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 breeches and hose of finespun wool, his cross-gartering blue braid. For this day’s work Adam had elected to wear his short mail coat, leaving his legs largely unprotected, much to Richard’s disgust. Adam was ready to build bridges with the Saxon population, but Richard, a Norman, had a distrust of them that went bone deep, and thus was mailed top to toe.
The rain-soft dirt of the road which bypassed the convent had been ploughed into a series of untidy ridges and furrows, like a slovenly peasant’s field strips.
‘A fair amount of traffic’s been this way,’ Adam said. He frowned, and wondered if his scout had been right in declaring that his intended bride, Lady Emma Fulford, had come this way too. It was possible that she had kin here—a sister, a cousin. In the aftermath of Hastings confusion had reigned, and his information was sketchy.
The soldier in Adam took in at a glance the fact that the wooden palisade around the convent would offer little resistance to anyone seriously desirous of entering. His scowl deepened as he wondered if Lady Emma was still at St Anne’s. He misliked today’s errand; forcing an unwilling woman to be his wife left him with a sour taste in his mouth. But he was ambitious, and Duke William had commanded him to do what he may to hold these lands. Since that included a marriage alliance with a local noblewoman in order to bolster his claim, then he would at least meet the girl. The good Lord knew he had little reason to return to Brittany. Adam was grimly aware that here in Wessex the people had more cause to hate Duke William’s men than most, for the Saxon usurper, Harold, had been their Earl for well over a decade before he’d snatched the crown promised to Duke William. Local loyalties ran deep. Adam’s task—to hold the peace in this corner of Wessex for Duke William—would not be easy. But he’d do it. With or without Lady Emma’s help.
Misliking the absence of villagers, Adam was torn between fear of a Saxon ambush and the desire not to approach the convent and his intended bride in the guise of robber baron. He signalled to his men to pull back deeper into the meagre cover offered by the leafless trees and shrubs. There were enough of his countrymen using the excuse of uncertain times to plunder at will, and that was one accusation he was not about to have levelled at him. With Brittany no longer holding any attraction for him, he intended to settle here, make it his home. Making war on helpless women and alienating the local population was not part of his plan.
Pulling off his helmet, and hanging it by its strap from the pommel of his saddle, Adam shoved back his mail coif. His black hair was streaked with sweat and plastered to his skull. Grimacing, he ran a hand through it. ‘I’d give my eye teeth for a bath. I’m not fit to present myself to ladies.’
‘Give me some food, rather.’ Richard grinned back. ‘Or a full night’s sleep. I swear we’ve neither eaten nor slept properly since leaving Normandy.’
‘Too true.’ Ruefully, Adam rubbed his chin. He’d managed to find time to shave that morning, but that had been the extent of his toilet.
‘You look fine, man.’ Richard’s grin broadened. ‘Fine enough to impress Lady Emma, at any rate.’
Adam gave his friend a sceptical look, and flushed. ‘Oh, aye. She’s so impressed she’s taken to her heels rather than set eyes on me.’ He swung from his horse and held Richard’s gaze over the saddle. ‘As you know, there’s been no formal proposal as yet. Notwithstanding Duke William’s wishes, I’ve a mind to see if we’d suit first. I wouldn’t marry the Duchess herself if we didn’t make a match.’
Richard stared blankly at him for a moment before saying, ‘Admit it, Adam, you want to impress this Saxon lady.’
‘If she’s not here, it would seem impressing her will not be easy.’
An unholy light entered Richard’s eyes. ‘Ah, but think, Adam. If you do get her safely wed you can impress her all you will.’
Adam scowled and turned away, muttering. He pulled on Flame’s saddle girth to loosen it.
‘Don’t tell me, Adam,’ Richard went on quietly, ‘that you hope to find love again. You always were soft with women…’
Silently Adam turned, and led Flame under cover of the trees at the edge of the chase. He threw the reins over a branch. Richard followed on horseback.
‘Stop your prodding, man, and do something useful,’ Adam said after a moment. ‘Help me with my mail.’
Not above squiring for his friend, Richard dismounted. Dead leaves shifted under their feet. ‘You do, don’t you?’ Hands at his hips, Richard continued to needle him. ‘Not content with Gwenn, you still want to marry for love…’
‘My parents wrangled through my childhood,’ Adam said simply, as he unbuckled his sword and tossed it over. ‘I’d hoped for better.’
‘Be realistic, man. You and I know we come to add teeth to William’s legitimate claim to the English throne. What Saxon heiress would take you or me willingly? They’re more like to name us murderers—of their fathers, brothers, sweethearts…’
Adam shrugged. ‘Nevertheless, I had hoped to win some regard.’
Richard shook his head, watching, amused, as Adam struggled to do the impossible—get himself out of his hauberk unaided. ‘You’ve turned dreamer. That knock on the head you took when we first arrived has addled your brain. And why in the name of all that’s holy do you want to take that off? Those pious ladies in there—’ Richard jerked a thumb in the direction of St Anne’s ‘—those sweet Saxon ladies you so want to impress, would as soon stick a knife between your ribs as parley with the Duke’s man. Especially if they knew you were the knight who rallied his fellow Bretons when their line broke…’
‘Nevertheless,’ Adam repeated, ‘Emma Fulford may be in there, and I do not choose to meet my lady mailed for battle.’ He stopped wrestling with his chainmail and gave Richard a lopsided grin. ‘And, since it was your testimony that won me Fulford Hall, you can damn well help me. Get me out of this thing, will you?’
‘Oh, I’ll squire you, but don’t blame me if you end up on a Saxon skewer.’
Adam raised his arms above his head and bent. Richard gripped his mail coat and heaved, and the mail slithered off, leaving