“Thank you, Bridey,” he said. “Now, you can remove your lovely and helpful self from this wall. This is no place for a woman and least of all you.”
Brighton knew that. She was surprised it took him so long to say it, polite man that he was. But she didn’t leave, at least not immediately. At the risk of angering William, she remained.
“I-I know,” she said quietly, looking to the men standing around, sipping their hot wine. They were dressed for battle, with stubble on their faces, weary from weeks of a siege. “I simply wanted to say… I wanted to thank you all for what you are doing. A month ago you barely knew me, but now you are risking your lives for me. I have never seen a battle before, you must understand, and now to be in the middle of one is a sobering prospect at best.”
William listened to her speak, this surreally lovely woman his son had married. Having come to know her over the past few weeks, he saw in her what the others saw – a woman of gentle humor and a kind manner, someone who wasn’t afraid of hard work or afraid of learning what she needed to know outside of the walls of Coldingham. Brighton was, if nothing else, adaptable. In that respect, she reminded William very much of his own wife. The women were very similar and, perhaps, that made him just a wee bit more protective over the lass than normal.
“What you see is not unusual on the borders,” he told her. “It is true that the Gordon and MacKay have been making trouble for us, but who is to say it is all for you? There are plenty of us they do not like, either, and I am probably at the top of that list.”
Brighton couldn’t help but smile at his attempt to make it seem as if this entire struggle wasn’t about her when they all knew, clearly, that it was.
“Y-you are kind to say so but I think you are only being polite,” she said, a hint of a scolding in her tone. “You do not need to coddle me, for I know why the clans are here. I know it is because they want me. I simply wanted to thank you all for everything you have done. Your sacrifice and your strength is something I shall never forget. You are all great and noble men in my mind.”
William waved a hand at her, as if attempting to sweep her away. “You will make them all arrogant and difficult to live with if you continue to praise them like that,” he said. “Go now and return to the keep. No more coming up here to feed men’s pride.”
He meant it half-serious and half in jest, but Brighton had said what she’d wanted to say so she took her pitcher and headed back to the tower. The mist was starting to lift somewhat near the river, or at least she could see the water to a certain extent, but it was still cold and wet and gray.
As she descended the stone steps of the tower, trying not to slip on them because they were wet from the weather, she thought on these people who had become her family. The de Wolfe family and their relatives had embraced her from nearly the beginning. She remembered how she had been so very awed at the love she saw amongst them, the devotion between husbands and wives, and how very much she wanted to know that same kind of love.
Now she had it with Patrick, something so beautiful and tender that she could hardly believe it belonged to her. She was part of this loving, wonderful group of people and all she had done was bring war and strife into their lives. She had repaid their kindness with heartache. When Patrick returned, he would find his castle besieged and his family trapped within it.
Although she didn’t truly believe he would blame her for it, there was a part of her that wondered if she was brave enough to turn herself over to the Gordon simply to pull them away from Berwick and leave the de Wolfe family in peace. Perhaps if they had what they wanted, they would leave Berwick alone.
Leave Patrick alone.
She had suffered through twenty days of guilt, and of missing her husband. It was starting to take its toll. Would the Gordon go away if she turned herself over to them?
She wondered.
But to save these wonderful people that she’d come to love so well – her family – she was forced to consider it.
‡
If Patrick hadn’t known the land so well, he might have actually gotten lost in this thick white soup that had rolled in from the sea. Berwick was foggy a good deal of the time so he was used to weather like this and he had learned to navigate it.
It was the ninth day since departing London and, truth be told, he was ready to collapse and so was his horse. He’d made at least forty miles every day, starting on his journey well before sunrise and then continuing well after sunset, making sure he went as far as he could before seeking shelter for the night.
His horse, a sturdy and durable animal, was showing signs of exhaustion so Patrick made sure his attention was on the horse every night. Plenty of food and water, and then he’d push the horse over in its stall to make sure it took some time off its feet. Not once during his trip had he sought an inn to bed down in. He’d slept with his horse, whose name was simply “Steed”, in order to make sure the animal had a good rest and wanted for nothing. His entire journey north depended on the soundness of his animal.
