Kitabı oku: «Medieval Brides», sayfa 5

Maude, who spoke French, had watched this exchange. She stepped forward, a stubborn set to her jaw that Cecily recognised from one of the many times she had seen Maude wilfully disobey one of their order’s rules. ‘Lady Cecily should not be riding with a common soldier, sir.’

Afraid for her friend, Cecily caught Maude’s sleeve. ‘Maude, no!’

Sir Adam looked thoughtfully down at Maude, and said with pleasant deliberation. ‘You are in the right—though my men would no doubt not thank you for naming them “common”…’He sighed heavily. ‘And here I was thinking that, in God’s eyes at least, all men are equal.’

‘They are, sir,’ Maude said, hastily backing down. ‘Indeed they are.’

‘Ah, well, that is good. Because I am a common man, and Lady Cecily is to ride with me.’

Catching sight of a suspicious gleam in his eyes, a twitch of his lips, Cecily frowned. To be sure there was an edge to his voice, but he was laughing—the wretch was making fun of them…

‘Say your farewells,’ he said, and stood aside to allow Maude and Cecily to embrace.

Then, taking her by the wrist as he had done the previous evening, he led her to where a man—no, he was a boy—was holding his destrier, the magnificent chestnut. Cecily bit her lip. She’d never ridden anything half that size.

‘Don’t fear him.’

‘I…I don’t.’

‘Here…’ He drew her level with the horse’s head. ‘His name is Flame. Let him see you, smell you. He won’t hurt you if he knows you’re with me. You can touch him. I’ve never known him bite a woman.’

She shot Adam Wymark a startled look, but it was impossible to tell whether he was teasing or not. ‘He bites men, then, sir?’ In battle, she supposed, this destrier would do anything its master asked of it. It was a sobering thought.

‘Go on—stroke him.’

Tentatively, Cecily reached out and patted the great arched neck, murmuring softly, as though the warhorse were one of her father’s ponies. Thus she had petted her own Cloud before coming to St Anne’s. Cloud had gone back with her father to Fulford as novices were not allowed ponies. What had happened to her? This horse’s chestnut muzzle, she discovered, was just as soft as Cloud’s had been.

‘Warm velvet,’ she murmured.

‘That’s it—let him know you’re not afraid,’ said the man at her side. He still had a firm grip on her wrist.

‘I’m not afraid,’ Cecily said, pulling away from the fingers on her wrist.

A brief smile lit those disturbing eyes and he released her, turning away to reach something down from behind the saddle—a saddle which was not the chevalier’s saddle she had noticed the day before. Somehow he had contrived to find one suitable for carrying a lady pillion.

She frowned. ‘You planned to have me behind you all along…’

Ignoring her remark, he handed a blue bundle to her. ‘Here—you’d best borrow this.’

His cloak, and the finest Cecily had held in an age. Of rich blue worsted, lined with fur. Carefully, so as not to startle the chestnut, Cecily unfolded it. So heavy, so warm, so sinfully sensual. You could bury your face in it and….

Momentarily speechless at such thoughtfulness, she blinked up at him, confused by the contradictions he presented. A foreign knight who had come to take her father’s lands and yet who considered her comfort.

He shrugged and turned away to pull something else from his pack, the faintest colour staining his cheekbones. ‘My mother would have had that thing you’re wearing for dish-clouts years ago,’ he said gruffly. ‘You’d best borrow these too. They’ll be overlarge for you, but better than the nothing that the convent has seen fit to provide you with.’

Gloves. A warrior’s pair, to be sure, but again of the best quality, carefully cut, the stitching perfect, lined with sheepskin.

‘B-but, sir—what of you?’

‘My gambeson is padded, Lady Cecily. Your need is greater.’

Cecily draped the cloak about her, almost moaning in delight as its warmth settled about her shoulders. The fabric held within its folds an elusive fragrance: sandalwood, mixed with a scent particular to the man to whom it belonged. Tentatively, Cecily inhaled. Her cheeks grew warm, and under cover of tugging on his gloves she ducked her head to escape his gaze.

