thane needs his warriors to stand by him through thick and thin. It’s the ancient way. Without warriors backing up the law the world would dissolve into anarchy.’
‘And if a warrior were to go back on his oath?’
‘He would be made nithing, an outcast.’
‘I am told that King Harold himself swore a solemn oath in Normandy, when he promised to uphold Duke William’s claim to the English throne.’
Edmund sprang to his feet. ‘That is a lie! Norman propaganda! Harold was tricked.’ He brought his face close to Cecily’s, and the pupils of his eyes were small as pinpricks. ‘If you swallow everything that foreign husband feeds you, you’ll choke.’
Cecily folded her hands together to stop them shaking, and sat very straight on the makeshift bench. ‘I’m sorry, Edmund,’ she said, as meekly as she could. ‘I’m trying to understand. Now, do hush—you’ll waken Philip.’
To her relief, Edmund subsided at her side, and tentatively she touched his arm. ‘I fear that by remaining loyal to my father you and Judhael do these people no good service. Look around—you’re living like animals, and the people of Fulford need your strength…’
Edmund glowered. ‘The oath I swore to your father was sacred…’
‘So sacred it will lead you—and these—’ she jerked her head at the others ‘—to an early grave?’
‘If need be.’
Cecily shook her head. It was hopeless. Edmund was as intransigent in defeat as her father would have been, and Judhael was too, no doubt. Was the male mind always so inflexible?
Adam flashed into her brain. He was holding his hand out to her in their bedchamber on their wedding night—she remembered that slight vulnerability in his eyes as he had offered himself as her husband, as he let her decide. Adam was something of a riddle. Hadn’t he married her at her suggestion, even though he had set out to marry Emma? Her husband’s mind was neither fixed nor rigid…
In fact, Adam and his compatriots had shown remarkable openness, considering that they had come to Fulford as conquerors. She could picture Adam and Richard with their heads together, hunched over a wine flask at the trestle; she could see Adam talking with his squire Maurice in like manner, and with Brian Herfu also…At the time the significance had escaped her, but in each of these cases hadn’t Adam been discussing before he made his decisions and issued commands? He was in the habit of assessing Sir Richard’s comments and those of his men, of amending his plans in light of them…
Her father would have deemed it a grave weakness to consult others. Not so Adam. And if any were to ask her, a woman, which of the two—her father or her husband—were the stronger, she would say her husband. Adam’s strength was a new kind of strength; his leadership was a new kind of leadership, one which went far beyond the old oaths that led men blinkered to their deaths. The time for such oaths was past; the world was changing, and unless Edmund and Judhael changed too, they would be left behind.
Adam’s way was the way forward, and she loved him for it.
Loved him? She all but choked.
She loved him? Certainly she ached for him to help her now.
Swiftly ducking her head, Cecily let her veil drift forward, lest Edmund read her stunned expression. Surely not—surely you could not love someone you had only known for a few short days?
Yes—yes, her heart told her. You could if that someone was Adam Wymark. She had warmed to him almost from the very first, and…of course she loved him. Why else would she melt at his touch? She loved Adam, and he—a pang ran through her—he loved his first wife, Gwenn.
Staring blankly down at her brother, asleep in his basket, unaware of the dangerous undercurrents swirling about him, Cecily saw no easy path ahead. But if such a path existed she would find it. And that, Edmund, my friend, she thought fiercely, is an oath that I am making to myself, and it is one that I will fight to my last breath to fulfil.
The rain was pooling in the awning above them. Edmund reached up and adjusted the canvas, and the water tipped onto the ground. At once it began seeping into the shelter from the side. Everything was damp—the chalky mud underfoot, the logs they were sitting on, their clothes, even the air they breathed—for they could not light a fire under the awning. It was no fit place for a baby.
Shivering, Cecily undid the neck fastening of Adam’s cloak, pulled it more closely about her and refastened it. She lowered her voice. ‘Edmund, let me take Philip back to Fulford. If you truly have his best interests at heart, you’ll let me take him. What use is a figurehead dead of lung-fever?’
‘No.’
‘But, Edmund—’
‘No!’ Edmund jumped to his feet and towered over her. ‘Philip stays here. And, since you have come to visit, you can stay too.’ He held out his hand, palm upwards. ‘Give me your eating knife.’
Cecily stiffened. ‘Am I your prisoner, Edmund?’
A muscle jumped in Edmund’s jaw. ‘Your knife, if you please.’
Reluctantly, Cecily took her knife from her belt and passed it to him. ‘You didn’t answer me. Am I your prisoner?’
‘Ask Judhael when he returns,’ Edmund snapped and, whirling on his heel, strode into the rain.
Adam stripped off his gloves as he crossed the threshold of Fulford Hall and nodded a greeting at Gudrun, who was sewing in the doorway where the light was strongest. She had her cloak about her shoulders to ward off the draught. Neatly avoiding little Agatha, who was laying in the rushes, Adam gratefully accepted the mug of ale Matty offered him and made a beeline for the fireside. The ride back from Winchester had given him a thirst, and he was damp to his core.
Matty relieved him of his cloak, shook it out, and slung it over a nearby peg. Maurice came in. He was on his own, as Richard and his squire were no longer with them, having remained behind in Winchester. Adam could see no sign of their guests, or his wife. As he unbuckled his sword and took a seat on one of the fireside stools, he wondered where she was. After receiving Félix Tihell’s intelligence that some rebels were definitely hiding out near Fulford, he found he needed to see her. Where the devil was she?
Gudrun was bent industriously over some linen, scissors flashing as she cut off a length of thread. Herfu clattered in, looked at Adam, and stopped dead in his tracks. Tutting, Gudrun flapped at the lad to get him out of her light, and as he moved towards Matty and the ale jug he threw Adam an odd look.
‘Gudrun, where is Cecily?’ Adam asked, in his halting, careful English.
The housekeeper glanced up from threading a needle. ‘Went out, sir,’ she answered shortly, and bent back over her work.
Adam glanced at the wood basket, and was glad to see that it had been replenished since dawn, when he’d ridden out. He cast a log on the fire. A stool creaked as Maurice joined him. ‘Out? Where?’
Gudrun hunched deeper over her sewing. ‘I do not know. She didn’t say.’
Brian Herfu cleared his throat and pushed himself away from the trestle. ‘Sir Adam?’
‘You know where she is, Herfu?’
‘N-no, sir.’
The lad’s leg was jiggling, the way it had when they had faced the Saxon shield wall at Hastings, before the Breton line broke, the way it invariably did when Brian was facing something unpleasant. Cold fingers trailed down Adam’s back. ‘Herfu?’
‘Your lady went out before noon, sir. She led me to believe she was only beating the bounds, setting the miller’s boys to work in the woods. I…I thought she would be back within the hour…’
Throat