Nunnery Brides: A Medieval Romance Collection

by Kathryn Le Veque

  Rebuked, Thomas scooted down the table and lost himself in the bread and butter that were sitting further down. William’s gaze lingered on his nosy son for a moment before turning his attention to Brighton only to see that she was gazing up at him. He smiled weakly.

  “My lady,” he said. “I hope not everyone at Questing has been so rude.”

  Brighton grinned. “H-he was not rude, my lord,” she assured him. “He was pleasant and curious.”

  “You are kind.”

  “I-I promise I would tell you if he was rude, but I swear that he was not.”

  William flashed her a smile that suggested he didn’t believe her but he let it go. Then, he extended his arm towards the other end of the table, nearer to the hearth.

  “Will you not come down here and sit near the fire?” he asked. “It is our pleasure to have you as our honored guest tonight.”

  Brighton stood up, cup of wine in hand, and moved with the man down to the far end of the table where it was delightfully warm next to the enormous hearth, big enough for five men to stand inside of. It was the biggest hearth she had ever seen.

  “T-thank you,” she said, a bit giddy to be in such an important man’s company. It made her run off at the mouth a bit. “I have never supped in such a grand place as this.”

  William indicated where she should sit and she did. “I can imagine the halls of Coldingham are not quite as elaborate.”

  “N-not at all, my lord.”

  He moved to take a seat across the table from her. “My son says you wish to return to Coldingham,” he said. “I have instructed him to return you on the morrow. I apologize he brought you to Questing in the first place. I am sure it was a taxing journey after your harrowing experience with the Scots.”

  Brighton felt as if she’d been struck. Gone were the warm feelings and awe of being in such a grand place, and shock filled her expression as she absorbed his words.

  “T-take me back to…?”

  William reached out to grasp a large cup of wine brought him by a hovering servant. “Patrick meant well, you must understand,” he said. “He felt he was doing what he needed to do for your safety, but he understands now that, as a ward of the church, you must be returned. I am sorry if he was not clear on that before.”

  Brighton’s heart began to pound, a feeling of anxiety filling her. “B-but I do not wish to return,” she said. “I-I cannot return. It will not be safe for me to return and it will put everyone else in danger.”

  William looked at her, hearing Patrick’s words as she spoke and it did not please him. Was it possible his son had persuaded her with his own thoughts, convincing her that she did not want to return?

  “If you do not wish to return to Coldingham, then we can take you to Kelso or Jedburgh,” he said steadily. “You will be safe at either of them. They are big and fortified.”

  He sounded as if he’d already made the decision, as if this was something not open to debate. Brighton felt sick in the pit of her stomach.

  “P-please, my lord,” she said softly, urgently. “I do not wish to return to Coldingham. What Sir Patrick said was correct – the reivers came there looking for me. They asked for me and they killed the nun who had spent her life tending me. If I go back, they will only breach the abbey again and many will be in danger. Please… please do not make me go back.”

  William regarded her over his wine cup. “Patrick said you had asked to return.”

  She nodded her head, so hard that some of her careful hair style came loose. “A-at first, I did,” she said. “That was before I understood how dangerous it was. The truth of my lineage is now known to me and… my lord, I asked Patrick if you would send word to the prioress at Coldingham and ask her what she knew of my heritage. Sister Acha said that I was the daughter of Juliana de la Haye and Magnus, king of the Northmen. If I could beseech you for help in discovering if this is true… in asking Mother Prioress if she knows this to be true… please, my lord. I beg for your help.”

  William’s face was emotionless, but inside, he was starting to slip. Being begged by a frightened woman was weakening his resolve and, as he spoke to her, he began to see what had Patrick so enamored. She was exquisitely beautiful with her big blue eyes and rich brown hair. In spite of the slight stammer in her speech, she was well-spoken. She was also quite endearing, something soft and sweet that all men wanted to protect. He was starting to wonder if he wasn’t about to fold over just as his son had, for certainly, the woman had that power about her. It was a struggle, but he summoned his strength for one last stand against her.

