Nunnery Brides: A Medieval Romance Collection

by Kathryn Le Veque

  Like the maid of the mist, she emerged from the tower, her skin as pale as the fog surrounding her. There was a little color in her lips and her eyes, big and bottomless. She almost looked surreal against the mists surrounding them. She was wearing a linen cloak with the hood partially covering her head and, in her hands, she carried a pewter pitcher and a few cups. She smiled timidly when she saw Hector.

  “Good morn to you,” she said politely. “I have brought warmed, watered wine if you would like some.”

  Hector returned her smile; he genuinely liked Brighton and his wife was extremely fond of her. A woman of good humor and a hard work ethic, there was nothing not to like about her and he could see why Patrick was so enamored with her. But here she was, on the battlements where she wasn’t supposed to be, yet he hesitated to tell her so. It was difficult to be stern to that lovely face.

  “No, thank you,” he said. “I was just heading down. But I am sure there are others who will take you up on your thoughtful offer.”

  He slipped past her, down the stairs, and Brighton’s gaze sought out the knights, standing down the wall. She could barely see them through the mist. Men who were sworn to protect her from the Scots trying to take her and she was terribly ashamed of the fact. Sometimes, she didn’t even think she could look them in the eye.

  All of this was her fault; she knew that. As soon as it had been determined that Gordon and MacKay were the Scots on the offensive against Berwick, she knew it was all because of her. The woman she had trusted all of her life had betrayed her and, after the failed abduction from Coldingham, Mother Prioress’ brother had discovered where she had been taken and had come for her.

  Brighton had been given twenty-three days since the day of Patrick’s departure to come to grips with the fundamental flaw in everything she’d ever believed – a caring church, a mother prioress who had nurtured her, had all been lies. She could see that now. To say it was disorienting was putting it mildly because she felt as if her entire life had been turned upside-down. Perhaps her entire life had been one big lie, all of it aimed towards this moment in her adult life when Mother Prioress’ brother would steal her away and nail her to a cross for all to see.

  More and more, Brighton was coming to realize that the English had been her saviors, angels sent by God to protect her from the mother prioress’ evil. But she had also thought about Sister Acha, wondering if the old woman had been given any hint of the evil she was involved in. Perhaps Sister Acha was even part of the evil, but it was a blessing that Brighton would never know. She honestly didn’t think she could accept the truth to learn that Sister Acha was part of this plot. It was her saving grace that the woman had died before she’d been questioned about it. For Brighton, it was better for her sanity not to believe ill of the dead.

  But now, she was facing an even bigger dilemma. The Gordon wanted her badly enough to lay siege to Berwick and now men were fighting and dying, just because of her. It was enough to leave her sleepless at night, weeping over a situation beyond her control and feeling inherently guilty for it. But no one at Berwick had even hinted she was to blame. In fact, they seemed quite staunch about supporting her. Such good, good people believed in her. She wondered what she ever did to deserve it.

  Now, she was on the wall where she wasn’t supposed to be, bringing the exhausted knights a warm drink on this cold morning. She couldn’t do much by way of helping them during the battle, but she could keep them fed and well-tended as much as possible. But all the while, she was praying that Patrick would hurry and return, for perhaps he could figure out a way to remove the Gordon from Berwick. He was the Nighthawk, after all.

  God, she missed him so badly that it hurt.

  But thoughts of her husband faded as she drew close to the knights and they turned to look at her, especially William with his patched left eye. She smiled hesitantly when their gazes locked.

  “I-it is a cold morning and I have brought you something warm,” she said, extending the stacked wooden cups to Alec, who took them and began distributing them. “Warmed, watered wine with spices. It should help fend off the cool of the mist.”

  The knights held out their cups gratefully as she began to pour the heated liquid. She came to William last and poured him the most, with bits of clove floating around in his cup. He sipped gingerly at it, for it was very hot and quite delicious.

  “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.”

&n
bsp; 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.”