Nunnery Brides: A Medieval Romance Collection

by Kathryn Le Veque

  “What do you suppose has them so excited?” Paris muttered, leaning in to William. “They are either thrilled to see us or eager to cut our heads off.”

  William was baffled by the behavior as well. “They have not produced any weapons,” he said. “As long as they do not, I will assume they are happy to make new friends.”

  Paris rolled his eyes, completely in doubt of what William was saying, but he kept his mouth shut. Meanwhile, Patrick pushed through to the front of the group and made his way to the edge of the Water Tower where he could clearly see the shore below. Protected by the parapet, he peered between the crenellations.

  “It does not look as if they have brought hundreds of men with them,” he said, scrutinizing the men, the ships, and searching for any concealed weapons. “In fact, it does not look as if there are more than one hundred.”

  William, Paris, and Kieran were watching as well. “They could have more men below decks,” Kieran said. “Or there could be more longships coming.”

  That was a distinct possibility. They continued watching as several Northmen came towards the Water Tower, a group of them in fact, and William suddenly pointed.

  “Look, there,” he said, trying to point but not wanting the Northmen to see it. “See the man in the ecclesiastical robes? They have a monk with them.”

  Patrick, Paris, and Kieran all jockeyed for better positions to see what William was talking about and they quite clearly saw a very small man with his hair cut in the tonsure style, wearing rough woolen robes. He was surrounded by Northmen but one man in particular had him by the arm, pulling him towards the tower. As Patrick and the older knights watched curiously, the man thrust the monk to the forefront.

  The monk was a tiny and slender man, not particularly old, but frail looking from poor nutrition and, perhaps, a sickening trip across the sea. He seemed to be asking questions of the men around him, evidently quite nervous, until one man thumped him on the shoulder and pointed to the Water Tower where the English were huddled. It was a hint and the monk took it.

  “I am Able,” he said, his thin voice quivering as he yelled. “I have been brought to translate for these men who do not speak your language.”

  Patrick looked at his father with great surprise and curiosity before calling back. “Who are they?” he boomed. “Why have they come?”

  Overhead, gulls screamed, flying over the riverbanks in search of a meal now that the fog had lifted. But their cries startled the monk. He cringed as the birds flew over before answering.

  “I was sent from Coldingham to find the king of the Northmen,” the monk said, wringing his hands and clearly in distress. “I had a missive for Magnus. It took me weeks to travel to the land of the Danes, and many water crossings, but I came to him and gave him the missive from Mother Prioress of Coldingham Priory. But Magnus would not permit me to leave. He said that I must come with him to Berwick to seek his child, a daughter. He has come in search of her. Do you know where I may find her?”

  Patrick felt as if he’d been hit by a load of stones, thousands of pounds bearing down on him, crushing his chest, rendering him unable to breathe. He actually stumbled back, against the wall, turning to his father with a look of utter astonishment. He was as pale as the mist that had so recently lifted.

  “It is him!” he gasped. “God’s Bones… my suspicions were correct!”

  William was only mildly less astonished, his years and experience giving him the ability to be more logical about the situation. Still, he was having difficulty grasping it as well.

  Magnus had come!

  “Jesus,” he hissed. “’Tis true. My God, how astonishing. The mother prioress sent him word? Why, in God’s name, would she do that if she was in collusion with her brother to murder your wife?”

  Patrick didn’t have an answer. Taking a deep breath, he struggled for calm, feeling Paris’ hand on his back in a comforting gesture as he turned to the monk once again.

  “Let me understand this plainly,” he called back. “The mother prioress of Coldingham Priory sent you with a missive for Magnus?”

  The monk nodded. “It was a missive that told Magnus his daughter was at Berwick and in danger,” he said. “He seeks his daughter and is prepared to pay for her freedom. If you will not accept his money, then he will burn your city and destroy your castle. He has told me to tell you this.”

  Patrick wasn’t any less confused than he had initially been but his shock had cooled into great bewilderment. He shook his head, baffled, as he turned to his father.

  “The mother prioress sent word to Magnus that his daughter was in danger?” he repeated, hoping his father could help him make some sense of it. “Why would she do that?”

  William couldn’t even begin to guess. “I do not know,” he said. “But, clearly, she knew that Bridey had been taken to Berwick. That must be how Richard Gordon came into the information.”

