‘I doubt it would have worked.’ For some reason he was relieved that he had let her go, if only to spare her Simon’s questions. But why would he want to spare her? He didn’t ever know her name.
Simon pushed one hand through his hair, his eyes narrowing. ‘We need to go back out there, Lachlan. Let’s see if we can catch her before she disappears back into the castle. We might be able to stop her on the way back from the village. Can you remember what she looked like?’
A pair of twinkling eyes, the colour of new leaves in spring, flashed through his mind. Piercing. Intense. Oh, yes, he thought. I remember what she looks like. He would never forget.
Chapter Three
Cecily plodded through drifts of dead, curling leaves, steps dragging, the soles of her feet cut and scraped by sharp little stones hidden underfoot. Her stockings were ripped to shreds, mud-stained. Puffing with exertion, she pushed herself through the woods. The trees overhead were quieter now; the wind had stopped, the rain easing. Vicious brambles, arching cruelly, snagged at her cloak and her loosened hair like desperate, clasping hands, trying to prevent her forward movement. The boggy ground threatened to sink her every step. But by keeping the river on her right and concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other, Cecily persevered until she emerged from the woods at the town bridge.
Towards the east, a strip of light blue sky inched wide, and a single shaft of sunlight broke free from the horizon. And yet no smoke emerged from the huddle of cottages in the town; it was too early for the townspeople to be awake. Slipping across the stone arches that spanned the foaming surge of water, Cecily hurried along the track that would take her up on to the moor, to the midwife’s cottage. Some said Greta was a witch and would not let her live among them, but, despite their reservations, her healing skills were renowned, and even those who denounced her were quick to call on her services if a birthing began to go awry.
The breeze stiffened as she climbed, plastering her already wet clothes to her body, slowing her stride. Shivering, Cecily stepped away from the track, plunging through the bleached tussocky grass. She headed for the tumbledown shack surrounded by a copse of small trees, hawthorns, their tops stunted, bent by a fierce wind. Reaching the cottage, Cecily banged on the door, leaning her elbows against the damp, rotten planks, exhausted. Water trickled down on the inside of her sleeve.
‘Is it time?’ The door opened a crack and two beady eyes emerged from the shadows. The midwife was tiny, her face wizened, scoured with deep lines. She peered at Cecily with a shrewd, knowing expression.
‘Yes.’ Cecily’s eyes searched Greta’s wizened face. ‘And she is bleeding. Can you come now?’
The old maid ducked behind the door to seize her shawl, wrapping the threadbare material around her head and shoulders. ‘Here, carry this,’ she ordered, thrusting a grimy cloth bag into Cecily’s hands. ‘I have all I need in there.’
The weak sun rose, gradually penetrating the hazy mist that rose in a veil of white steam from the soaked ground. Water droplets hung, suspended like miniature diamonds on the grass tips, turning the moor into a breathtaking expanse of shining, twinkling light.
‘What happened to you?’ Greta glanced curiously at Cecily’s wet clothes, the bloodied mark on her forehead, as they hurried, side by side, back down the hill.
Cecily grimaced. ‘I tried to cross by the stepping stones, but with all this rain, the river was up. I thought it would be faster that way, so I took the chance.’ A pair of sparkling blue eyes nudged into her brain. She chewed fretfully on her bottom lip, annoyed that...that man should intrude upon her thoughts so.
‘You were lucky you managed to pull yourself out. Many have lost their lives in that water.’
‘Oh, I...er, yes, I was,’ Cecily agreed limply. She hugged the midwife’s bundle closer to her chest. Even as the horrors of her morning’s escapade began to fade, the memory of her rescuer remained doggedly persistent. The warmth of his fingers as he gripped hers, rough pads powerful against her forearm. The jolt of his masculine scent as he tipped her over his burly shoulder. Piercing fragments of delight leaped through her mind, like fireflies in the twilight.
‘Forgive me, my lady, but aren’t you taking a risk, coming out to fetch me like this?’ The old maid repeated, peering significantly at Cecily’s flat stomach. ‘Did anyone see you?’