He clapped on his helm and with a clinking of harness and chainmail, and a creaking of leather, mounted. ‘Help Lady Cecily, will you, Maurice?’ With the reins in one hand, he held out the other towards her.

Maurice—the lad was clearly his squire—bent and cupped his hands. Cecily stepped up, took Sir Adam’s hand, and a moment later was seated behind him. Astride.

Too high. It was far too high. And her legs were showing almost to her knees, revealing her pathetically over-darned grey stockings. Wondering if one could die of mortification, Cecily clutched at Sir Adam’s pack, at her own meagre bundle which was strapped next to his, at the side of the saddle—anywhere but at the mailed knight who shared the saddle with her. With one hand she snatched at the skirts of her habit, trying to pull it down over her legs.

He nudged the horse with his heels and they turned towards the gate. Almost unseated, she squeaked a protest.

The helmed head twisted round. ‘My lady, it will not kill you to hold onto me, but it may well kill you if you don’t. You must get proper purchase.’

He was right. But Cecily had never in her life sat so close to a man who was not related to her. Thanking God for the chainmail that would surely keep him from feeling the press of her body against him, and thankful that his men seemed to be ignoring the shocking sight of her legs, she surrendered to the inevitable and gripped his sword belt firmly—a shocking intimacy that would have had Mother Aethelflaeda in a swoon.

‘That’s it, my lady.’ He waved his troop on and they trotted through the gate and onto the high road, just as the chapel bell began summoning the nuns to Prime.

Jostled and juddering on the back of Adam Wymark’s destrier, Cecily looked down at the ground passing beneath them and hung on desperately. Craning her neck to look through the troop of horse-soldiers following them, she could make out Maude, waving by the gate. Cecily had no hand spare to wave back, but she found a smile and hoped that Maude would see it.

‘Fare thee well, Maude.’

The convent bell rang out. Maude glanced over her shoulder, spoke briefly to someone behind her in the convent yard, leaned her weight into the great doors and pushed them shut, nipping inside herself at the last moment.

Cecily did not know why, but she kept her eyes fixed on those closed gates for as long as she could, finally losing sight of them when they clattered over the bridge and took the road that led into the forest.

The 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 turned towards her, resting a hand on her knee. ‘We’re almost at the garrison,’ he said. ‘Can you last a little longer?’

The pressure of his hand was gentle, but Cecily felt it like a brand through her worn habit. She shot a look at the long, strong fingers, tinged red with cold because she had taken his gloves. His knuckles were grazed, his fingernails bitten down to the quick. Too human, those bitten nails. Better that she had not noticed them…

‘I’m fine, thank you,’ she said, though her muscles screamed that she’d be stiff for a sennight.

Duke William’s knight nodded, removed his hand from her knee and faced forwards, leaving Cecily blinking at a row of burnt-out dwellings that lined the route.

War damage? Some of the houses had been left without roofs, others were skeletons, with charred timbers that clawed at the sky. The smell of smoke was eye-wateringly strong. A lump closed her throat. Neither the Roman walls nor the River Itchen had been able to do much to save the buildings clustered on the outskirts of the old Saxon capital. The recent fighting had destroyed all but the most sturdy.

Moving with careful desperation in the debris, sifting through the wreckage, ragged figures picked through the pitiful remnants like crows at a carcase. It mattered not whether they were dispossessed householders or looters, it came to one thing—here on the outskirts of Winchester people had been reduced to penury. Cecily’s heart ached. Dear God, let Fulford not have suffered like this. Let the villagers be whole.

A troop of Norman horse-soldiers trotted smartly out of Eastgate and across the bridge, cutting a swathe through the pilgrims. When the troop drew level with Sir Adam, the leading knight saluted. ‘Wymark!’

