The young guard at the door stood aside as Lachlan rapped on the wooden planks.
The door cracked open. Cecily appeared in the gap. Beneath her gauzy chemise, he saw the sweet curve of her waist, the generous flare of her hips. His heart pinched with longing. Her face was softened with sleep, cheeks delicately flushed. Old tears tracked her skin. Guilt squirmed in his gut, jabbing deep. His cold, cruel words in the aftermath of their lovemaking. She hadn’t deserved that.
‘Are you ready?’
‘Ready...?’ she replied, her expression puzzled. ‘Lachlan...it’s so early!’ Her beautiful hair tumbled down over her shoulders, a silken waterfall of lustrous pale brown locks. His fingers itched to touch, but he wedged his hands by his sides, forcing himself to concentrate.
‘You need to get dressed,’ Lachlan said. ‘I have asked the maid to come up and help you. Meet me in the chapel, as soon as you can.’
‘The chapel...’ She stared at him, aghast. Her green eyes shimmered in the dimness of the corridor. ‘You mean...’
Lachlan snared her bright eyes with his own, his expression implacable, unreadable. ‘Yes, Cecily, we are to be married. You heard the King last night.’
Sweet Jesu! Was the marriage to be now? Reaching through the doorway, she placed a hand on his sleeve. ‘I thought... I thought you might have spoken to him about...’ Her wavering tone hollowed out, a forlorn note.
He stared down at the slender fingers, clasped around his forearm. Hands that had clung to him the night before, hands that had urged him on. He could not tell her what the King said. ‘I did,’ he answered slowly. ‘And I am sorry, Cecily, but he said “no”. He would not agree to you marrying anyone else.’
Her heart squeezed with emotion. Would she be able to bear this? She would have to learn to live alongside him, loving him from afar, and tie her true feelings close to her chest. He had made it perfectly clear how he felt about her last night. Cecily’s eyes blurred with unshed tears.
He saw the tell-tale shine in her eyes. ‘I know this...me...is not what you wanted.’ Deep in the nub of his chest, something kindled, sparked. But it was what he wanted. Wasn’t that enough?
She jerked her chin in the air. Hell’s teeth, how wrong could a person be? Could he not see? ‘I am in no position to “want”, Lachlan. I committed a crime and I must pay for it. If the King said no, then so be it.’
Was that how she saw him? As a burden to be endured, day by day? Was his marriage to be akin to a prison sentence for her? Lachlan shifted uncomfortably, rocking from one foot to the other, acutely conscious that the guard standing at the doorway was, despite his impassive expression, drinking in every word of their conversation.
Cecily dropped her gaze. ‘My life has been spared, Lachlan, and I am eternally grateful for that. And only because of you. You deserve my thanks. You could have walked away.’
Despair flickered through him. He should be walking away, right now. He should walk away now, stand aside, so that she could marry William. A wave of possessive jealousy swung through his broad frame as her bright face gleamed up at him through the doorway. Like an angel, he thought, lighting his days with her quick, vivid smile, her dainty steps at his side. He doubted he could ever walk away.
‘Meet me in the chapel, when you are dressed.’
* * *
The stone chapel was deserted apart from one man: the priest. He moved about the altar on silent feet, highlighted by a flickering candle. The light bounced off the silver cross that swung over his simple dark robes, the gemstones in the larger wooden cross placed upon the altar table. A row of narrow windows, delineated by cut stone, sat high up on either side of the chapel walls. Unglazed, they allowed light and air to filter into the small space, juddering the candle flame, sending shafts of sunlight pooling on to the flagstones. Despite this, the chapel felt shadowed, crepuscular. Gloomy.
Lachlan stood beneath the wide-arched doorway, waiting for Cecily. Sadness welled up in his chest, weighing heavy against his ribcage. Marriages were not supposed to be like this. They should be full of people, music and laughter. A time of happiness and celebration.
He looked up. Cecily was walking up the narrow path towards him, her skirts brushing the blades of grass, wet with dew. At her side, the young knight who has been outside her chamber door.
