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. She had thought it would make a man look like a little boy to be so close shaved, but there was nothing of the little boy about this one. There were wide shoulders under that cloak. And his mouth…what was she doing looking at his mouth?
Becoming aware that they were staring at each other, and that he had been studying her with the same intensity with which she had been studying him, Cecily blushed. It’s as though I am a book and he is learning me. He is not polite after all, this squire. He is too bold.
‘Emma Fulford?’ Cecily said slowly. ‘I am afraid you are too late.’
‘Hell and damnation!’
Mother Aethelflaeda bristled, and Cecily bit her lip, waiting for the rebuke that must follow the squire’s cursing, but Mother Aethelflaeda subsided, managing—just—to adhere to her pretence of not speaking French.
The squire’s sharp eyes were focused on the Prioresss, and Cecily realised that he knew as well as she that the Prioress did speak French, and that she affected not to speak it merely to hinder them. The knight remained in the background, leaning against the wooden planking, apparently content for his squire to act for him.
‘Did Lady Emma say where she was going?’ the squire asked.
‘No.’ The lie came easily. Cecily would do penance for it later. She’d do any amount of penance to keep that mailed knight from finding her sister. Would that she could do something to ensure her baby brother’s safety too…
The squire frowned. ‘You have no idea? Lady Emma must have told someone. I thought perhaps she might have kin here. Who was she visiting? I’d like to speak to them.’
Cecily looked directly into those disturbing eyes. ‘She was visiting me.’
His expression was blank. ‘How so?’
‘Because Lady Emma of Fulford is my sister, and—’
A lean-fingered hand shot out to catch her by the wrist. ‘Your sister? But…I…’ He looked uneasy. ‘We were not certain she had a sister.’
Trying unsuccessfully to pull free of his hold, Cecily shot a look of dislike at the knight lounging against the wall, looking for all the world as though these proceedings had nothing to do with him. ‘Is it so surprising that your Duke has an imperfect knowledge of the lands he has invaded and its people?’ she replied sharply. She bit her lip, only too aware that if she were to find a way to help her new brother she must not antagonise these men. She moderated her tone. ‘Emma had a brother too. Until Hastings. We both did.’ She looked pointedly at the fingers circling her wrist. ‘You bruise me.’
Stepping back, the squire released her. ‘My apologies.’ His eyes held hers. ‘And I am sorry for your brother’s death.’
Cecily felt a flash of grief so bitter she all but choked. ‘And my father’s—are you sorry for that too?’
‘Aye—every good man’s death is a waste. I heard your father and brother were good, loyal men. Since they died at Caldbec Hill, defending their overlord when the shield wall broke, there’s no doubt of that.’
‘Oh, they were loyal,’ Cecily said, and try as she might she could not keep the bitterness from her tone. ‘But what price loyalty when they are dead?’ Tears pricked her eyes,
