Novice Cecily was on her knees in St Anneâs chapel when the shouting began outside. According to the candle clock it was almost noon, and Cecilyâwho in her former life had been called Lady Cecily Fulfordâwas in retreat. She had sworn not to speak a word to anyone till after the nuns had broken their fasts the next morning. A small figure in a threadbare grey habit and veil, alone at her prie-dieu, Cecily had about eighteen hours of silence to go, and was determined that this time her retreat would not be broken.
Lamps glowed softly in wall sconces, and above the altar a little November daylight was filtering through the narrow unshuttered window. Ignoring the chill seeping up from the stone flags, Cecily bent her veiled head over her prayer beads. âHail Mary, full of grace, blessed art thou amongst women and blessed isââ
A thud on the chapel door had her swinging round. Another harder one had the thick oak door bouncing on its hinges.
âCecily! Cecily! Are you in there? You must let me speak to you! Itâsââ
The womanâs voice was cut off abruptly, but Cecilyâs prayers were quite forgotten. For though the voice did not belong to any of the nuns, it seemed vaguely familiar. She strained to hear more.
Two voices, arguing, and none too quietly. One belonged to Sister Judith, the convent portress. The other voice, the outsiderâs, went up a notch in pitch, touched on hysteriaâ¦
Part curious, part anxious, Cecily scrambled to her feet. Not more bad news, surely? Hadnât the loss of both her father and brother at Hastings been enoughâ¦?
She was halfway up the aisle when the door burst open. Lamps flickered, and her blood sister, the Lady Emma Fulford, threw off the restraining arms of the portress and hurtled into the chapel.
One year Cecilyâs senior, seventeen year-old Emma was a vision in flowing pink robes and a burgundy velvet cloak. Dropping a riding crop and a pair of cream kid gloves onto the flagstones, she flung herself at Cecily.
âCecily! Oh, Cecily, you must speak to me. You must!â
Finding herself enveloped in a fierce embrace that bordered on the desperate, Cecily fought free of silks and velvets and the scent of roses so that she could study her sisterâs face. One look had her abandoning her vow of silence. âOf course Iâll speak to you.â
Emma gave an unladylike sniff. âSheââ a jerk of her head at Sister Judith set her long silken veil aquiver ââsaid you were in retreat, not to be disturbed. That you may at last be going to take your vows.â
âThat is so.â Emma had been crying, and not just in the past few minutes either, for her fine complexion was blotched and puffy and her eyes were rimmed with shadows. In the four years since Cecily had been brought to the convent she and her elder sister had become strangers, but her sisterâs delicate beauty had lived on in her mind. This distraught, haggard Emma made her blood run cold.
Sister Judith shut the chapel door with a thump and stood just inside the threshold. Folding her arms, she shook her head at Cecily, the novice who once again had failed to keep her retreat.
Cecily took Emmaâs hand. Her fingers were like ice. âSomething else has happened, hasnât it? Something dreadful.â
Emmaâs eyes filled and she gave a shuddering sob. âOh, Cecily, itâs Mamanâ¦â
âMaman? What? Whatâs happened to Maman?â But Cecily had no need to wait for an answer, for she could read it in Emmaâs expression.
Their mother was dead.
Knees buckling, Cecily gripped Emmaâs arms and the sisters clung to each other.
âNot Maman,â Cecily choked. âEmma, please, not Maman tooâ¦â
Emma nodded, tears flooding openly down her cheeks.
âWhâ¦when?â
âThree days since.â
âHow? Was itâ¦was it the babe?â It had to be that. Their mother, Philippa of Fulford, had been thirty-sevenânot youngâand she had been seven months pregnant at the time of the battle at Hastings. Of Norman extraction herself, she had found the great battle especially hard to cope with. Cecily knew her mother would have taken great pains to hide her emotions, but the deaths of her Anglo Saxon husband and her firstborn son would have been too much to bear.
Many women died in childbed, and at her motherâs age, and in her state of griefâ¦
Emma dashed away her tears and nodded. âAye. Her time came early, her labour was long and hard, and afterwardsâ¦Oh, Cecily, there was so much blood. We could do nothing to stem the flow. Would that you had been there. Your time at Sister Mathildaâs elbow has taught you so much about healing, whereas Iâ¦â Her voice trailed off.