‘You can go,’ Lachlan dismissed the house knight, as Cecily moved to stand beside him. Her skin was gossamer-clear, ethereal in the morning light. The weak morning sun kissed her face, her green eyes assessing him calmly, her mouth turning up at the corners into a slight smile. His heart flared with...what? He couldn’t place the feeling, the sense of tremulous joy, new-born.
‘What’s the matter?’ The sweet melody of her voice rang out. Tangled in his heartstrings.
What was he doing? She had been let down by so many people in her life, yet here she stood, brave, undaunted by rejection, about to marry a man who was not worthy of her. A man who had lied to her.
‘You...you have no flowers,’ he blurted out, scratching about for something to say. His palms were sweating and he rubbed them surreptitiously down the front of his braies.
Cecily laughed, her smile reaching up to the corners of her sparkling eyes. ‘I have no need of flowers, Lachlan,’ she said. ‘Besides, you would have a difficult job trying to find any at this time of year.’ She reached for his hand, curled her warm fingers around his. ‘Come on.’
‘Wait,’ he said, leaving her standing beneath the archway, and sprinted along the path, disappearing into a small copse alongside the chapel. He returned, moments later, marching decisively along the path. In his big hand he clasped a tiny bunch of hazel twigs. The stems were thin, delicate, tipped with frilly buds of deepest pink. Green catkins, unripe, hung at intervals along the pliable twigs.
‘There!’ he said, triumphantly, thrusting the stems into her hand.
Her face flushed with pleasure as she cradled the delicate bunch. ‘Thank you, Lachlan.’
He crooked her arm beneath hers and they walked into the empty church.
‘There’s no one here!’ Cecily whispered as they walked along the aisle, towards the priest. ‘Where is the King, his knights? I thought at least they would be here to witness this. To make sure it was done!’
Lachlan cleared his throat. How could he tell her that the King didn’t care enough about her to ever appear? How Henry had placed the decision of her marriage into Lachlan’s hands. The tips of his fingers tingled with nervous energy.
They knelt together before the priest, knees sinking into the musty velvet cushion that sat before the altar table. The priest started to speak, his tones high and wavering. Then he coughed and his words vanished into a fit of coughing, punching harshly into the deserted silence.
Cecily squeezed Lachlan’s hand. He glanced at her, at the dainty jut of her chin, at the fine tendril of hair that had escaped her veil. Chewing his bottom lip, he waited for the priest to regain his composure. With every tick of silence, guilt spread in Lachlan’s chest, pressing, layer upon layer, compressing his lie, enlarging it until it filled his body with condemnation.
What was he doing? Had he truly lost his mind? How could he weld this beautiful, brave-hearted woman to his dark, troubled soul? He would surely destroy her. This needed to stop. And it needed to stop now.
Lachlan stood up abruptly, hauling Cecily up beside him. His hand grasped her elbow. ‘There’s been a mistake,’ he said.
‘My lord...?’ The priest frowned at him. ‘I’m not sure that...’
Lachlan turned, sweeping Cecily into his side, against him. He strode out of the chapel, ignoring the priest’s astounded face.
‘What is happening, Lachlan?’ Cecily cried as her feet struggled to keep up with the fast pace of his stride. Her soft leather boots scuffed against the stone flagstones. ‘What is going on?’
Lachlan didn’t speak until they had
reached the stables. The sour smell of hay, kept in storage, permeated the air. Beneath the wide lintel of the stable door, he faced her, holding her hands in his.
‘I have made a mistake.’ Sunlight sifted through his hair, tipping the ends to fiery gold.
Sadness, loss, plummeted through Cecily’s heart. She might have guessed this would be forthcoming and yet his words still came as a shock. ‘You’ve changed your mind,’ she said carefully. ‘It’s understandable.’ Her shoulders hunched in on themselves and she stepped back, throwing him a wan smile. ‘Please don’t trouble yourself, it’s clear why you wouldn’t want to marry me.’ Rejection clogged her mind and she fought back the tears. How close she had been.
‘No, listen, Cecily, you have me wrong,’ Lachlan declared.