  “You may ask her yourself when you return to Coldingham,” he said quietly. “My lady, please do not think me unkind, but your troubles are your own. I cannot involve myself, especially where the church is concerned. I would assume you are a pledge?”

  Tears were filling Brighton’s eyes. “I-I am, my lord.”

  “And you are intending to take the veil?”

  “A-aye, my lord.”

  “Then I truly have no business involving myself. You must return to Coldingham.”

  Brighton didn’t argue with him, mostly because she was close to openly weeping. She dropped her head, her chin to her chest, trying desperately not to cry but not being successful at it. The tears trickled down her cheeks and she reached up, flicking them away quickly with shaking hands. William was coming to feel increasingly terrible about denying her when his wife approached the table with their young daughter and most of the grandchildren. Distracted from the weeping lady, he began lifting little bodies onto the bench beside him as Jordan lifted Penelope up to sit beside Brighton.

  “I feel as if I’ve been herding ducklings for the past hour,” Jordan grumbled. “Ye get most in line and two wander away. Ye find those two and another two wander away. Keep watch of them, English, while I see tae their meal. I’ve had the cook make a fowl stew for their little bellies.”

  William had Evelyn’s youngest daughter on his lap, little flame-haired Lisbet. “Go ahead,” he said. “I will try and keep them entertained.”

  Jordan blew out her cheeks, indicative of her level of frustration, but as she turned from the table, she caught sight of Brighton’s lowered head and a glimmer of water on her face. She paused, putting her hand underneath Brighton’s chin and forcing the woman to look at her. Immediately, she saw the tears and her eyes widened.

  “What’s this?” she demanded softly. “Why are ye weeping, lass?”

  Brighton tried to swallow her tears and answer; she really did. But the moment she saw Jordan’s concerned face, everything crumpled. She burst into quiet tears and Jordan dropped onto the seat beside her, putting her arms around the woman.

  “There, there, lass,” she said soothingly. “’Twill be all right, I promise. What has ye so upset?”

  Brighton struggled; she didn’t want to incriminate William but that would be difficult if she answered Jordan directly. She tried to stammer through it.

  “I-I have been told that I-I will be returned to Coldingham,” she sobbed softly. “I-I do not want to go.”

  Jordan hadn’t heard the discussion in the solar with her husband and Patrick. All she knew was that the lady had been abducted from Coldingham Priory by reivers and that her son had saved the woman. But she also knew that there was something more to it, something Patrick would not tell her. There had been a great mystery about it. She was therefore confused in general.

  “Then ye dunna have tae go,” she assured Brighton. “We willna send ye back if ye dunna wish tae go. Will we, English?”

  Across the table, William cleared his throat softly. “She must return.”

  Jordan looked at her husband, frowning. “Why?”

  “Because she is a ward of the church and she must be returned.”

  “Why?”

  He sighed with exasperation. “I will not discuss this with you,” he said. “I am sorry that she does not wish to be returned, but she must go back.”

  Brighton wasn’t a manipulat
ive person by nature but she saw a chance to, perhaps, plead her case to a higher power than William de Wolfe himself – the man’s wife.

  “I-I am afraid that I will be in danger if I return, my lady,” she wept. “The reivers that abducted me had gone to Coldingham to find me. I-I am afraid that if I am returned, they will simply abduct me again. They might hurt others in the process. I am afraid to go back.”

  Jordan was stricken with what she was hearing. She looked at her husband. “Do ye hear this, English?” she asked, incredulous. “The lass is a-feared tae return and ye’ll make her go? I canna believe me ears!”

  William rolled his one good eye, shaking his head because he was coming to sense there was a battle on the horizon – one between him and his wife. Rather than escalate it with a response, he knew his wife well enough that he knew he had to placate her, somehow. He held out a quelling hand.

