The Gentle Knight (The Norman Conquest Book 2)

by Ashley York

  “Yes, my lord,” Mort said with very little deference.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The establishment was one big room with several trestles and benches neatly arranged for visitors. It was warm enough. Peter was satisfied. They’d made it by nightfall. However, he had no appetite. Mort, on the other hand, ate like a horse and was licking his fingertips with a lot of ceremony. Fastidious was the only word to describe him. No. Obnoxious worked, too.

  “So?” Peter’s voice was flat.

  Mort stopped mid-lick and stared back. “So? So what?”

  “What did you learn?”

  Mort finished his last lick before continuing. “Well, our newly departed dinner companions were happy to chat and assured me that the castle has not been under siege. Recently.” His face showed that was something.

  Peter did not feel it was much. “And?”

  “And…it will still be closed to you.”

  Peter slammed his fist on the worn table. “Damn me.”

  No one dare look his way as he was the only knight present. He was probably the only knight for miles. These were the wilds of England. Respect was the very least accorded to him even in this establishment. He couldn’t really call it an inn although they’d given him a bed for the night. He had to share it with Mort and two others but it would be dry.

  “Did you expect other news?” Mort’s question intruded on his thoughts. “It is the same Baron in control now as before we were... sidetracked.”

  “I’d hoped.”

  Mort’s impertinence was becoming tiring. It worked its way under his skin like a burr. Nearly as bad as—no he would not even mention her name. She was safely delivered. Set in her little cocoon. Closely guarded by all. Her virginity sacrificed on the very altar of their Lord and Savior. So why was he still thinking on her? Why could he not remove her from his mind? Be done with it.

  “Based on what?” Mort’s stare pierced his. “What is wrong with you?”

  “We’ll have a fight on our hands after we arrive.”

  “You’re a soldier.”

  “And?”

  “It’s what you do,” Mort said it emphatically as if that was all there was to it. Of course he was correct. So why did he feel so cross about the whole ordeal?

  Peter stood abruptly. He needed to clear his head. “I’m going for a walk.”

  Mort stood to accompany him but Peter shoved him back down onto the bench. “No. I will go alone.”

  “But, my lord,” Mort glanced at the few men close enough to overhear and lowered his voice to a whisper. “We are not known here. You are a…target.”

  “Have someone try and capture me for ransom. They’ll soon find they have more than they can handle.” Now why did that statement bring her upturned face to his memory? Her lips parted invitingly, slightly pink from their first passionate kiss.

  “Damn me,” he cursed under his breath and headed out the door.

  The brisk air was refreshing, but the cold lingered. Winter hung in the mist. The naked trees seemed strange and mystical, silhouetted in the moonlight. An owl voiced its objection to his presence.

  “To hell with you, too,” Peter answered. The door opened behind him and he stepped into the shadow of the necessary. The scent of excrement drifted to him. A man stumbled across the stone walk and headed toward the main road. In the direction of the Priory.

  Must every thought and feeling that he have somehow evolve around her? Is there nothing else down that road except the Priory? He exhaled noisily and rubbed his hands against the dropping temperature. Mort came through the door and sat on the little bench beside it. He took his clay whistle from his bag and began to play a quiet tune. Peter recognized it as the one Brighit had played that first night.

  “Must you haunt me as well?”

  Mort stopped playing. He put his pipe in his lap and leaned his head against the straw structure. “Is that what’s bothering you so?”

  Peter shook his head. Mort had no idea.

  “You’re missing the lass already?”

  “Like I’d miss the plague.” Peter’s voice sounded overly loud and defensive. “Another duty seen to. No more. It’s best not to get attached.”

  He tried to settle his anger but it had taken up residence in the pit of his stomach.

  “Maybe,” Peter said, his voice quieter now.

  “She was certainly a beauty.”

  “Beauty is fragile. I had a beauty and she wasn’t safe with me. My loving killed her. No woman is safe with me. I’m cursed.” Pain shot through him like an arrow to the heart. “I never even said those words to her. I never said my goodbyes either.”

