The Original de Wolfe Pack Complete Set: Including Sons of de Wolfe

by Kathryn Le Veque

  “How much have you had to drink tonight?” she asked.

  “Enough.”

  “Enough to help you sleep?”

  “Probably not.”

  “I will bring you a tonic. It will help you sleep.”

  He made a face. “None of those tonics. They taste terrible and do nothing.”

  Katheryn cocked a well-shaped eyebrow. “I have a hammer that will do much better than the tonics will but you never let me try it.”

  He fought off a grin as he turned in the direction of his chamber. “Get away from me, you brute.”

  He could hear her giggling as he walked away.

  Wearily, Patrick made his way down to the end of the corridor where his large chamber faced over the bailey and the donjon. It was a corner room so he had a view of the southeast and east exposures. It was a comfortable chamber for the garrison commander and he had a good many possessions stashed inside – a large table with maps, chairs, cushions, a wardrobe with a good amount of clothing, gifts and trinkets given to him over the years, and an enormous bed that was quite messy. It was comfortable enough but the problem with the chamber was that he could hear everything going on in the bailey below, and he was very attuned to any sounds or movements by his men. It was a terrible chamber for sleeping in.

  Still, he tried. It was his chamber, his bed, and he was happy here. Head muddled with drink and his thoughts whirling, he stripped off his clothing and fell into bed, hoping to shut out the world for a few hours. Given what had happened that night and what he was potentially facing, he suspected shutting the world out was an unrealistic expectation. He knew he wouldn’t be able to shut his mind off long enough to sleep.

  He was right.

  “I hope you will be comfortable in this chamber, my lady,” Katheryn said. “I have sent for hot water because I am sure you would like to bathe before retiring. It has been a trying day for you.”

  Brighton stood just inside the doorway, still wrapped up in her smelly cloak and coarse woolen clothing. She was exhausted and not feeling particularly well after fainting earlier. All she really wanted to do was sleep but it was difficult to refute Lady Katheryn, who had been quite kind to her. The woman was grimly determined to be of service and Brighton didn’t want to insult her. But, given the day she’d had, her manners weren’t at their best. Her patience was brittle.

  “I-it has, my lady,” she said. “To be truthful, all I want is a little food and sleep. That is all I require.”

  “Nonsense.” Evelyn came in behind her, her arms full of garments. She went over to the bed, throwing everything down. “A bath will do you a world of good. Kate, this is everything I believe will fit her.”

  Katheryn went over to the bed to inspect what had been brought. “I recognize these,” she said as she pulled forth a dark green wool. “This was yours, was it not?”

  Evelyn nodded. “I could wear these before I gave birth,” she said. “But since my last child, they no longer fit around my breasts or even around my hips. Although Mother has suggested I simply alter them, Hector has had new clothing made for me so I really do not need them. Our guest is welcome to whatever will fit.”

  It was extremely generous and Katheryn held up the dark green surcoat, looking at it in the light of the blazing hearth. Her gaze moved between the garment and Brighton, still standing near the door, watching everything around her with suspicion and some fear. The woman appeared grossly uncomfortable.

  “As I explained, Lady Brighton, my brother will be taking you to Castle Questing in the morning,” Katheryn said, trying to make their guest feel more relaxed. “You will need clothing to travel with and I believe these garments will fit you. Mayhap after you have bathed, you would like to try these on?”

  Brighton looked at the clothing on the bed and in Katheryn’s grip. Her composure, her patience, was slipping further and further.

  “P-please,” she sighed. “I… I simply wish to be left alone. A little food and sleep is all I require. I do not wish to try on clothing and I am completely opposed to leaving for anywhere other than Coldingham Priory. Will you please… please go away and leave me alone?”

  She wasn’t being snappish, rather begging to be left in peace. She sounded on the verge of tears. Katheryn placed the garment onto the bed again.

  “I realize this has been a difficult day, my lady,” she said patiently. “You must understand we are only trying to help you.”

  Brighton sighed sharply. “I-I do realize that,” she said, “and I am grateful. But I do not need your assistance. I can do for myself. Please, leave me in peace.”

  Katheryn wasn’t going to push the woman, who was clearly still very upset about her situation. It was with great reluctance that she tugged on Evelyn’s sleeve, motioning the woman out of the chamber.

  “As you wish,” she said, backing away towards the door. She gestured towards the table near the bed. “There is a comb and soap on the table if you wish to use it. Hot water will still be sent up… are you sure you do not wish for any help bathing?”

  Brighton shook her head firmly, her brown hair wagging in her face. “I-I do not require your help,” she said. “Please do not think me rude, but I simply need to be left alone.”

  Katheryn was somewhat dejected but tried not to show it. She felt a good deal of pity for their distressed guest. Still, she obeyed her request as a good hostess would.

  “As you wish,” she said quietly, hand on the door latch as she began to pull the door shut behind her. “But if you should change your mind, you know where my chamber is. Please do not hesitate to send for me.”

  Brighton simply nodded, watching as the woman left the chamber and shut the door. She remained unmoving, standing there, for several moments afterward as if waiting for Lady Katheryn and her sister to come charging back in. They seemed to want to hover around her. But the seconds ticked by and the door remained shut. Brighton finally let out a massive sigh and tossed off the smelly cloak. Immediately, she ran for the window.

