden. There were so many holes in the cloth it was nigh impossible to darn.
‘I would have come at once to tell you, Cecily, if I had not had my hands full caring for our new brother.’
‘You were right to put Philip first. Do you think he may thrive?’
‘I pray so. I left him with Gudrun. She was brought to bed a few months since herself, with a girl, and she is acting at his wet nurse.’ The restless pacing resumed. ‘He would not feed at first, but Gudrun persevered, and now…and now…’ A faint smile lit Emma’s eyes. ‘I think he may thrive, after all.’
‘That at least is good news.’
‘Aye.’ Emma turned, picked up her riding crop from the trestle and tapped it against her side. She stood with her back to Cecily, facing the door, and stared at the cookhouse smoke swirling in the yard. ‘Cecily…I…I confess I didn’t really come to tell you about Philip…’
‘No? What, then?’ Cecily made as if to move towards Emma, but a sharp hand movement from her sister stilled her. ‘Emma?’
‘I…I’ve come to bid you farewell.’
Thinking she had not heard properly, Cecily frowned. ‘What?’
‘I’m going north.’ Emma began to speak quickly, her back unyielding. ‘More messengers came, after Maman…after Philip was born. Messengers from Duke William.’
‘Normans? At Fulford Hall?’
A jerky nod. ‘They’ll be there by now.’
Cecily touched Emma’s arm to make her turn, but Emma resisted Cecily’s urging and kept staring at the door. ‘The carrion crows are come already,’ Emma said bitterly. ‘They are efficient, at least, and have not wasted any time seizing our lands. The Duke knows that our father and Cenwulf are dead. In a convoluted message that spoke of King Harold’s perfidy as an oath-breaker, I was informed that I, Thane Edgar’s daughter, have been made a ward of Duke William, and I am to be given in marriage to one of his knights. And not even a man with proper Norman blood in him, like Maman, but some Breton clod with no breeding at all!’
Emma swung round. Her eyes were wild and hard, and the riding crop smacked against her thigh. ‘Cecily, I won’t. I can’t—I won’t do it!’
Cecily caught Emma’s hands between hers. ‘Have you met him?’
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.’