  “I do not wish to discuss it with you now,” he said, “but I promise we will discuss it later. If you will just give me an evening of peace, I promise I will tell you everything tomorrow and you will know why I have decided upon this course. I think you will agree with me.”

  Jordan wasn’t so easily pacified but she respected her husband enough not to fight with him in front of a stranger. Eyeing him for a moment, as if to silently convey that he had better keep his promise, she returned her focus to Brighton.

  “Enough tears, lass,” she said, wiping at the woman’s chin. “I will discuss this with me husband and we will settle it. Ye’ll not have tae do anything ye dunna want tae, I promise. Will ye stop yer tears now and enjoy yer food? I’ve had a few special dishes prepared that I hope ye’ll like.”

  Brighton was very grateful for Lady Jordan and her fierce advocacy. She nodded, swallowing away the remainder of her tears and wiping off her face. “Y-you are very kind,” she sniffled. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

  Jordan nodded, patted her on the cheek, and left the table. Brighton didn’t dare look at William for fear of seeing disapproval in his eyes for pleading to his wife, so she kept her gaze averted. It wasn’t long before she noticed the child sitting next to her, a doll-like little girl with big hazel eyes and dark hair who was looking up at her quite curiously. Brighton smiled weakly at the child.

  “G-Greetings,” she said.

  The little girl looked her over. “Who are you?”

  “I-I am Bridey. Who are you?”

  “Penelope.”

  “’Tis a pleasure to meet you, Lady Penelope.”

  Penelope continued to look her over. “Why are you crying?”

  Brighton cringed inwardly, knowing that William was listening. “I-I suppose I am sad,” she simply said. “How many years have you seen, Penelope?”

  Penelope cocked her head. “Three,” she said. “I have a sword.”

  Brighton pretended to be impressed. “Y-you do?” she said. “Are you soon to fight alongside your father?”

  Penelope nodded. “I will be a knight someday,” she declared.

  “Not if Mother has anything to say about it.”

  Patrick had come up behind them and Brighton turned at the sound of his voice, her heart swelling with joy as she gazed up at the man. But just as elation filled her, it was doused by the thought that Patrick must have agreed with his father if William was intent on sending her back to Coldingham. His reasoning with her the night they’d left Berwick must not have meant anything to him now – the danger she would face and his vow to protect her from it. Nay, she was certain it meant nothing to him now and she was starting to feel like a fool. A silly, burdensome fool. Just as quickly as she had looked at him, she lowered her head.

  It was a gesture not lost on Patrick. Brighton sat there with her head down, refusing to look at him. With his father sitting at the table across from her, he could guess why. He knew his father had told her of her imminent return to Coldingham. As he went to sit beside her, Penelope jumped up and tried to climb on his lap even as he was sitting down.

  “Atty!” Penelope said. “I want to fight! Will you fight with me?”

  She meant with her wooden sword. Patrick shifted her so she was sitting on his thigh and not trying to climb up all over him.

  “Mayhap after sup,” he said. “You must ask Mother.”

  Penelope frowned. “She will not give me my sword back.”

  “Then how are we supposed to fight each other?”

  Penelope grinned, a very big grin with a mouth full of big gleaming baby teeth. “You will give me another sword!”

  Across the table, William chuckled; Patrick could hear him. “Alas, I do not have another sword for you,” he told his little sister. “You must ask Mother to return your sword and then we shall fight.”

  Penelope didn’t like that idea in the least. As she tried to argue with her brother in favor of him lending her another sword, a real sword, servants began to bring about trenchers of boiled beef and carrots. Next to Patrick, Brighton leaned over and whispered something to the servant that had just placed a trencher in front of her and the servant pointed towards the east side of the hall. Then, she suddenly stood up and quickly shuffled in that direction. Although Penelope was chatting in his ear, Patrick turned to watch her go, seeing her figure in the beautiful red silk. She looked positively stunning. Ignoring his sister, he turned to his father.