  Freedom!

  Her first thought was that of escape, which was foolish considering she had seen the layout of Berwick Castle when she’d been brought in and escape was more than likely impossible. That was only confirmed when she stuck her head from the lancet window, looking over the monstrous castle as men patrolled their stations with torches and dogs barked from the walls. She’d never seen anything so enormous and the view from her window showed the river with the moonlight reflecting from it. But it also showed the castle walls which were very tall, indeed. There would be no way to escape over those even if she was able to lower herself from the window.

  There was no way out, indeed.

  Dejected, Brighton came away from the window. Perhaps it would have been better had the Scots taken her. At least she might have had the chance to escape their encampment. She was certain they wouldn’t have taken her anywhere like this massive stone prison. For the first time since being taken from Coldingham earlier that day, she truly began to feel like she was a prisoner, now trapped by people who had supposedly helped her.

  Reality began to sink in. Tears came to her eyes as she sank back against the wall, sliding down until she ended up on the floor on her buttocks. This had been the worst day of her life; not only losing her freedom, but losing Sister Acha as well. The old woman who had raised her from infancy, who had been both mother and father to her, was gone, killed by the English. She knew the Scots hadn’t killed the woman because she had been alive until the English attacked; at least, that’s what she presumed. The big knight who had taken her back to Berwick had told her he’d found the woman alive on the road but she soon passed away.

  But not before telling the knight a fantastic story.

  Sweet Mary, how she hated the English right now! They were lying to her, keeping her captive, trying to cram some foolish story down her throat and force her to accept it and digest it. Well, she wasn’t going to do it. She wasn’t going to accept their lies and the captivity they’d imposed on he
r. Perhaps she couldn’t jump from the window or even escape the walls of her prison. But if what Lady Katheryn said was true and the English planned to move her tomorrow, then she’d be out of the walls and at least have a fighting chance to escape.

  She wanted to go home.

  A knock on the chamber door startled her from her mutinous thoughts. She didn’t answer and, a few moments later, the knock came again. Cautiously and angrily, she stood up.

  “W-who is it?” she barked.

  “Water, m’lady,” a timid servant said as she cracked open the door to peer inside the room. “I’ve brought ye a bath.”

  Brighton simply stood there as the door opened wider and the small female servant slipped in, followed by two men bearing a copper tub between them. Behind those men came several more servants bearing large buckets of steaming water, pouring them into the copper tub once it was set on the floor near the hearth. The female servant who had led the water brigade into the chamber had linens in her arms, towels, and she set them down on the bed.

  Brighton stood in tense silence as buckets of water splashed into the tub, eyeing the English servants with hatred. She wanted to tell them all how she loathed them, but she bit her tongue. She didn’t even know why she did, but she did. When the tub was finally filled and the male servants vanished, the female servant remained. But a sharp word from Brighton sent the woman scurrying out. Before Brighton shut the door, she saw Lady Katheryn standing down the corridor, perhaps to see if the visitor had changed her mind about needing her. Brighton simply shut the door in her face.

  With the room quiet and the tub steaming, Brighton eyed the bathwater. She now reconsidered her stance about food and sleep only. It had been weeks since she’d had a bath, as the postulants at Coldingham were told that bathing was impure for the body and soul, and that it brought about wicked thoughts. Therefore, they would wash their face and hands regularly but bathing their entire body was quite rare.

  The more Brighton looked at the hot water, the more alluring it became, something naughty and wonderful at the same time. Wonderful won over. She wanted to feel clean and warm again, even if it was a comfort provided by the hated English.

  The clothes began to come off.

  Beneath the smelly cloak, she wore a sheath-like garment of heavy, scratchy wool and a woolen shift underneath it that wasn’t much softer. She had simple shoes on her feet, just two pieces of leather sewn together, really, and they didn’t do much for comfort or warmth or anything else. She pulled them off. The outside garment came off first, then the shift beneath. She grabbed the bar of soap on the table before plunging into the hot water, sending it splashing out all over the floor. Steam rose as the water splashed onto the heated stones of the hearth.

  A bath!

  It had been such a terribly long time since she’d known such luxury that Brighton submerged herself completely in the water, saturating her hair and body. But, God, it felt delightful and she began to lather up the soap furiously, smelling it, only to realize that it smelled of roses. It was sweet and heady, and the lather wasn’t really more than a slick foam, but she slathered her entire body with it, rubbing the soap in her hair and scrubbing until her skin was red and tingling. It was heavenly. And it was enough to make her grateful to the English for providing her with this rare opportunity.

  But that’s where her gratitude ended.

  Brighton eventually rinsed the soap off, leaving the water white and murky, but it was still warm and lovely and she huddled in the tub, simply enjoying the enveloping heat. She hugged her knees against her bare chest, her thoughts wandering back to the trials of the day, back to the horror that she’d lived through.

  Back to thoughts of Sister Acha.

