embroidery on the hem and neckline…
‘Yes, Gudrun. No one could best Mother at gold and silver threadwork…Yes, Gudrun, the veil is very fine…Yes, Gudrun, it is clever the way the leaves and flowers on the circlet match the leaves and flowers in the weave of the gown…’
And while the surface of her mind was busy with Gudrun, another, deeper part of her was wondering what Edmund had been alluding to when he had said he had spoken to Judhael. Should she warn Adam? Or would a warning only make things worse? Was Gudrun right when she maintained that Edmund was all bluster?
Gudrun moved about her: pulling, lacing, checking the fabric was falling just so. And slowly the light from the windows moved across the matting. One thing was certain. At three o’clock, as the winter sun began to fade, she was going to be joined with Adam Wymark in Holy Matrimony. A day she had thought she would never see. Her wedding day.
This garnet gown—the gown her mother had embroidered for her sister—would help to conjure their presence, so she would not be standing alone when she made her vows. A small comfort, perhaps, but one she cherished.
As was the custom in England, the wedding was to be held just outside the wooden church. Word had spread among the villagers, and by the time Adam arrived with Richard and his men a number of Saxons had already gathered to witness it.
The doorposts of Fulford church were garlanded. Ivy, juniper and holly, twisted together with cream satin ribbon. Someone had made a rough arch out of lengths of hazel, and more of the cream ribbon was twined around it, holding the evergreens in place. Done in her honour, not his, but he was glad to see it.
The villagers fell silent at his approach. Adam ran his hand through his hair—shorn by Maurice in honour of the occasion—and straightened his dark blue tunic. For the tenth time he checked his cross-gartering. To Richard’s disgust, he had again dispensed with his sword.
At his elbow, Richard gave a soft chuckle. ‘Anyone would think you’ve not done this before.’
‘I’m not nervous!’
‘Of course not. You’re hopping from foot to foot like a cat on hot coals just for the exercise.’
Adam scowled and glanced towards the Hall. He had not spoken to Cecily since Gudrun had interrupted them, and he wished they had managed to exchange a few more words in private. He had glimpsed her in the Hall later, but she’d been so wrapped up in ordering the wedding supper and in Gudrun’s young son that he’d not won so much as a glance.
‘She’s late,’ he said, rolling his shoulders as her father’s remaining housecarl appeared in the Hall entrance. Relying heavily on his crutches, Edmund swung across the green towards them, his face rigid with hostility.
Adam’s scowl deepened. ‘That man bears watching,’ he murmured, for Richard’s ears alone, though he doubted that any of the Saxons would understand him. He did not catch Richard’s response, for at that moment there was a fluttering in the hall, a soft giggle—Matty—and then there she was, framed by the doorway.
Cecily.
His heart pounded. She’d been pretty in a novice’s habit, more than pretty in her sister’s blue dress, but now—wearing that garnet-coloured gown…It fitted—it actually fitted her like a second skin—and she was a princess. Her golden hair hung in two loose braids over her breasts, and a light veil fluttered behind her as she walked across the grass. A princess.
Matty and Gudrun were at her train, wreathed in smiles: Gudrun was holding her firstborn and Matty was carrying the sleeping baby. Thank God for those smiles, Adam thought, for they prove that not every Saxon in Fulford is set against this marriage.
The garnet gown had been laced to accentuate Cecily’s slim waist and the curve of her bosom. That bright fall of hair reached beyond her knees. She was the very image of feminine beauty, delicate, soft. Was she really to be his? Adam’s mouth went dry. His Gwenn had been darkly pretty, and he had loved her deeply, but her beauty had never filled him with this desperate, almost frantic longing.
Gwenn had always been his sweetheart—they had loved each other for ever, and he had not been afraid to touch her—but Cecily’s fragile beauty, her innocence, her Saxon upbringing—how could he hope to win her heart?
As she came along the gravel path towards him their eyes met. She smiled—a nervous smile, as though uncertain of her reception. Aware that he was gawping like a moonstruck boy, Adam swallowed and held out his hand.
‘Lose that frown, man,’ Richard muttered. ‘It would curdle milk.’
Adam smiled.
And then she was at his side, her fingers warm in his. She peeped up at him from under her lashes and her face lost that nervous look. Rosemary—he caught the scent of rosemary. She was carrying a posy. Rosemary and bay and dried lavender, tied with the same cream ribbon that adorned the wedding arch.
‘Sir Adam,’ she said, curtseying low before him.
That wayward blonde curl had worked its way loose. His smile deepening, he raised her and kissed the back of her hand. ‘Lady Cecily.’
He nodded at Richard, who rapped on the church door with the hilt of his sword.
Father Aelfric stepped out, gold thread glinting on his vestments. ‘You are ready, my children?’ he asked.
Adam looked at Cecily, and drew comfort and support from the acceptance he read in her eyes. He nodded at Father Aelfric, and as one they stepped under the wedding arch. ‘We are. You may proceed.’
‘Gudrun, go away!’ Cecily said later that night, as she laughingly tried to evade the housekeeper’s hands. ‘And you too, Matty. I don’t need either of you!’
The three women were in the loft room. Braziers glowed softly through the dark and candles flickered on the nightstands. On one of the coffers a tray had been set, with a jug of mulled wine, two clay goblets, and a plate of almond cakes. The wine steamed gently, filling the room with the exotic scent of imported spices—cinnamon and cloves from the east.
The rhythmic throb of music filled the Hall below, where Harold and Carl were entertaining the company with drums, accompanied at one moment by Wat on his flute and at another by Sir Richard on his lute. As mead jars and wine flasks had emptied, the boys’ drumrolls had become wilder. Laughter had become more general, and a couple of times Cecily had seen some of Adam’s troopers making efforts to converse with one or other of the villagers without being rebuffed. Peace might not be quite the mad dream that Edmund thought it.
Deciding it was high time she retired, Cecily had excused herself from her husband’s side, and had run the gauntlet of so many meaningful winks and sly remarks that her ears had burned. Everyone had seemed determined to embarrass her, villagers and troopers alike.
Now she glared at her two bridesmaids. They were as intent on disrobing her as she was intent on remaining robed. ‘Go away!’ Didn’t they understand? Circumstances might have forced her to marry someone who was practically a stranger, but she could not, would not, greet Adam Wymark unclothed—even if it was their wedding night.
As a particularly extravagant drumroll and a shout of laughter reverberated round the mead hall, she nipped behind one of the braziers. ‘I’m perfectly capable of undressing myself!’ The warmth of the brazier touched her face and neck, and her veil fluttered dangerously close to the glowing embers. She twitched it aside. ‘I would like some privacy. Go away!’
Deaf to her pleas, Gudrun grinned at Matty. ‘You go left, and I’ll go right.’
Cecily made a dash for the gap between brazier and bed, but Matty second-guessed her and crashed into her. In the tussle, they both toppled onto the bed.
‘Got you!’ Matty’s breath was honeyed with mead. ‘Got you!’
Torn