  “Aw. I see. You have regrets.”

  Mort was quiet and Peter thought perhaps he’d fallen asleep until he spoke again. “The pain of your loss is very deep.”

  The evenness of his tone was calming. And the calming made Peter start to remember. It made him feel again the excruciating pain of the loss. He had been so happy to be home, so looking forward to being with Jeanette. He shook his head to clear it of the memories.

  “Loving someone doesn’t always cause pain,” Mort said.

  “What do you know of love?” Venom coated every word.

  “My lord, you have never asked of my situation and I would not burden you now but I do know of love. I have a wife.”

  Peter turned toward him. “And children?”

  Mort’s teeth were visible when he smiled. “Aye, hardy boys. She bore them all with no help from me... well except for the making of them. And that I verily enjoyed.”

  “So many women die giving birth. Were you not afeared it would be so?”

  “Yes. I worried about it but I had to obey the King’s orders. She knew that. As did your Jeanette.”

  Peter swallowed hard. Jeanette. The child probably would have had her green eyes. Beguiling all she met just like her mother.

  “Not every woman who becomes pregnant dies in childbirth, Peter.”

  “No. Not all women. I need only know two to know it is not worth the risk.”

  “Two?”

  “My own mother died delivering me. My father never missed a day reminding me of that.”

  “But surely you know that it was not your fault your mother died.”

  “That mattered little to my father. He would have chosen her life over mine and told me as much. Repeatedly.”

  “That is cruel.”

  “Yes. My father was certainly that.”

  “So to live your life alone is the course you will take? You, my lord? You? A man of great passion and caring? You would choose a life of what? Of soldiering? Of no one to return home to?” Mort laughed quietly. “No, my lord, that is not the life for you.”

  “Enough of this prattle.” Peter moved into the moonlight once again fully under control. “You’re like an old woman.”

  He jerked the door open, intent on making his way to the little room without talking to anyone. He’d had enough talk for today. A woman with long, black hair had other ideas. She threw herself in front of him, leaning her body against him for emphasis. “Where are you going in such haste, my lord?”

  The woman’s eyes were hooded and there was no question of her occupation.

  “Waiting for me?” Peter asked. He did not need this now.

  She let go a throaty laugh and tossed her hair over her shoulder. Peter recognized the little act for what it was but she was only doing her job. He decided to play along then let her down easy. “And where should I be going?”

  She twisted toward him, rubbing up the length of him.

  The men around them were enjoying the display, murmuring their encouragement. He just wasn’t sure if the encouragement was meant for him or her.

  “She’d take care of you.” One grizzly man smiled a toothless grin, lifting his mug toward them.

  “She don’t charge much either,” a skinny, young man behind him added. He couldn’t have been more than fifteen.

  Peter looked at the two of the
m. “And has she taken care of you?”

  “Not a few minutes before you and your man came in,” Grizzly responded, his laugh more of a gasping chuckle.

  The woman smiled provocatively. “It can be as long or as short as you want it.”

  She moved in closer, her lips hovering near his own, surrounding him with the scent of rotted teeth and barley soup. He wouldn’t have touched this woman for all the power in the world.

  He pulled back. “Well, I don’t doubt you but I’ve no need of you tonight.”

  The instant silence in the room was the first clue. Mort had come in quietly and stood by the only exit, no doubt watching the scene unfold.

  “You too good for our Cinda?” The gauntlet had been effectively dropped. The grizzly man stood from the bench, hitching his pants up as he swayed.

  Skinny beside him was not as drunk. He stood beside the man, his chest puffed out. They presented an intoxicated, unified front. Father and son? Perhaps.

  “I’m afraid it’s the ‘our Cinda’ that I find objectionable.” Peter’s hand was itching to draw his sword. These two seemed ready for a fight. Let them start something. He knew it wouldn’t be a fair fight but that release was much more to his liking. He smiled his apologies at the woman. “I’m sure you understand.”

