‘No pain. I think—if you move again—there might be more pleasure.’
Heart singing, he kept moving. Back, forth, back, forth, the rhythm already perfect. ‘That…pleases?’
‘Don’t…stop.’
Her breath was coming fast. His matched it. The tension was building. It was building too fast. But it had been a long time for him, and she was…she was not helping him slow down. She was covering his face in kisses, nipping at his ear, moaning. His innocent bride. He could not last very long at this rate. One more push, perhaps two, maybe three…
Beneath him, Cecily went rigid. Her insides gripped him. ‘Adam!’
A heartbeat later her name was torn from him in a rush of joy.
By mid-morning the following day Cecily was in the cookhouse, breaking her fast with a thick wedge of Lufu’s latest batch of wholewheat bread. She was sinfully late rising—again.
Still glowing as a result of the carnal love she had discovered with Adam during the previous night, she smeared a wedge of bread with honey and sat on a three-legged stool to warm her toes by the central cooking fire. Who would have thought one of William’s knights could be so gentle? He’d made it beautiful for her. Carnal love. The love that Mother Aethelflaeda had railed against. With Adam it was…She sighed, aware that the colour in her cheeks owed as much to the memory of her wedding night as it did to Lufu’s cooking fire. Even with so much horror between them Adam had made it beautiful. Recalling how he’d overcome her reluctance and had winkled them out of their clothes, down to the last stitch, she hid a smile behind her bread.
‘My lady?’
‘Oh! Sorry, Lufu, what did you say?’ Really, she must try to give more than half an ear to the girl.
‘I was talking about Brian, my lady. He’s a miracle-worker. Not bad—for a foreigner…’
The cookhouse was indeed improved beyond recognition. Logs and kindling were stacked high to one side, ready for use. Well-scoured pots and pans hung in neat array on the walls; the workbenches and tables had been scalded; months of dirt had been scrubbed away; the floor was clean.
‘I’m glad he was helpful.’
‘Aye. He had those useless miller’s boys jumping about and no mistake.’
‘Where are they this morning?’
‘Gone to see to the slaughtering. Brian said it was long overdue.’
Cecily stared. Brian was in the right. The slaughtering was long overdue—it was not for nothing that November was known as the month of blood. She had observed as much to Adam upon their arrival back at Fulford. ‘Evidently there really is more to Brian than soldiering,’ she murmured, recalling something Adam had said.
The rumble of cartwheels sounded on the track outside. Bread in hand, Cecily left the fire to look through the cookhouse door. A moth-eaten mule was drawing a heavily laden cart towards the mead hall, its hooves cutting through the last shreds of mist which clung to the ruts in the road.
Lufu joined her in the doorway, wiping her hands on a cloth. Saucepans and ladles hung from the sides of the cart, clanging as the cart swayed and rattled over the bumps. ‘Tinkers?’ Lufu clucked her tongue. ‘That poor mule could do with a good feed—just look at its ribs.’
But Cecily only had eyes for the man and the woman hunched into their cloaks on the cart. ‘Not tinkers, Lufu. It’s Evie and Leofwine!’
‘Evie?’
‘Judhael’s sister, from Winchester.’ Dropping her half-eaten bread on the workbench, Cecily hurried out. The cart was filled to breaking point—bedding, a travelling chest, a couple of trestles and a tabletop, stools, several bundles. Whatever could be wrong? It looked as though Evie and Leofwine had brought their entire house with them apart from the four walls. She reached them as they drew up in front of the Hall.
Evie had been crying; her eyelids were puffy and swollen. One hand was clinging to the side of the cart, the other was folded over her belly, as though protecting her unborn child. Her cheeks were pale as parchment, her lips had a blue tinge to them, and she was shuddering with cold.
In his beard, Leofwine’s mouth was one grim, taut line. He nodded curtly in her direction. ‘Lady Cecily.’
‘Evie, Leofwine—be welcome,’ Cecily said, damping down her curiosity.
Evie looked mournfully across and let out a little sob as Leofwine swung down from the cart and came to stand directly in front of Cecily. ‘Are we welcome, Lady Cecily? Are we?’
‘But of course. Why would you not be?’
Evie sniffed and two large tears rolled down her cheeks. ‘I told you, Leo. I told you she’d see us right.’ She swayed in her seat, her pallor alarming.
‘Come inside, both of you,’ Cecily said. ‘Wilf will see to the mule. Wilf? Wilf!’
It did not take long to get Evie and her husband settled before the fire. Gudrun brought Leofwine a mug of ale. ‘I’d offer you the same, Evie,’ Cecily said, ‘but by your colour I think you’d best take this.’ Moving to the hearth, she put a spoonful of herbs in a twist of muslin, dropped the muslin into an earthenware mug and poured boiling water over it from the kettle.
‘There you are,’ she said, passing the steaming mug to Evie.
‘What’s in it?’
‘Nettle infusion, a drop of honey—it will do you and the babe good. Lufu will bring you both some chicken broth presently.’
Evie wrapped her hands round the mug, hunched over the fire, and stared into the flames. ‘My thanks.’
Satisfied that Evie’s shivering had stopped, and that her colour was returning, Cecily looked at Leofwine and silently indicated that he should move with her out of earshot. When they reached the other end of the hall, Leofwine rested his foot on a bench. His long hair was straggling out of the tie at the back of his neck; his beard was untrimmed.
‘What happened, Leofwine?’
He scowled into his ale cup. ‘That day you visited my workshop, did you see the builders at the other end of Golde Street?’
‘Yes.’
Leofwine’s face darkened. ‘Normans—the Duke’s men, may they rot in hell. They demolished the workshop.’
‘Your workshop? But why should they do that? It could not be a reprisal—not when Winchester surrendered without a fight. D-do you think they suspect…?’ Cecily caught her breath. What had Edmund said? That the Saxon cause was not lost…that Judhael was continuing to fight. And again—when she was in the loft room with Gudrun—Edmund had hinted that the resistance had plans…
‘Sweet Mother—Judhael and Emma went to your house! The Normans must know. They suspect you…’
Leofwine put a heavy, work-scarred hand on Cecily’s arm. ‘No, my lady, it’s none of that,’ he said, his voice bitter as January frost. ‘It might be easier to bear if it was. A man likes to know he’s deserved it when he has his livelihood wrested from him.’
‘There must be some mistake….’
‘No—no mistake. Those foreign devils have cut the heart out of the city.’ He glanced across at Evie, who was rocking Philip in her arms, and his face softened for a moment. ‘Two whole streets have gone, my lady. Sixty houses in all. We’ll have to start afresh.’
‘To what purpose? It makes no sense.’
‘Our