On this ninth day, he was in range of Berwick; he could smell the sea and that distinctive rank odor of the River Tweed as it dumped into the ocean. The road was boxed in on both sides with wildly growing foliage like hemlock and ash trees, but there were gaps in the cover where he could see more fog off to the east but he knew the sea was there as well.
The smell of smoke from cooking fires made him aware that he was extremely close to Berwick even though he couldn’t see it. His eagerness to rush to the castle, and to Brighton, was almost overwhelming and it was a struggle to remain calm. He was so desperate to get to her that it was nearly overriding his common sense.
But he fought the urge, knowing he had to get the lay of the land first and see where the Scots were, if they were even still here. Not wanting to draw close to the city for fear the Scots had overrun it, he decided to stay out of the town but ride parallel to it, heading towards the north side where there was a rise overlooking the town. Once the fog lifted, he could see for himself what was going on.
Coming to a fork in the road, he knew that the fork to the right would take him straight into Berwick while the other fork would run parallel to the town, cross the river, and then continue north. He took the left fork, spurring his horse into an easy canter as he traveled up the road, seeing patches of sun through the fog. He’d seen fog like this before and suspected, especially in the summer season, that it would lift by midday. When that happened, he wanted to be in a prime position to see Berwick. He pushed the horse a little faster.
He was fairly close to Berwick Castle as he crossed the wooden bridge across the River Tweed. On a clear day, he’d be able to see the castle plainly. But the heavy smell of smoke in the air told him that there were many cooking fires going, which bespoke of an army still present. That told him the Scots hadn’t left and it made him extremely cautious as he finished crossing the bridge and spurred his horse onward in his quest to reach the rise to the north.
The mist was starting to lift a bit as he moved to a higher elevation and he could see the top of Berwick’s keep poking through the clouds. Home! He found himself hoping he wouldn’t run into any Scots because he really couldn’t see where their lines were. For all he knew, he was heading into a nest of them. About a mile up the road, which swung east so it was above the town of Berwick now, he came to the rise that, on a clear day, would enable him to see the castle and surrounding land very clearly.
Pulling the horse to a stop, he debated on what to do next – wait out the fog or try to come in from the north for a look-see. Whatever decision he was about to come to was made for him when a pair of soldiers bearing bows and arrows, aimed right at him, burst forth from the heavily foliage.
“Halt!” one man shouted. “Who are you?”
It was an English soldier and Patrick felt a good deal of relief at the fact that the Northwood or Questing army must have still been in the vicinity. He held up his hands to show that he had nothing threatening in his grasp.
“What army are you with?” he asked the soldiers. “Is Northwood or Questing around here?”
The soldier, threatened by an English knight who had knowledge of the nearby armies, held the bow and arrow up in a very threatening manner.
“Who are you?” he barked again.
Patrick could see he was about to be shot. “I am Patrick de Wolfe, commander of Berwick Castle and newly returned from London,” he said calmly. “Where is Paris de Norville?”
The second soldier rushed up to the first soldier. “Nighthawk!” he gasped. Noting that his comrade still had the arrow pointed at the knight, he slapped the man’s hands down and the bow and arrow fell. “Do you not recognize a de Wolfe when you see one?”
Patrick lowered his hands. “You have every right to be vigilant,” he said. “Am I to understand the Scots are still around here, somewhere?”
Both of the soldiers nodded eagerly. “Aye, my lord,” the second soldier said. “They are dug in around Berwick. Our encampment is on the other side of that hill.”
He was pointing to the north, to the very rise that Patrick was ultimately heading towards. Thanking the two soldiers for the information and congratulating them on their vigilance, he spurred his steed up the hill through the heavy, wet grass.