  “I’m good enough for the priest but not good enough for you?” She spit in his face. It dribbled down his cheek.

  Peter wiped his face. Mort came closer, his sword drawn. “That’s no way to treat a representative from the crown.”

  “King William?” She spit on the ground.

  Grizzly and Skinny pushed her behind them, their daggers poised for defense.

  Peter turned toward Mort and started to laugh. He couldn’t believe the temerity of the wench. When he started to laugh, he realized he couldn’t stop. It felt good to laugh. Too good. It felt better than…damn was he hysterical then? Mort had a concerned look on his face. Peter fought to get himself under control and finally coughed his way to silence.

  “Shall I see to these two, my lord?” Mort was serious. He could certainly handle them both and the innkeeper, if he felt so inclined as to get involved. Peter wasn’t worried about that but something she’d said alarmed him. The priest? His body tensed in response to the sudden threat. Did she mean the one at the Priory?

  Peter yanked her toward him by the front of her dress. He pulled her close to his face. Mort held the two men at bay with his blade. “What are you saying? What priest?”

  He saw her start gathering spit again, so he squeezed her gown tighter in his hand. “Don’t try it again.” His tone was menacing. Her eyes widened in response. “Give me an answer.”

  “The priest from the Priory. Father Tinsley.”

  That couldn’t be. They were celibate. That would be the only way they could be locked up with all those young women and not be taking advantage—Damn. He shoved her away from him and gave his orders. “She’s in danger. Stay here.”

  Mort moved toward the outraged men, ready to make quick work of them. Peter could not wait and headed out the door. He just hoped he would not be too late.

  The sweat dripped down the side of Brighit’s face. It was stifling hot in the kitchen with the enormous fire. Heavy, iron pots were arranged both in the ash and hanging from a pole. Keeping the soup from burning despite its closeness to the huge flames was her job.

  “Are you sure we couldn’t raise the pot a little higher?” Brighit asked for the third time.

  Martha smiled. “Just keep to your job, Mary.”

  The transformation of this woman had been like night and day. As soon as the men were gone, she relaxed into easy conversation with Brighit, content to answer her many questions.

  This job seemed to be a sort of test of her obedience. No one else in the room was required to remain so near the heat as her. Perhaps they waited to see if she ignited into flames. She wiped her dampened sleeve across her cheek. The soup should be nearly ready.

  “Would you care to taste the soup?”

  Martha paused and came nearer to her. “Hot work?”

  Brighit fought the urge to roll her eyes. “A bit.”

  “Then it’s not quite done yet.”

  That observation made no sense but the woman moved away before Brighit could question her further. A door slammed in the distance. The other women in the room jumped at the sound. All except Ruth who continued to chop the root vegetables in front of her. Martha glanced between the two.

  “Will you see to her?” Martha wiped her hands on a cloth and directed the question to Ruth. The younger woman glanced up, smiled, and nodded.

  Martha led the rest of the women out the door in a single file. They moved as if approaching a death sentence. There were seven women in all at the Priory. Brighit had met them. Martha was the oldest. Ruth was the only one who was with child.

  “Was that Father Tinsley we heard come in?”

  Ruth rubbed her swollen stomach with long, gentle strokes. “Yes. He has returned.”

  Brighit stepped away from the fire. She expected to be brought to him as soon as he arrived. The few comments she’s heard assured her he was very particular about where the women were and what they were doing.

  “Do you think I should meet with him now?”

  Ruth looked up, a surprised expression. “Dear Mary,” Brighit cringed at the name she’d been given, “he will come and find you when he is ready.”

  Brighit returned to stirring the soup. It certainly sounded ominous. Fear was making its way into its favorite spot in her stomach. Swallowing became difficult.

  “I was surprised he did not make it to vespers.”

  Ruth’s brows darted down. “It’s best if you keep to your work and not worry yourself about Father’s whereabouts. You won’t be able to avoid him if he’s searching you out.” She changed the direction of the circles she rubbed along her abdomen. “Prayer is always a safe endeavor.”

