‘I’m fine, thank you,’ she said, though her muscles screamed that she’d be stiff for a sennight.
Duke William’s knight nodded, removed his hand from her knee and faced forwards, leaving Cecily blinking at a row of burnt-out dwellings that lined the route.
War damage? Some of the houses had been left without roofs, others were skeletons, with charred timbers that clawed at the sky. The smell of smoke was eye-wateringly strong. A lump closed her throat. Neither the Roman walls nor the River Itchen had been able to do much to save the buildings clustered on the outskirts of the old Saxon capital. The recent fighting had destroyed all but the most sturdy.
Moving with careful desperation in the debris, sifting through the wreckage, ragged figures picked through the pitiful remnants like crows at a carcase. It mattered not whether they were dispossessed householders or looters, it came to one thing—here on the outskirts of Winchester people had been reduced to penury. Cecily’s heart ached. Dear God, let Fulford not have suffered like this. Let the villagers be whole.
A troop of Norman horse-soldiers trotted smartly out of Eastgate and across the bridge, cutting a swathe through the pilgrims. When the troop drew level with Sir Adam, the leading knight saluted. ‘Wymark!’
‘Holà, Gervais!’ Turning his mailed head, Adam smiled over his shoulder. ‘Hang on, Lady Cecily, a few minutes more.’
She avoided his gaze. Adam Wymark might talk righteously about oaths sworn between kings, and of oaths broken, but what did the poor, ordinary folk know of that? No, this knight and his kind had caused too much suffering. The loan of a cloak and a pair of gloves and a few kind words could not begin to atone for what Duke William’s warriors had done to her homeland…
It was painfully clear that the Duke’s forces had been more than thorough in their attempts to stamp out any resistance. Since Winchester was the traditional heartland of the Earls of Wessex, she supposed it was logical that the Normans should scour the hinterland for rebels, but she did not have to like it.
One of the town mills, half consumed by fire, had collapsed into the river, its blackened debris forming a rickety raft. Ducks waddled across sodden, flame-scorched timber and planking. As one launched itself into the swift-flowing water, Cecily’s eyes filled. They edged past a Saxon pilgrim swinging himself along on crutches. His straggling brown hair was tied back with a piece of string and he had one foot, but despite this he was moving at a fair pace…
Another lame man, one bent leg encased in bandages…
And another, flat out on a hurdle. There were so many sick and wounded; there was so much suffering.
He had doubtless played his part. She shut her eyes to close out the sight of a young boy of about ten years of age who had lost his arm above the elbow, and a tear ran hot down her cheek. Loosening her grip on Adam Wymark’s belt, Cecily tried to shift back, away from him.
Old Minster—the Saxon Cathedral—had for centuries been renowned as a place of healing. These poor people were heading there, to the tomb of St Swithun, as they had always done in troubled times. They hoped for a miracle, and Cecily prayed they found it.
At the gate, a blind man held out his hand for alms. Fulford’s new lord dug into a small pouch and a silver farthing arced through the air, to land with a clink in the begging bowl.
Cecily frowned. The man was a mass of contradictions. What should she make of him? One minute he was William of Normandy’s loyal knight—a man capable of killing her countrymen—and the next he was giving succour to Saxon beggars.
A girl limped along on crutches, her clothes scarcely better than sacking. A young woman with a hen tucked under her arm took one look at their troop and spat pointedly in their direction. Fearful for the woman, Cecily went rigid. Her hot-tempered father would have leapt from his horse and taken his crop to her for such insolence. Sir Adam’s hands merely tightened on the reins and they pressed on steadily.
The bridge rang hollow under the horse’s hoofs. A heartbeat later and the stone arch of Eastgate was a cool shadow over their heads, and then the light strengthened as they emerged into the city proper.
Inside the walls, there was little damage. Her heart lifted as the horses’ hoofs beat a sharp tattoo on the cobblestones. Passing lines of wooden houses—intact wooden houses—they entered the market square.
Saxons were selling eggs alongside cabbages, vending bread and new-baked pies, hawking ale alongside holy relics. Voices flew to and fro across the street like shuttles on a loom: speaking English, speaking French, speaking Latin—so many tongues that Cecily could not attune herself to all of them. It was a far cry from the peace and quiet of St Anne’s. And then, just as she thought she could take in no more, a voice she recognised cut right across the cacophony…a male voice.
‘Meet me in the Cathedral an hour from now.’
Ahead of her! No, on her right…
Tightening her grip on Sir Adam’s belt, Cecily turned swiftly to either side, her gaze sweeping the square. No—no, it could not be! But that voice…that voice…where was he?
‘Meet me in the Cathedral an hour from now.’ Yes, that was what he had said, clear as day. Judhael! One of her father’s men! It could not be he…and yet surely that voice was his? And who had he been talking to?
The crowd milled around them. Wildly, with her heart in her mouth, Cecily peered this way and that but could see no one she knew. And certainly there was no sign of Judhael, who had been her father’s most promising housecarl and her brother Cenwulf’s best friend…
Her head was spinning.
Had she dreamed hearing Judhael’s voice among the crowd? A faint moan escaped her, and she sagged against Adam Wymark’s broad back. Her mind was playing tricks. She was exhausted and near sick with worry, and it was hard to credit that her father’s hearth troops were probably all dead. She wanted them to have lived, and she was just conjuring up Judhael’s voice. Sister Mathilda had told her that the mind could play tricks, and Sister Mathilda was very wise—for hadn’t another sister, Sister Beatrice, regaled the nuns with the visions she’d had after a particularly penitential Lenten fast…
The Breton knight reached back and touched her knee. ‘Lady Cecily? What’s amiss?’
Dear Lord, the man didn’t miss a thing, Cecily thought, hastily straightening. ‘It…it’s nothing—a momentary dizziness, that’s all.’ And then she wished she’d said something—anything—else, for his grip shifted and he pulled her close to his mailed body.
‘Hold hard, my lady.’
Her fingers were already clinging so tightly to Adam Wymark’s sword belt she wondered if she’d ever pry them loose. Giving an inarticulate murmur, Cecily gazed steadfastly at the market stalls. Anything rather than meet the disconcerting green eyes of Duke William’s knight.
Meet me in the Cathedral an hour from now.
Judhael—if that really had been him—must have meant the Old Saxon Cathedral, St Swithun’s, not the New Minster which stood next to it.
An hour from now…an hour from now…
Somehow, within the next hour, she must free herself from Adam Wymark and make her way to the Cathedral. Judhael might well be with his Maker, but if she wasn’t in St Swithun’s to make certain that she had dreamed his voice she would never forgive herself.
A brace of clean-shaven Norman guards were stationed at each corner of the market square. Their hair was cropped in like manner to Sir Adam and his men. Each guard was fully armed in the costly chainmail, so they must either be knights or in the Duke’s personal entourage. She