Just as he’d been told, a vast English encampment was on the other side of the rise. The fog was much lighter here and Patrick could see a camp spread out before him. There were temporary shelters and a few tents, trees stripped of wood and branches, and the ground was muddy from the grass having been trampled down by thousands of booted feet. Smoke filled the air from the dotting of fires all over the place. Patrick focused in on the large cluster of tents over near the northeast side of the encampment.
But he had to pass by two more rounds of sentries before they let him completely enter the encampment. Once he was in, he found the area where the horses were corralled and sought out a groom. His horse was hungry and tired, and he turned the beast over to the man, thinking the horse looked too tired at this point to really bite anyone. Leaving his possessions with the horse, he watched the groom lead his animal over to an area near the corral so they could feed him without the other horses trying to steal the food. Satisfied his steed was being properly tended, Patrick headed towards the big cluster of tents.
“Atty!”
Patrick knew that shout. He’d been hearing it since childhood. Turning in the direction of the call, he saw his older brother, Troy, heading in his direction. Tall and dark like their father, Troy had inherited Saracen blood from their grandmother and had an olive-skinned look about him. Had he not had their father’s hazel eyes, one would have mistaken him for a savage from The Levant. A grin spread across Patrick’s face as he opened his arms for his brother.
“Atty, you beast!” Troy said happily as he hugged the man. “God’s Bones, let me look at you. Aye, you’re as ugly as I remember.”
Patrick laughed softly. “Flattery will get you nowhere,” he said, drinking in the sight of a brother he hadn’t seen in months. “It has been a long time, Brother. How is the wife?”
“Well enough. We are expecting another child in the winter.”
“Congratulations. How is everything else at Kale Castle?”
Troy shrugged. “Quiet,” he said. “I have the Scots so terrified that they dare not breathe for fear of upsetting me. But I notice that you have not been able to do the same with this gang. They have your castle surrounded, Atty.”
Patrick sobered. “I know,” he said. “Kevin found me in London and told me what had happened. Where is Uncle Paris? I have much to tell him.”
Troy began walking towards the bigger tents, pulling Patrick along. “In truth, we have been waiting for you,” he said. “Uncle Paris did not want to completely destroy your castle without your input. He’s moving in siege engines from Northwood. We sent for them several days ago and they should be arriving shortly.”
Siege engines. Patrick wasn’t particularly thrilled to hear that but he understood the logic. Big trebuchets could hurl stones and other projectiles at the Scots, causing them to disburse. But they could also badly damage his walls. He found that he was desperate to know the situation over the past three weeks and whether Berwick had been breached by those seeking to harm his wife. Nearing a larger tent, he was suddenly confronted by another brother who had just emerged from one of the smaller ones.
“Atty!” Scott de Wolfe exclaimed with a mixture of surprise and joy. “God’s Blood, ’tis good to see you. Give me a kiss, you fool.”
Scott, the gregarious blonde brother who was Troy’s twin and the eldest of the pair, grabbed Patrick’s face and kissed him loudly on the cheek. Patrick made a face, pulling back to wipe the saliva off his face.
“Ah, my beloved eldest brother,” he said, somewhat sarcastically. “Now I remember why I stay away from Wolfe’s Lair.”
Scott slapped him on the shoulder. “Why?”
“Because you kiss too much.”
Scott and Troy chuckled, deeply pleased to see their brother. Patrick was fourteen months younger than they were and, throughout their lives, they had enjoyed a close relationship. He adored them and they adored him, and the teasing that went on between them had always been the way they had communicated their affections. Even as adults, their mode of communication was no different. They were brothers until the end.
“And you always hated it,” Scott said, his hazel eyes twinkling. Then, he suddenly sobered. “I think Atty took all of the handsome traits away from you, Troy. The man must be making women swoon all over Berwick.”
Troy cocked an eyebrow. “And he took all of the brains away from you,” he said to his twin. He turned to Patrick. “Come along, you gorgeous stud. Uncle Paris will want a word with you.”