The green glimmer in her eyes read the agitation in his face, the heightened ruddy colour of his cheeks. Wrong? It seemed perfectly clear to her. She tipped her head to one side, waiting to hear his excuses.
‘I lied to you.’
She folded her arms across her chest. Behind her, in one of the wooden partitions, her little grey mare whinnied in recognition of her mistress. How she wished she could fling herself on her horse’s back and gallop off, away from all this heartache.
‘I asked Henry about whether you could marry William...’
‘I know, you told me!’ Cecily toed the ground, jabbing at a loose piece of straw lying on the hard-packed earth.’
‘...and he agreed that you could marry William, as long as I took you to him.’
Her head jerked up, and she clasped her hands together before her chest, into a tight knot. ‘Lachlan...what? Why did you not tell me?’
Because I wanted you all to myself, he thought. The most selfish thing in the world when I can give you nothing else but the protection of my name.
‘Because I never intended to marry,’ he explained. ‘And now the King has agreed to you marrying William, who you know and like...’
She thought of William, with his large brown eyes and docile manner. Half a head taller than her with an easy smile, the companion of her troubled youth. He was nothing compared to Lachlan. But beggars could not be choosers and she was bumping along the bottom at the moment. It made sense that Lachlan didn’t want her, after all, given what had happened between them yester eve. His horrible words, ripping apart the beauty of their lovemaking. Well, it had been beautiful for her, anyway. Not for him, obviously.
‘Why don’t you just say it?’ she flared at him. ‘Why don’t you just say that you don’t want to be married to me?’
His sapphire eyes flicked over her. ‘Why are you so angry? I thought... I thought you wanted to marry this childhood sweetheart of yours. He sounds infinitely preferable to me, since you seem to rate him so highly.’
‘He’s everything that you are not,’ Cecily replied. ‘Kind, good-hearted, wholesome.’ There was only one problem. She didn’t love him.
She tugged her long skirts around and stepped towards her horse, running her palm over the mare’s soft nose. ‘We had better find William then.’ Her voice was sharp, bitter with regret. ‘The sooner, the better.’
* * *
It was mid-afternoon by the time they reached the brow of the very last hill before they dropped down to Dornceaster, following the path of the old Roman road that led eastwards. Below them, alongside a wide, curving river, lay an abbey. White limestone quoins shone out in the angled sunlight, the sprawling buildings, barns and chapel clustered in a loose group around a central cloister on the eastern side of the River Axe. This wide flow of water, its many curving tributaries bisecting and looping across the great flat expanse of floodplain, created a mirrored net of sparkling ribbons as the river made its way out to the sea at the port town of Flete, a few miles to the south.
Half-closing her eyes, Cecily could make out tiny figures: monks, moving around the buildings. They were easily spotted by their dull white habits, woven from rough sheep wool, no doubt the same sheep that dotted the rich pastureland around the abbey. Her throat was dry, parched. Beneath her hood, her scalp was sweaty and hot, despite the cold weather. Every limb in her body ached: her hips, the back of her thighs, her spine. Lachlan’s relentless pace had taken its toll; she had managed to keep up with him, but the speed of the journey had exhausted her.
‘We could go down,’ suggested Cecily. ‘Someone there might be able to give us directions.’ She raised her eyebrows in Lachlan’s direction.
Lachlan nodded. ‘It is late. The monks will give us a decent meal and a bed for the night, I suppose.’
‘And they might know where William is living now.’ Cecily pulled the edge of her hood over her ear, stopping the wind from whistling around the back of her neck.
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Maybe.’ His tone held a trace of reluctance.
‘And I really need something to eat.’ She smiled, her mouth curving encouragingly.
He laughed. The tension along the back of his shoulders ebbed away. ‘I’m sorry, you must be tired and hungry. You’ve kept up with me all day. And I haven’t been slow.’ He searched her face and saw the bluish shadows below her magnificent eyes.
‘No, you haven’t,’ she admitted, acknowledging his quiet admiration. It had been difficult at times to keep the pace up. ‘Let’s go down before the light fades.’