Only him. The tall stranger with hair of flaming gold.
Cecily took a deep breath. The air left her lungs with a shudder. He must have been a traveller, a knight riding through, en route to another town, another place. ‘I...well, a man pulled me out of the river. But I’ve never seen him before, so I’m—...’
‘Don’t tell your mother, my lady, or she’ll...’ Greta stabbed the knobbly stick she used for walking into the ground. Her thin lips pursed with worry.
Cecily shivered. ‘I have no intention of telling my mother anything. I made a mistake this morning. I should have come to you on the lane instead.’
They were approaching the castle now and walked up the stony road towards the gatehouse, heads bent low and hoods drawn down over their foreheads, elbows touching. Despite her advancing years, Greta matched Cecily’s pace, step for step.
Jerking her eyes upwards, Cecily searched for her sister’s window in the south turret. Her heart lurched. ‘I pray to God we’re not too late.’ She glimpsed her mother’s white face through the open shutters, obviously looking out for her. She wanted to shout up, to ask how Isabella was, but from this distance her mother would not hear.
Two guards were at the castle entrance, red tunics fluttering over their chainmail, standing either side of the massive wooden gates. Cecily’s heart sank. She was too late to slip back to her chamber by the normal route; most of the servants would be up and about by now. No one in the castle must guess that she was not the mother of the baby about to be born.
‘You go on,’ she said to Greta, tugging self-consciously at the edge of her hood. ‘I will go in around the back, through the cellars. Go on now, please be quick.’
The old maid squeezed Cecily’s hands, reassuringly. ‘Don’t fret, my lady. All will be well. Go back down the track, as if you’re returning to the village. Those guards will not suspect a thing. Remember, mistress, everyone wants this baby to be born. No one wants Lord Simon to be the lord of this castle. They like you being in charge.’
A cold fear scythed through Cecily. ‘You...you’ve not told anyone?’
‘Nay, mistress, your secret is safe with me.’ Something caught her attention over Cecily’s shoulder; a flicker of movement. ‘You had best go now, my lady...there are horsemen coming.’
Twisting her head, Cecily caught the tell-tale flash of chainmail, the sound of bridles jangling carrying on the breeze. Her heart thudded with panic and, for a fraction of a moment, she wanted to give up, to surrender. The fight was draining out of her, the fight to keep up this ridiculous charade. The temptation to sink to her knees and confess everything to the next person she met was overwhelming. How long must she keep going for? Until her mother finally forgave her?
‘Go on, then.’ Greta jogged her elbow. ‘You’d better move now, otherwise they’ll catch up with you.’
Cecily pushed the cloth bundle into the old woman’s arms and walked briskly down the track until she was out of sight of the guards on the gate. Then she stepped neatly sideways into the long grass, forging a path around to the back of the castle, to the cellar door hidden in the undergrowth. The thud of hoofbeats grew closer. The edges of her chest folded inwards, creating an ever-tighter box of despair, a feeling of desperate entrapment. She knew, without looking, that among the approaching horsemen was Simon, Lord of Doccombe. That man would never give up.
Stumbling and slipping, Cecily made her way around the steep slope to the north side of the castle. The ground was more treacherous here, falling away down an almost vertical slope towards the frothing river. Her st
ocking-covered feet were numb with cold and pain, but she forged on, the muscles in her knees and thighs straining to keep her body on the precipitous slope. Her wet cloak swung round awkwardly, catching at her feet.
A movement behind snagged her eye. She turned, heart rising into her throat, blocking her gullet with fear. Two men, squat and thickset, were silhouetted on the brim of the hill against the clear blue sky. One man raised his arm, shouted out to her. The silver skin of his chainmail rippled, the individual links glinting in the sunlight. Simon of Doccombe’s men, no doubt, sent to chase her.
She whipped her head around, grimly facing forward and increased her pace. Cold sweat trickled down from her armpits. The cellar door was not far. Lifting her skirts, she broke into a stumbling run, her gait awkward, lopsided, due to the steepness of the slope. Gasping, trying to catch her breath, Cecily rounded the final corner of the castle wall and...there it was. The narrow iron door. Her salvation.