Patrick had to grin as he followed his brothers towards the larger tent. Scott walked beside him, his hand on Patrick’s shoulder, and Patrick felt as if he’d never been away from the pair. Times like this made him realize how much he missed them.
“There is much to tell,” he said to his brothers. “Much has happened over the past several weeks. If you behave yourselves, I just might tell you of my new wife.”
Both Scott and Troy came to a halt, looking at Patrick as if the man had just announced he was in league with the devil. Before they could bombard him with a flurry of question, Patrick flashed them a saucy grin and pushed into the tent.
It was dark inside the tent even with a big bank of lit tapers and a glowing brazier, but Patrick’s gaze fell on the two figures in the tent almost immediately. Kieran and another man were bent over a well-used map that was spread out on a collapsible table, but when Patrick, Scott, and Troy entered the tent, the heads came up and surprise registered. As Kieran grinned like a fool, his relief evident, the other man charged towards Patrick.
“My God,” the man breathed, throwing his arms around Patrick and nearly knocking him over. “Is it true? Has the Nighthawk finally arrived?”
Patrick laughed softly as Paris de Norville greeted him as one would a long-lost son. In truth, Paris had helped deliver Patrick as an infant, so there was a special bond between Patrick and the man who was his father’s best friend. Arrogant, brilliant, and compassionate, Paris was a man with more life in him that most men could exhibit in three lifetimes. Everything about him was bright and exuberant, humorous and kind. Paris finally pulled back to look Patrick in the eye, his big hands on Patrick’s bearded face as he inspected him.
“Tell me how you are,” he said, “and leave nothing out.”
Patrick sighed heavily, wondering where to start. “I am well,” he said. “I am exhausted. I have ridden from London in nine days to make it back to Berwick. Kevin found me. He told me there has been a siege, which I see is still going on.”
Paris dropped his hands from Patrick’s face. “Indeed, it is,” he said. “Is that all Kevin told you?”
Patrick nodded. “It is. Is there more?”
Paris suddenly looked q
uite weary as he turned back to the table with the map, as it turned out, of the city of Berwick. “I am not entirely sure how much more,” he said. “All I know is that the Scots are dug in around your garrison and they will not move. I am bringing siege engines from Northwood to dislodge them but I may damage your walls in the process. Thank God you have come when you have because I did not want to do this without your permission. Patrick, why are the Gordon and their allies so determined to dig themselves in around Berwick? Do you know?”
Patrick began to feel his fatigue. Scott shoved a cup of wine at him and he drank the entire thing before speaking. “I do,” he said as he smacked his lips. “It all has to do with my wife. It is quite a story, actually.”
Kieran was the only one who had known Patrick had taken a wife and he hadn’t told the others because he didn’t think it was his right to do so. Therefore, everyone but Kieran reacted sharply to the announcement. Paris’ eyes bulged.
“Wife?” he repeated. “You have married and I did not know?”
Patrick could hear the hurt and outrage in the man’s voice. He held up a quelling hand. “It happened rather suddenly,” he said. “Do not be offended that you were not invited to the wedding. No one was. I married her without my father’s permission.”
Scott and Troy still had rather surprised looks on their faces but Paris seemed to be rather keen on the idea. “Is this true?” he asked, astonished. “You married and William did not approve? I would say that I am shocked but I am not. You always did as you pleased, regardless of what anyone else thought. In fact, I am proud of you for following your head and not listening to your father on the matter.”
Patrick had to grin; Paris and William adored one another, without question, but Paris loved it when William was frustrated by his children. It gave him something to laugh about.
“I listened to my heart, Uncle Paris,” Patrick clarified. “You see, several weeks ago, we received word that a band of reivers had raided an English settlement. We rode out to route the reivers and it turned out that they had a female captive. They had taken her from Coldingham. I fell in love with the woman I saved and I married her.”
Nighthawk: Sons of de Wolfe (de Wolfe Pack Book 7) Page 32