She twitched the reins on her horse and began the long descent to the valley bottom. Reluctantly, Lachlan followed, his heart clogged with despair. Every step of this journey was taking them closer to William. Closer to the man who would take Cecily from his side. He didn’t want to give her up, yet he knew that he must. Otherwise his dark soul would destroy her.
* * *
The stony track led alongside the field boundary: a substantial hedge crammed with twisted beech, stubs of glossy green holly, red berries shining out. Powdery lichen, pale green, clung to the dark, serrated trunks, the sharply angled twigs. Tiny stones spun out from beneath the horses’ hooves, skittering across the track as they made their way down to the river, crossing at a fording point. Here, the river ran wide and shallow, the water skimming over the large flat stones set beneath the water. With Lachlan right behind her, Cecily pushed her little horse up the steep zig-zagging path on the other side, towards the towering walls of the abbey.
The sun hovered on the horizon and the air had grown chill when they finally reached the abbey gatehouse. Jumping down from his horse, Lachlan came round to help Cecily. Her limbs were so stiff that she had trouble even throwing her leg over the horse’s neck. Lachlan reached for her waist and swung her down, his arm dropping away from her as they walked towards the iron-studded gate, firmly shut towards them.
Lachlan grabbed the bell rope, rang hard. Almost immediately a smaller door, set in the large main gate, opened inwards and an elderly monk, clad in the same simple white habit that Cecily had spotted earlier, peered out, a flaring, spitting torch lighting up his jovial features. ‘Can I help you?’ he asked in a quavering voice.
‘Aye, we are after a bed for the night,’ Lachlan explained. ‘And maybe something to eat, if that is possible.’
The monk nodded. ‘Yes, of course.’
‘And you might be able to help us.’ Lachlan darted a look at Cecily, standing quietly at his side. ‘We’re looking for someone...a man who lives in the area. On the Duke of Montague’s estates?’ In the sparkling light of the monk’s torch, Lachlan’s eyes glowed with a metallic intensity.
The monk nodded. ‘I know of it. You best come in.’
Chapter Fifteen
Cecily stared down at the contents of her bowl in dismay. Thick grease filmed the surface of the soup, great globules of fat shining out in the light of the candle set on the trestle table between herself and Lachlan. Picking up her wooden spoon, she poked tentatively at the thin liquid beneath the grease, searching for any other ingredients. A few chunks of parsnip, maybe swede, revea
led themselves, almost boiled to mush, and some plumped-up grains of pearl barley.
‘It tastes better than it looks.’ Lachlan was eating hungrily, sending spoonful after spoonful of the hateful soup into his mouth, tearing hunks from the loaf that the monk had brought to the table. Flour dusted the sides of his mouth; he brushed the loose flecks away with his fingers. ‘I thought you said you were hungry.’
‘I am hungry.’ A plaintive note entered her voice. She spread her palm flat on the glossy elm boards of the table, rubbed at an imaginary speck. ‘But this isn’t what I had in mind when the monk offered us food. I thought abbeys were supposed to be wealthy?’
‘They are...but they are also frugal with their coin.’
‘What does it taste like?’
‘Not bad. It’s better than nothing, anyway. Eat it quickly, before it grows cold. It will only taste worse if you leave it.’
Dipping her spoon in, she brought the tepid liquid to her mouth and swallowed, following each spoonful with a bite of bread. Lachlan was right, it did taste better than it looked, and she rapidly finished most of the bowl.
‘Have some mead to wash it down with.’ Picking up the earthenware jug, Lachlan poured some of the honeyed liquid into her pewter mug.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
Sitting opposite, Lachlan smiled at her. He had removed his cloak and laid it down on the bench next to him. His arms rested either side of his empty bowl, his palms lying flat. His shirt sleeves had pulled back slightly. Corded muscle looped through his wrists, the sinew winding down into the strength of his broad hands.
She wriggled on the hard, wooden stool, looking around the high whitewashed walls of the monks’ refectory. ‘Is that man coming back? We must ask him about William.’
William. The name speared him like a curse.
‘Eat first. You need your strength. Then we can ask questions about him.’
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