‘Holà, Gervais!’ Turning his mailed head, Adam smiled over his shoulder. ‘Hang on, Lady Cecily, a few minutes more.’

She avoided his gaze. Adam Wymark might talk righteously about oaths sworn between kings, and of oaths broken, but what did the poor, ordinary folk know of that? No, this knight and his kind had caused too much suffering. The loan of a cloak and a pair of gloves and a few kind words could not begin to atone for what Duke William’s warriors had done to her homeland…

It was painfully clear that the Duke’s forces had been more than thorough in their attempts to stamp out any resistance. Since Winchester was the traditional heartland of the Earls of Wessex, she supposed it was logical that the Normans should scour the hinterland for rebels, but she did not have to like it.

One of the town mills, half consumed by fire, had collapsed into the river, its blackened debris forming a rickety raft. Ducks waddled across sodden, flame-scorched timber and planking. As one launched itself into the swift-flowing water, Cecily’s eyes filled. They edged past a Saxon pilgrim swinging himself along on crutches. His straggling brown hair was tied back with a piece of string and he had one foot, but despite this he was moving at a fair pace…

Another lame man, one bent leg encased in bandages…

And another, flat out on a hurdle. There were so many sick and wounded; there was so much suffering.

He had doubtless played his part. She shut her eyes to close out the sight of a young boy of about ten years of age who had lost his arm above the elbow, and a tear ran hot down her cheek. Loosening her grip on Adam Wymark’s belt, Cecily tried to shift back, away from him.

Old Minster—the Saxon Cathedral—had for centuries been renowned as a place of healing. These poor people were heading there, to the tomb of St Swithun, as they had always done in troubled times. They hoped for a miracle, and Cecily prayed they found it.

At the gate, a blind man held out his hand for alms. Fulford’s new lord dug into a small pouch and a silver farthing arced through the air, to land with a clink in the begging bowl.

Cecily frowned. The man was a mass of contradictions. What should she make of him? One minute he was William of Normandy’s loyal knight—a man capable of killing her countrymen—and the next he was giving succour to Saxon beggars.

A girl limped along on crutches, her clothes scarcely better than sacking. A young woman with a hen tucked under her arm took one look at their troop and spat pointedly in their direction. Fearful for the woman, Cecily went rigid. Her hot-tempered father would have leapt from his horse and taken his crop to her for such insolence. Sir Adam’s hands merely tightened on the reins and they pressed on steadily.

The bridge rang hollow under the horse’s hoofs. A heartbeat later and the stone arch of Eastgate was a cool shadow over their heads, and then the light strengthened as they emerged into the city proper.

Inside the walls, there was little damage. Her heart lifted as the horses’ hoofs beat a sharp tattoo on the cobblestones. Passing lines of wooden houses—intact wooden houses—they entered the market square.

Saxons were selling eggs alongside cabbages, vending bread and new-baked pies, hawking ale alongside holy relics. Voices flew to and fro across the street like shuttles on a loom: speaking English, speaking French, speaking Latin—so many tongues that Cecily could not attune herself to all of them. It was a far cry from the peace and quiet of St Anne’s. And then, just as she thought she could take in no more, a voice she recognised cut right across the cacophony…a male voice.

‘Meet me in the Cathedral an hour from now.’

Ahead of her! No, on her right…

Tightening her grip on Sir Adam’s belt, Cecily turned swiftly to either side, her gaze sweeping the square. No—no, it could not be! But that voice…that voice…where was he?

‘Meet me in the Cathedral an hour from now.’ Yes, that was what he had said, clear as day. Judhael! One of her father’s men! It could not be he…and yet surely that voice was his? And who had he been talking to?

The crowd milled around them. Wildly, with her heart in her mouth, Cecily peered this way and that but could see no one she knew. And certainly there was no sign of Judhael, who had been her father’s most promising housecarl and her brother Cenwulf’s best friend…

Her head was spinning.