The key was hidden behind a loose stone in the wall. She had placed it there when this whole stupid plan had started, using the route into the castle to avoid being seen on several occasions throughout her supposed confinement. Her hands shook against the gritty stone, seizing the heavy iron key and jamming it into the lock. Turning the key, she fell against the riveted metal, turning the circular handle, pushing her body weight against the iron panel. It opened and she plunged into the dank darkness of the cellars. Pushing the heavy door shut, she shoved the key into the lock, turning it swiftly. Her fingers shook with fear.
She heard the men approaching. One tried the handle, the latch clicking up and down violently. A fist thumped against the iron door. ‘Open this door. Lord Simon wants to speak with you!’
A bolt of panic shot through her; she leapt away as the man continued to pound on the door. These henchmen of Lord Simon were far too close, separated by a thin sheet of metal. The blood pounded in her ears, the gasp of her breath sounding raw and loud in the dark corridor. Could they hear her? The thumping had stopped and now there was only silence. She prayed they had given up.
Wrapping her arms around her shivering body, she crept away quietly, tiptoeing through the darkness, towards the narrow steps in the north turret that would lead her back up to her sister’s chamber. Relief stole over her, a gradual reclaiming of her sanity as she walked away. Fear leached away from her slight frame. Fortune had been on her side. This time.
* * *
‘Go and change,’ her mother snapped, peering coldly at the water that Cecily trickled about the bedchamber. ‘And then come back to help your sister.’ Sitting at Isabella’s bedside, Greta glanced up at her and smiled encouragingly.
‘How is she?’ Cecily asked. Isabella’s face held a waxy sheen, cheeks glistening with perspiration. The heat in the chamber was incredible. Two charcoal braziers glowed with coals and a fire burned in an open grate, between the two windows.
‘She’s fine, for the moment,’ Greta replied. ‘The blood loss stopped quickly enough; you did the right thing by propping her legs up. The babe has not suffered. Do what your mother says and find some dry clothes.’
After the warm fug of Isabella’s chamber, her own room was chilly. Exhaustion clogged her brain, making her thought process slow, unpredictable. Her eyes touched on the familiar objects around her, as if she saw them for the first time: the rich velvet drapes around the four-poster bed; the oak coffer beneath the window, intricately carved by one of her father’s carpenters; the earthenware jug and bowl set on a small elm table for washing.
Cecily removed her cloak, spreading the saturated wool over the back of a chair. The light green fabric was smeared with mud, twigs and dead leaves snared in the heavy folds. The legacy of her morning’s escapade. Her fingers fumbled with the knot on her belt ties; once loosened, she pulled the open-sided gown over her head. This she placed alongside her cloak. Her fitted gown beneath was more of a struggle to remove. Tiny buttons held each sleeve tight to her arm and it took an age to release them, the wet fabric making the process difficult. But at last the buttons were released and her sleeves hung open. Once she had struggled out of the close-fitting gown, removing her chemise, undergarments and stockings was a great deal easier.
She almost wept at the state of her stockings. The fine silk was reduced to a mass of torn holes, ragged filaments, destroyed beyond repair. Her feet were not much better, her heels and the underside of her toes gouged and scratched. Bleeding. A reddish bruise darkened the edge of her right foot, spreading from her ankle to her toes. Plucking a linen towel from the end of her bed, she scrubbed at her damp skin. Her flesh burned, turning pink beneath her brusque treatment.
She allowed herself the smallest sigh of relief. Despite her foolhardy escapade, that of leaving the castle without her disguise of pregnancy, she had avoided suspicion. This plan, the plan instigated by her mother, might have a chance of succeeding. The castle and the estates would be secured, and her mother would be happy. In truth, that was all she wished for. She was to blame for what had happened with her brother, Raymond. By doing this, by lying, she would be able to make amends.
Her mother had been so happy at Crekelade, their family home when her father had been alive. She had often watched from the upper window of the solar as Cecily, Isabella and Raymond had ridden out on their little ponies with their father, their smiling faces beaming with excitement. Sometimes William had accompanied them when their father could not. He had worked in the stables at Crekelade and was the same age as Cecily. Until her mother had sent him away.