  Thoughts of the dead nun swept over her and tears filled her eyes. Brighton wept softly for the woman, truly devastated for the loss. But she comforted herself with the thought that Sister Acha was with the Heavenly Father. The old woman with the heavy Scots accent had been blessed with very strong faith so she had no doubt the old woman was where she belonged. Still, Brighton would miss her. She would miss that stubborn, strict, and honest woman.

  … honest?

  A woman who, according to the enormous English knight, had been harboring a deep and disturbing secret about her young charge. The knight’s words rolled through her mind – you are the daughter of the King of the Northman and your mother is Scots. I promised the old nun I would protect you. In hindsight, she’d never known Sister Acha to lie and the truth was that the English knight had no reason to lie to her, either. He told her a greatly puzzling and complex story. The man had no earthly reason to make it up simply to confuse her. It would have been an elaborate hoax with no purpose.

  Therefore, it stood to reason that Sister Acha may have told him exactly what he said she did – a story of a bastard infant who had been placed in her care those many years ago.

  The daughter of a king.

  The more Brighton pondered that, the more it began to make sense. She was a bastard, a child committed to a convent, someone with no past. But one thing had been certain – her future had been set. She had always known she would take the veil. She didn’t want to be someone else, someone she didn’t know and someone she was afraid of. A future that was uncertain now. She simply wanted to return to Coldingham and take her vows as she’d always planned. She wanted no part of this disturbing new world.

  Lost in despondent and frightening thoughts, the water in the tub finally cooled to the point where she had to climb out and dry off. The female servant had left drying linens on the bed and she used one of them to vigorously dry her skin. Her first instinct was to put on the smelly, scratchy woolen robes she was so accustomed to, but her gaze seemed to drift to the clothing on the bed.

  … new, lovely clothing.

  Did she even dare? It was clean and it was beautiful. Brighton could see several garments piled up so she went to the bed and began to go through them. A green wool, a red silk, and a blue damask were all very beautiful and elaborate. She’d had never seen such pretty things. But they were very intimidating for a woman who had only worn simple wool her entire life. When she came to the bottom of the pile, however, there was a shift of lamb’s wool, unbleached, and very soft. It was enough to cause her to toss the linen towel aside.

  The lamb’s wool shift went over her head, soft and warm. For the first time in her life, she experienced something against her skin that wasn’t poking or scratching it. It was pure heaven, like wearing clouds, but she knew Sister Acha would have frowned upon it because wearing scratchy clothing meant to suffer, or so the woman would preach. Brighton had been content to accept that until she tried on the lamb’s wool.

  Now, she wasn’t so sure.

  Smooth and flowing, it tied beneath her breasts for some form against her body and the sleeves were very long, flowing past her hands and warming them. Delighted at the feel of the fabric, it was enough to cause her to forget her misery, at least for the moment. For once in her life, she was experiencing comfort as she’d never known. It was a small bit of brightness in an otherwise horrendous day and she collected the comb from the table that Lady Katheryn had left behind, sitting on the warm stones next to the hearth and running the comb through her hair to dry it in the warmth of the room.

  For all of the hell she’d been through that day, at least this moment was moderately comforting. She may not have been happy or even content with anything about her circumstances, but at least this small sliver of time was peaceful. She was alone without the hovering English women. She’d bathed alone and she’d dressed alone. It was what she was familiar and comfortable with. She murmured a prayer of thanks, which included a plea for strength for what was to come. For what she must do. She was certain God was listening.

  She had to go home.

  A soft knock on the door roused her from her prayers. Thinking it was the servants returned for the tub, she bade them to enter.

  But what came through the doorway was not what sh
e had expected.

  The peaceful moment, achieved with such difficulty, was gone.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Patrick had heard the entire thing.

  Unable to sleep, he’d been listening at his door when his sister had escorted Brighton to the chamber next to his and he’d heard the ensuing conversation. His sisters wanted to be helpful but Brighton wanted nothing to do with them. She hadn’t been rude but she hadn’t exactly been kind. He could hear the apprehension in her voice, the confusion and sorrow of a day that had changed her entire life.

  Not that he blamed her.

  His sister had been surprisingly obedient to Brighton’s wishes and the voices had eventually fallen silent. He’d remained at his door, however, listening, wondering if he shouldn’t try to speak with Brighton and apologize for his role in her traumatic day. Every contact he’d had with the woman had been volatile and upsetting, and being a man of feeling, he didn’t like that. He hadn’t meant to upset her with what the old nun had told him, but he still felt strongly that it had been the right thing to do. The woman had to understand her station in life and the threats against her, now that she was out of the confines of the priory. He wouldn’t always be around to protect her, especially in light of his appointment for Henry. So perhaps if she understood how unique her bloodlines were, she would understand the need for caution.

  Servants arrived at her door a few minutes later. He could hear them banging about. Water splashed. But the door shut again and he didn’t hear anything more after that, not for quite some time. In fact, he began to worry about the silence, his mind concocting a few terrible scenarios. What if the woman had taken that bathwater and drowned herself in it? What if she had fashioned a noose with the bed linens and was, even now, hanging from the rafters? Being as distressed as she was, he couldn’t be certain she hadn’t done one or the other.