  “You told her, didn’t you?” he asked quietly. “About Coldingham, I mean. You told her.”

  William regarded his son over the top of his wine cup. “She asked,” he said evenly. “I am not going to lie to her, Patrick.”

  Patrick sighed heavily and removed Penelope from his lap. “That news should have come from me,” he said flatly. “I am the one who has been directing her life for the past two days. I am the one who told her that it would be dangerous for her to return to Coldingham. News of returning her to Coldingham should have come from me.”

  With that, he abruptly stood up. William watched him. “Where are you going now?” he asked.

  Patrick was clearly displeased. “To talk to her,” he said. “To apologize for the fact that my father will not help me protect her.”

  William could see the anger from his passionate son. “You came for my counsel. If you did not want it, then you should not have come.”

  Patrick looked at him with an expression William had never seen before. It was wrought with anger, with disgust, and, perhaps, a great deal of disappointment. “You are correct,” he said, lowering his voice. “I should not have. I will not make the same mistake again.”

  With that, he stormed off, heading in the direction that Brighton had gone and nearly running his mother over in the process. She was carrying a bowl of something destined for her grandchildren. Patrick paused and apologized for nearly knocking the woman down but continued on before Jordan could reply. She stood there a moment, watching him walk off, before continuing to the table where her grandchildren and husband were sitting.

  Setting the bowl down on the table, which the children swarmed on because it contained fried balls of dough, chicken, and carrots, Jordan looked at her husband most curiously.

  “Where is Patrick going?” she asked.

  William wasn’t pleased about the entire situation and he was particularly upset about his son’s words. Patrick adored him and he adored his son, so harsh words between them were very unusual. He downed the entire contents of his wine cup and slammed the vessel onto the table.

  “He is unhappy with me,” he said. “He has gone to speak with Lady Brighton.”

  Jordan turned to look off in the direction Patrick had taken again but he was gone by that time. She paused, perhaps thinking of her enormous son and the lovely lady he had brought with him. She’d seen the interaction between the two, the expression on her son’s face when he looked at the woman. If she didn’t know better….

  She returned her focus to her husband.

  “Careful, English,” she murmured. “When it comes tae a woman, ye must be very careful.”

&n
bsp; William’s jaw ticked. “He should have never brought her here in the first place,” he said. “He was wrong and he does not want to admit it.”

  Jordan mulled over those words. “It is possible that is not the only thing he doesna want tae admit.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Jordan shook her head, finding a seat amongst her grandchildren. “I am not sure,” she said. “It ’tis possible that Atty brought the young woman here for other reasons than what he has told ye.”

  William didn’t want to hear that. God, he didn’t want to. He’d been wrestling with that fear for the past hour.

  “Nay,” he finally said, shaking his head. “I will not hear of it. Patrick is going to London to assume his post and there is no time for what… whatever it is you are suggesting.”

  Jordan could hear the distress in her husband’s tone. “Something like this doesna have a time. It happens when it happens. She is a lovely lass and quite kind from what I’ve seen. And she’s beautiful; surely he’s noticed that.”

  William was becoming increasingly frustrated. “If she was English, would you be so supportive?”

  “What do ye mean?”

  “I mean that she is Scots. Is that who you see for Patrick? A Scots wife?”

  Jordan lifted her eyebrows. “It was good enough for ye, English. Why not Atty?”

  William sighed sharply, with frustration. “Not him,” he mumbled, holding up his cup for a servant to fill. He remained silent until the cup was overflowing and the servant moved away. “Not for Patrick. He will have a great marriage, Jordan, and a wife that can bring him wealth and prestige. The daughter of a man who has a mighty army and lands to offer him. My son is destined for great things and needs a wife who can help him achieve them.”

  Jordan shook her head slowly. “I canna believe what I’m hearing,” she said. “Ye were destined for great things and ye achieved them. Did I hold ye back?”

  He rolled his eye, taking a huge drink from his cup. “It is not the same.”

  “Aye, it ’tis!”