Had she dreamed hearing Judhael’s voice among the crowd? A faint moan escaped her, and she sagged against Adam Wymark’s broad back. Her mind was playing tricks. She was exhausted and near sick with worry, and it was hard to credit that her father’s hearth troops were probably all dead. She wanted them to have lived, and she was just conjuring up Judhael’s voice. Sister Mathilda had told her that the mind could play tricks, and Sister Mathilda was very wise—for hadn’t another sister, Sister Beatrice, regaled the nuns with the visions she’d had after a particularly penitential Lenten fast…

The Breton knight reached back and touched her knee. ‘Lady Cecily? What’s amiss?’

Dear Lord, the man didn’t miss a thing, Cecily thought, hastily straightening. ‘It…it’s nothing—a momentary dizziness, that’s all.’ And then she wished she’d said something—anything—else, for his grip shifted and he pulled her close to his mailed body.

‘Hold hard, my lady.’

Her fingers were already clinging so tightly to Adam Wymark’s sword belt she wondered if she’d ever pry them loose. Giving an inarticulate murmur, Cecily gazed steadfastly at the market stalls. Anything rather than meet the disconcerting green eyes of Duke William’s knight.

Meet me in the Cathedral an hour from now.

Judhael—if that really had been him—must have meant the Old Saxon Cathedral, St Swithun’s, not the New Minster which stood next to it.

An hour from now…an hour from now…

Somehow, within the next hour, she must free herself from Adam Wymark and make her way to the Cathedral. Judhael might well be with his Maker, but if she wasn’t in St Swithun’s to make certain that she had dreamed his voice she would never forgive herself.

A brace of clean-shaven Norman guards were stationed at each corner of the market square. Their hair was cropped in like manner to Sir Adam and his men. Each guard was fully armed in the costly chainmail, so they must either be knights or in the Duke’s personal entourage. She caught glimpses of several pointed shields, like the one which hung at Adam Wymark’s saddle and was bruising her thigh.

A woman threw a bowl of slops under Flame’s feet. The destrier didn’t miss a step. They clopped over the cobbles, the rhythm of the hoofbeat tattoo unbroken.

I have to get to the Cathedral, I have to, she vowed, as she jounced past the market cross and several squawking chickens in cages. Head in a whirl, she felt a pang for the peace and solitude of the convent herb garden. Her lips twisted. For years she had longed to be part of just such a bustle and rush, but now she was in the thick of it it made her dizzy and she could not think.

Think, think. How to get to the Cathedral unobserved…?

Adam Wymark wheeled his chestnut into an alley and they entered the Cathedral Close. At once, as though a curtain had been drawn shut behind them, the bustle and rush and noise of the market fell away.

Peace. Thank the Lord, Cecily thought, ruefully acknowledging that there must be more of the nun in her nature than she had realised.

They drew rein outside the long stone building that once had housed the Saxon royal family, the Palace of the Kings. A stone arch framed the thick oak of the palace doorway, impressively carved with leaves and fruit. A flight of steps ran up the outside of the wall, leading, Cecily surmised, to a second floor and the private apartments of her father’s liege lord, the late Harold of Wessex.

Today the Palace of the Kings—the Saxon Kings of Wessex—was bursting at the seams with what looked like the whole of Duke William’s invasion force. Despite her borrowed cloak, Cecily’s blood chilled, and the voice she’d imagined hearing in the market was pushed from her mind.

Was nothing sacred?

Two mailed Norman guards flanked the central doorway. Another pair were stationed on the landing at the top of the outside stairway. And in front of the Palace, on the flagstones, piles of weapons were being sorted by more of the Duke’s men—swords, spears, bows—the booty of war? A distant hammering told her that nearby a smith was hard at work.

Adam Wymark dismounted, stretched, and offered her his hand. His helmed head turned in the direction of her gaze. ‘Not what you’d expected?’

