and they were offered no refreshment.
‘As I feared,’ Richard said, with a wry grin. ‘Sweet sisters in Christ—harpies all.’
The winter chill seeped up through the earthen floor, and a solitary candle, unlit, stood on the trestle next to a small handbell. Adam grimaced, and knew a pang of pity for the nuns who must spend their lives here. If most of the convent was appointed like this, it was dank and miserable.
With a rustle of skirts, a large, big-bellied nun came into the room, hands tucked into the wide sleeves of her habit. This woman’s wimple was clean, and the stuff of her habit was thick and rich, of a dark violet rather than Benedictine black. The cross that winked on her breast was gold, and set with coloured gems. Clearly not all were made to live penitentially among these grim buildings. This woman, by her garb, hailed from a noble Saxon family, and did not appear to stint herself.
Adam stepped forwards. ‘Mother Aethelflaeda?’
‘My lords,’ the Prioress replied stiffly in the Saxon tongue, barely inclining her head. Her smile was tight and forced, her face the colour of whey.
‘My name is Wymark,’ Adam said, ‘and I’ve come to fetch Lady Emma of Fulford. Reports say she came here. I’m to escort her back to Fulford Hall.’
Mother Aethelflaeda’s gaze shifted from Adam to Richard and flickered briefly over his chainmail before returning to Adam. She nodded. The strained smile twitched wider, but she did not speak.
‘Lady Emma of Fulford?’ Adam repeated patiently. ‘Is she here?’
He was wasting his breath. It was as if the Prioress couldn’t hear him. Though she continued to nod and smile, her stance was too rigid, her smile was fixed and her eyes—which appeared glazed—were pinned on Richard once more. A woman in whom disdain and fear were equally mixed.
‘She’s afraid,’ Adam said.
‘Aye,’ came Richard’s complacent reply.
‘Shame on you, to scare the wits from her. I told you, Richard, they’d not like you mailed.’
Unrepentant, Richard grinned through his helm.
The Prioress gave a strangled sound and moved back a pace.
‘She doesn’t understand a word you’re saying either, man,’ Richard said.
Adam swore under his breath, drawing the gaze of the Prioress. A small furrow had appeared between her brows. ‘I’m not so sure,’ he murmured. ‘It may be she seeks to obstruct us.’ He took a step closer to the nun. ‘The Lady Emma of Fulford—is she here?’
Mother Aethelflaeda stared at Adam for a moment, took up the handbell and shook it. Immediately, the portress appeared in the doorway, so swiftly that Adam had little doubt that she had been listening and waiting for the summons.
There followed a brief exchange in the English tongue which Adam could not follow, save that he thought he caught the name ‘Cecily’. An image of a slight figure with a long golden braid shining in the firelight sprang into his mind. Firmly, he dismissed it.
The portress hurried out, leaving the three of them—Adam, Richard and the Prioress—to stand awkwardly looking at each other. The gloom deepened.
Quick footsteps sounded on the flags outside the lodge, the door was hurriedly pushed open, and the light strengthened as a young nun who was little more than a girl swiftly entered the room. She held a lantern in delicate work-worn hands…
Adam’s stomach muscles clenched.
Cecily.
Next to the richly gowned Prioress, her faded grey habit was no more than a thin rag, and her cross was not bright yellow gold, but simple unvarnished wood. However, the nun Cecily’s bearing would see her accepted anywhere, be it castle or byre. Her body was straight-backed and slender, and her head was held high, without hint of disdain.
Close to, Adam could see how very young she was, and that even her hideous wimple and veil could not disguise that she was more than pretty. Such fine features: arched brows; a small, retroussé nose; lips that curved like a bow. Thick lashes swept down over eyes that were an arresting blue…
Breathlessly, Cecily hurried into the room.
Though she misliked the Prioress, she always jumped to do her bidding—for Mother Aethelflaeda had an uncertain temper, and her power over those under her was absolute. Giving her a brief obeisance, Cecily turned to look at the two men. One of these must be the Breton knight Emma had spoken of. The thought that these men might have had a hand in the deaths of her father and brother made her belly quake. So much emotion rolled within her they must surely see it. She strove for control.
Her eyes widened as she took in the mailed knight lounging with his shoulders against the wall, his legs crossed. A cold sweat broke out between her shoulderblades. With his great metal helm, the knight’s features were all but hidden, and she was unable to read his expression. He looked confident and very much at his ease. This must be Sir Adam Wymark.
Willing her hands not to shake, Cecily curbed the urge to turn on her heel and placed the lantern on the table. A swift glance at the knight’s companion and she had him pegged for his squire. Yes, definitely his squire. For though he was dressed in a leather soldier’s tunic, he wore no armour.
The squire was as tall as his knight, and darkly handsome. Polite, too, for the moment their eyes met, he bowed. His murmured ‘Lady Cecily’ surprised her, for only the villagers, like Ulf, named her by her old title. Inside these walls she was ‘Novice’ or simply ‘Cecily’. Mother Aethelflaeda judged that it was misplaced pride for anyone but herself to be styled ‘my lady’.
‘Cecily, be pleased to translate for me,’ Mother Aethelflaeda said in English, her tone less imperious than usual. ‘These…’ the brief hesitation was a clear insult ‘…men are the Norman Duke’s, and they are come on his business.’
It was on the tip of Cecily’s tongue to protest, for Mother Aethelflaeda spoke French almost as well as she did. Like her, Mother Aethelflaeda came from a noble family, and while Mother Aethelflaeda might not have had a Norman mother like Cecily, Norman French was commonly understood by most of the Anglo-Saxon aristocracy.
Calm, Cecily, calm, she told herself. Think of baby Philip, who needs your help. These men are the means by which you may reach him. Put fear aside, put anger aside, put thoughts of revenge aside. By hook or by crook, you must get these men to help you care for little Philip. That is all that matters…
‘As you will, Mother Aethelflaeda.’ Cecily laced her fingers together and forced herself to smile at the mailed knight.
His squire stepped into her line of vision. ‘Lady…that is, Sister Cecily…we are looking for one Emma of Fulford. My scouts tell me she came here. I’d like to speak to her.’
The squire came yet closer as he spoke. Cecily, who for four years had had scant contact with strange men, apart from villagers like Ulf with whom she was familiar, found his physical presence overpowering. His eyes were green, and once they had met hers it was hard to look away. His face, with its strong, dark features, was pleasing, yet somehow unsettling. His black hair was cropped short and, again in the Norman fashion, he was clean-shaven. Most of her countrymen wore their hair and beards long and flowing. Cecily blinked.
