Emma brightened. ‘Think, Cecily. Father is gone; the Church has had your dower, such as it was—what is to prevent your leaving?’
‘Emma!’
‘You were not made to be a nun. I know Father promised you to the Church, but what promise did you ever make?’
‘I swore to try and do his will.’
‘Yes, and that you have done. Four years mewed up in a convent. And look at you.’ Emma’s lip curled as she plucked at the stuff of Cecily’s habit. ‘This grey sackcloth does not become you. I’ll warrant it itches like a plague of lice…’
‘It does, but mortification of the flesh encourages humility—’
‘Rot! You don’t believe that! And look at the state of your hands. Peasant hands—’
‘From gardening.’ Cecily lifted her chin. ‘I work in the herb garden. It’s useful and I enjoy it.’
‘Peasant hands, as I said.’ Emma lowered her voice. ‘Cecily, be bold. You can leave this place.’
Cecily made an exasperated sound. ‘Where would I go? Back to Fulford, to your Breton knight? Be realistic, Emma, what use has this world for a dowerless novice?’ She smiled. ‘Besides, I’m wise to you. You only suggest this as a sop to your conscience.’
Emma stiffened. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Like it or not, Emma, your duty is at Fulford. You are, as you say, the eldest daughter, born to wed. The people at Fulford need you. Who else will speak for them? And what of our new brother? I’ll warrant Duke William doesn’t even know of his existence. How do you think his knight will react when he finds that Fulford has a male heir after all? No, Emma, your duty is plain and you cannot shirk it. You must return to Fulford and wait for the knight Duke William has chosen for you.’
Emma was very pale; her mouth became a thin line. ‘No.’
‘Yes!’
‘No!’
Cecily shook her head, thinking how little she knew her sister now. Emma was more concerned to avoid marriage with the Duke’s man than she was about her baby brother. ‘Emma, please think of our people, and of Philip. What chance does that tiny baby have when his identity becomes known? One of us should be near, to guard him from harm.’
A pleat formed on Emma’s brow, and her eyes lost their warmth. ‘Save your breath for your prayers. I will not submit to a lowborn Breton, especially one whose hands may be stained with our family’s blood. And even if all the saints in heaven were to plead alongside you, I would not move on this.’
‘Not even for Philip’s sake?’ At Emma’s blank look, Cecily sighed. ‘You must marry this knight. Run away, and at best you condemn Philip to a false life as Gudrun’s son. At worst…’ Cecily let the silence spin out, but she could see her words were having little effect. She looked down at the ashes in the hearth, and poked at a charred log with her boot. ‘What would Father wish, Emma? And Maman? Would she have wished her son to lead the life of a house-serf? Besides, where would you run to?’ She looked up as a new possibility dawned on her. ‘You have a sweetheart, don’t you? Someone you—’
‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ Emma clenched her jaw. ‘Since you are so hot to see our brother safe, then you may return—yes, you! Get you back in the real world and see how you like it. Go to Fulford yourself. Marry the Duke’s precious knight. Then you can see that Philip is safe. You are as much his sister as I.’
Stunned, Cecily stared. Her sister’s suggestion that she, a novice, should consider leaving the convent to marry was shocking indeed. And yet…if she were honest…shock warred with a curl of excitement.
What did he look like, this Breton knight?
‘No…no.’ Cecily’s cheeks burned. ‘I…I could not.’
Emma raised an eyebrow, and a small smile appeared, as though she knew that Cecily was tempted.
‘Emma, I couldn’t. What do I know of men and their ways?’ Cecily waved a hand to encompass the convent. ‘Since I was twelve years old all I have known is the company of women. Prayers, chanting, fasting, growing herbs, healing, doing penance for my sins.’ She gave a wry smile. ‘These things I know. But life outside these walls—it’s a mystery.’
Emma shrugged. ‘You are not entirely ignorant. You must remember something of life at Fulford before you came here. You’ve seen the stallion put to our mares…’
Cheeks aflame, Cecily bit her lip and shook her head. ‘Does…does he have a name, this knight Duke William has chosen for you?’
Emma frowned, wearily rubbing her face. ‘Yes, but I forget. No, wait…it’s Wymark, I think. Sir Adam Wymark…And I give him to you, Cecily, for I do not want him.’
Chapter Two
As soon as they were clear of the forest, Sir Adam Wymark reined in his chestnut warhorse, Flame. They were a couple of hundred yards short of St Anne’s Convent. Though he’d not come this way before he knew it at once, thanks to the cross that topped the tower of the only stone building in the vicinity. Somewhere, a cock crowed.
With a swirl of blue, Adam tossed his cloak over his shoulder and waved his troop—a dozen mounted men—to a halt behind him. Flame snorted and sidled, churning up the mud. Harness clinked. ‘This must be the place,’ he said, addressing his friend, Sir Richard of Asculf.
Richard grunted assent, and both men took a moment to absorb the lie of the land, eyes narrowed while they assessed the likelihood of the troop being attacked. True, they were armed and mounted to a man, but they were the hated invaders here, and they could not afford to relax their guard for a moment—even if, as now, there was not a soul in sight.
Of the men, only Richard and Adam, the two knights, wore hauberks—mail coats—under their cloaks. As for the troopers, the cost of a mail coat put such an item far beyond their reach. Had Adam been a rich lord he would have equipped them with chainmail himself, but he was not rich. However, he did not want to lose anyone, and he had done his best for them, managing to ensure they had more than the basics. Under their cloaks each man wore a thickly padded leather tunic; they each had a conical helmet with a nose-guard; they all carried good swords and long, leaf-shaped shields.
The nunnery was surrounded by a wooden palisade and tucked into a loop of the river near where it snaked into the forest. The river was swollen, its water cloudy and brown. Cheek by jowl with the convent, on the same spit of land, stood a small village. It was little more than a hotch-potch of humble wooden cottages. Adam wondered which had come first—the village or the convent. He’d put his money on the convent. It was probably filled to the seams with unwanted noblewomen, and the village had sprung up around it to provide them with servants.
As far as he could see, the cottages were roofed with wooden shingles. A clutch of scrawny chickens pecked in the mud in between two of the houses; a pig was scratching its hindquarters on the stake to which it was tied, grunting softly. A dog came out of one of the houses, saw them, and loosed a volley of barks. Other than these animals the place looked deserted, but he was not fooled. The villagers were likely keeping their heads down—he would do the same in their place.
It had stopped raining some half-hour since, while Adam and his troop had been picking their way through the trees. The sky remained overcast, and the wind—a northerly—nipped at cheeks and lips.
Cheek and lips were the only parts of Adam’s head that were exposed to the elements, for his dark hair was hidden by his helm, and the nose-guard obscured his features. Under his chainmail Adam wore the usual leather soldier’s gambeson—a padded one—in addition to his linen shirt and undergarments. His boots and gloves were also of leather, his