Pulling on clean woollen stockings and linen underdrawers, she secured them around her slim waist with a pink satin ribbon. Rummaging through the oak coffer, she found a practical underdress of plain light blue wool and a full-length sleeveless tunic of a darker blue. Although she possessed expensive gowns, the ones she had chosen were the garments that she preferred to wear as she carried out her daily chores around the castle. Hard-wearing, serviceable clothes. She slipped these on over her linen chemise, relishing the wonderful feel of the dry fabric against her skin.
They had had a good friendship, she and William. He had been her refuge, a place of safety and security, away from the vengeful rages of her mother. He had often been in the stables, or in the yard, working with her father’s horses. She missed him. She had nobody to turn to now; she was completely alone.
She dashed away the self-pitying thoughts, annoyed at her maudlin self-indulgence. Fitting the woven girdle around her waist, she knotted the leather ties across her stomach, pulling her sleeveless tunic into soft gathers. They were almost there, her mother, Isabella and she. As long as the baby was delivered safely, and was a boy, then all would be well. Unwinding her braids, she dragged a comb through her messy, matted hair, before plaiting it efficiently back into two long braids. Coiling them into a bun at the nape of her neck, she secured the heavy bundle with long silver hairpins. A plain length of linen around her head served as both a wimple and veil. She would have to find another circlet later. Donning some soft leather ankle boots, she left her chamber to return to Isabella. Soon, all this would be over.
* * *
‘I can’t do this! Please, let it stop...now!’ Isabella gave a long wail as another heavy contraction gripped her. She thrashed her head from side to side on the sweat-dampened pillow. The midwife crouched at the foot of the bed, a pile of linen cloths and a bowl of water on the floor beside her.
Tiredness reddened Cecily’s eyes, as she gripped on to her sister’s slippery hand. How much longer would this labouring go on? Since she had returned to the chamber, the day had waned to twilight, dusk and, then, full night. Throughout the long hours, Greta had sat patiently by the bed, watching Isabella closely as she either dozed fitfully, or woke, screaming, with another contraction. But now, just before dawn, with a fingernail of moon and the bright star of Venus shining delicately through the window, Greta had moved instinctively to the foot of the bed and thrown back the sheet
s, peering closely between Isabella’s legs.
‘You’re almost there, my lady,’ she announced. ‘I can see the head. One more big push now.’
And then the baby arrived in a sudden, glistening rush, straight into the midwife’s hands, the little red mouth open almost immediately, crying. Deftly, Greta wiped the mucus away from the baby’s nose and mouth, smiling as the pale skin began to pink up. With a flash of a blade, she cut the cord that attached the baby to his mother.
‘Here,’ she said, handing the squalling, writhing bundle up to Cecily. ‘You’d better get used to this. Wrap him up tightly now.’
Grabbing a linen cloth set aside for the purpose, Cecily took the baby into her arms. Him. Isabella had been delivered of a boy. The little scrunched-up face nestled against her breast, the baby’s skin like that of a rose petal, exquisitely soft, pink. His light blue eyes held a hint of green. The same green of Isabella’s eyes. And hers.
Exhausted, spent, Isabella collapsed back, her head buffered by the mattress, her lank hair pillowed in the bed furs. Her arms lay limply at her sides; her nightgown and thighs were stained with blood.
‘A boy! A boy!’ Marion clapped her hands in glee. ‘Oh, well done, Isabella.’ Bending over, she planted a kiss on her younger daughter’s head. ‘Simon of Doccombe will never claim this castle now. He will have to leave us alone. Your sister’s unfortunate engagement with your husband’s house knight has saved us, although I never thought that at the time.’
‘And I suppose his death was fortuitous, as well,’ Cecily murmured. In the same battle that Peter had been wounded, Guillame had died. How mistaken her mother was in her thinking. How blinkered. Isabella had truly loved Guillame. Had her mother forgotten that they were to be married?
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