Cecily swallowed, and sought to express the confusion of emotions warring within her. ‘Yes…No…’ She tried again. ‘It’s just that it…it’s our Royal Palace.’

‘Last month it was,’ he said, eyes half hidden by his nose-guard. He reached up to help her down. ‘Today it is our headquarters.’

‘So I see.’ His hands, without his gloves, were red with cold. They rested briefly on her waist to steady her, and for a moment there was not enough air in the courtyard. She stared stolidly at his mailed chest, all too conscious of Adam Wymark’s superior height, of the lithe straightness and strength of the body under the chainmail, of the width of his shoulders. ‘Thank you, sir.’ His proximity was most disturbing.

‘I would think it an honour if you would call me by my Christian name,’ he said softly, for her ears alone.

Astonished, Cecily raised her eyes. He dragged off his helm and pushed back his coif, apparently waiting for her response, apparently meek. Not fooled for a moment, for this man was a conqueror, she swallowed. ‘But, sir, th-that would not be seemly.’

His lips curved, his eyes danced, a hand briefly touched hers. ‘Not seemly? You did propose marriage to me, did you not, Lady Cecily?’

‘I…I…’

His expression sobered. ‘Have you changed your mind?’

Cecily bit her lip. He had made his voice carefully neutral, had posed the question as casually as he would if he had been discussing the weather, so why was he watching her like a hawk? Because that was his way.

‘I…no, I have not changed my mind.’

If only he would not stare like that. It made her hot and uncomfortable. Had he taken her hasty offer of marriage seriously? She had not thought so, yet there was a tension about him, as if her response mattered to him. She could not think why that should be so. She had no dowry and he was already in possession of her father’s lands.

What was the nature of the knight she had offered to marry? Undoubtedly he was physically attractive, but what of his character? What was Sir Adam Wymark? A ruthless conqueror or an honest man upon whom she could rely? Whatever his nature she must agree to marry him if she was to be certain of accompanying him to Fulford. Her newborn brother needed her help if he was to thrive—as did her father’s people, if a repetition of what had happened outside these city walls were to be avoided. Since Emma had refused him, Cecily was left with no choice. With baby Philip and innocent villagers to care for, she was needed at Fulford. Marry him she must. Her heart pounded. Why was there no air?

Around them, the Breton’s men were dismounting and leading their horses round to the back of the palace towards what had been the Kings’ Mews. The squire Maurice took Flame’s reins, and his knight’s helm, and followed the others.

Adam Wymark was looking at her lips. She could not think why he would be doing that unless that was what men did when they were thinking about kissing a woman. Was he? To her horror, Cecily’s eyes seemed to develop a will of their own, and she found herself examining his. They were well shaped and, oddly, looking at them made her pulse quicken. Slowly, they curved into a smile.

A guilty glance back up. Amusement was glittering in the green eyes.

Heat scorched Cecily’s face, and just as swiftly she ducked her head.

‘Lady Cecily, I have business in the garrison, despatches to send, so I must hunt out a scribe. If you would care for refreshment, Sir Richard will attend you until my return.’ He raised her hand, pushed back the hem of the glove with his thumb and pressed a swift kiss to her wrist. Her heart jumped.

‘Th-thank you, sir,’ Cecily murmured, staring at the cobbles as though they were runes that held the secret of eternal life.

‘Adam—my name is Adam.’

Cecily peeped up in time to catch that swift smile before he bowed and marched towards the sentries at the palace doorway. Her mind raced as she watched him go. Think, think. He is the enemy, and he cannot write. Remember that. It might be useful. He cannot write. Cecily could write—her mother had seen to it that both Emma and Cecily were lettered—and in the convent Mother Aethelflaeda had been quick to make use of Cecily’s talent in copying out and illustrating missals for the nuns. But she would not call him back and offer to be his scribe—not when she must go to the Cathedral without him. His eyes were too keen, and if by some miracle she did find Judhael in St Swithun’s she did not think that she could hide it from him.