  Brighit opened her mouth to ask what she was talking about but the door to the kitchen burst open. A tiny, young woman, Esther, stood in the doorway. She had wide set eyes that made her constantly look as if she were petrified.

  “Father Tinsley wants to meet you,” Esther said.

  Ruth stilled her hand. Her lips took on the shape of an “oh” but she said nothing. No one moved.

  “Do I—I just go?” Brighit finally asked.

  “I’ll help you.” Esther reached toward her. “Best not to keep him waiting.”

  Ruth was quiet but kept her eyes on Brighit.

  Brighit followed Esther down the hall that led to the back of the Priory. They turned right at the entrance to the chapel. A huge door at the end of the hall was shut. That was the Great Hall. Small alcoves built into the stone ran along the wall to her right. Heavy curtains that would close off the rooms for warmth at night were all pushed aside now. Each one identical to the next. Trepidation joined fear and her stomach gurgled.

  “Why do we go this way? Where will I be meeting Father Tinsley.”

  Esther did not answer. She turned back at Brighit, those wide eyes sending her heart into a faster pace. They stopped beside the alcove Brighit had been given as her own.

  “Here? He will meet me here?”

  It was barely big enough for the pallet that lay on the floor. It would be a tight squeeze to have someone else in there with her.

  “Yes. You’d best spend your time in prayer as you wait.”

  “What?” Brighit’s heart leapt into her throat until she remembered prayer was what they did here. “Oh, yes.”

  “Repentance for sin will come after he leaves,” Esther said then retreated back the way they’d come.

  Brighit’s sense of foreboding increased three-fold with that cryptic statement. She looked around the tiny area. Too small to even pace in. The single candle that burned in the blackened holder on the wall cast the room in flickering shadows. She smoothed the stiff material of her new clothes. It crinkled beneath her fingers. Her hand paused at the slight
bulge of her knife still tucked beneath her robes. The security it gave her was not something she was willing to part with just yet.

  A distant clicking sound drifted to her from the direction of the chapel. Its rhythmic tap getting louder as it moved closer. She felt a sudden urge to run. The clicking was nearly to her room. Perhaps it wasn’t Father Tinsley. Perhaps it would pass by.

  Brighit backed against the wall. She took a deep breath and held it before blowing it out in a whoosh. This was ridiculous. If it was the priest, no doubt he’d come to welcome her and see that she had everything she needed. The heavy curtain was being pulled back. She glanced around for anything to hold on to. There was nothing.

  A man with slightly graying black hair stood in the opening, a kind smile on his face.

  “Welcome, Sister Mary. How wonderful to finally meet you.”

  He didn’t take the few steps into the room. Brighit forced herself away from the wall and curtsied. “Thank you, Father.”

  “Come nearer to me.” He motioned her closer with spotless hands and neatly trimmed fingernails.

  She knew her own were stained with carrots and beet juice and hid them behind her as she stepped in front of him.

  “I am Father Tinsley.”

  Brighit dipped her head. “Father Tinsley.”

  He placed his hand on her cheek. His hand was like ice. “You are a lovely woman.”

  She couldn’t control the shiver that went through her body.

  “Are you cold?” he asked.

  “Forgive me, I was—”

  “Ah,” he interrupted her with the raise of his finger. “Forgiveness actually means something here. It is not to be given lightly.”

  She flashed him an awkward smile then started again. “It was very warm in the kitchens. I was sweating.” She attempted to smile again but it felt like a grimace.

  Father Tinsley’s eyes closed slightly. “Ah, yes. Soup duty. The other women are working the devil out of you.”

  “What?”

  His eyes widened. “The devil? Have you never heard of him?”

  Brighit laughed nervously. “Yes, of course, but I didn’t und—”

  “Hope you don’t know him too well.” The priest must have seen her confusion. “The devil. I hope you don’t know him too well.”