  It made some sense but Patrick was still greatly confused. “So she sends Magnus word of the situation? Possibly to have her returned?”

  “You will have to ask him.”

  Patrick knew that. He turned his attention back to the monk. “Why did Mother Prioress send Magnus the missive?” he asked. “And what made her think Magnus’ daughter was here?”

  The monk shook his head. “I do not know, my lord,” he said. “Is the daughter here at Berwick?”

  Patrick stared at the monk for a moment. Then, he turned away and headed towards the stairs that led down to the entry level of the Water Tower. William, Paris, and Kieran followed.

  “Where are you going?” William demanded.

  Patrick paused at the top of the stairs, reaching for the set of keys that was always kept in a small niche at the top. “I am going to speak to Magnus face to face,” he said. “This is not something I wish to shout for all men to hear. Magnus will hear the situation from my own lips, face to face.”

  William grabbed him when he was halfway down the stairs. “Nay, Patrick,” he said sternly. “It is not safe for you to do this. They may take you hostage.”

  Patrick pulled away from his father, gently but firmly. “If they take me hostage, then I have you to negotiate my release.”

  He was already to the first gate, unlocking the enormous bolt. From behind, Paris grabbed his arm again. “Patrick, listen to your father,” he said. “This is not a good idea. You do not know what these men will do.”

  Patrick pulled his arm from Paris’ grip, pushed open the gate, and then suddenly shoved all three men back onto the stairs. Paris actually fell backwards and into Kieran, and the action was enough to send all of them off balance. Quickly, while they were stumbling around, Patrick locked the gate so that the men couldn’t follow him further.

  “I am sorry,” he said sincerely, looking at the panicked faces of his father and uncles, “but this is something I must do myself. They have come for my wife and they will not have her. I must explain that to them as a man would. Isn’t that what you told me when you instructed me to speak to Henry face to face on an important matter, Da? You were correct. It was the right thing to do. I showed Henry my respect and now I intend to do the same to Magnus. He will understand I am honorable and that I do not fear him. He will also understand that I have married his daughter and she will not be returned to him.”

  William heard his words echoed in Patrick’s statement, a statement of honor that had now come back to haunt him. But he couldn’t stand the fact that his brave, beautiful son was now heading out to meet with Northmen alone, a herd of them who could quite easily take him hostage. Imploringly, he reached through the iron bars, trying to grasp at Patrick.

  “Atty, nay,” he breathed. “Come back in here and we shall handle this together, rationally. I cannot return to your mother and tell her that I let you go to your death!”

  Patrick smiled faintly. “You will not have to,” he assured him softly. But his smile quickly faded. “Listen to me and listen well; no matter what happens to me, you will not give them Br
idey. Not under any circumstances.”

  There was panic in William’s eyes. “Patrick, I cannot –!”

  “Promise me!”

  William was beside himself. “I swear it,” he swallowed hard. “They shall never have her. But, please… please let me come with you.”

  Patrick’s smile was back. His pale green eyes glimmered at his father, at his Uncle Paris and Uncle Kieran. Men he loved too deeply for words.

  “You have taught me well, all of you,” he said softly. “Do not worry for me. Everything you have taught me in my life has brought me to this moment and I love you all dearly. I take the best of you with me. I will not fail, I swear it.”

  With that, he turned to the second gate and unlocked it as William watched with his heart in his throat.

  “Atty….”

  William didn’t finish his sentence as Patrick threw open the second gate and marched forth into the bright sunlight beyond.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The Northmen were surprised to see him.

  Patrick could tell by the looks on their faces, staring at him in shock as he came through the Water Tower gate, moving towards the collection of Northmen fearlessly. He intended to show them what English courage was made of. A few of them backed away but several stood their ground, watching him suspiciously as he walked steadily towards them.

  Patrick knew he gave off an incredibly imposing vision, as tall as he was, and he used that to his advantage. He liked to see the wariness in their eyes as they gazed upon a massive English knight. His focus moved to the monk.

  “Where is Magnus?” he asked. “I would speak with him.”

  The monk was visibly cowering from him. After a moment, he turned back to a man behind him and spoke to the man in Latin; Patrick recognized it. He’d spent enough time in church and in mass that he could understand the language. Magnus enim qui petit…

  He asks for Magnus.

  The man the monk had spoken to turned to still other men behind him and began speaking in their language. Men were shaking their head, pointing, clearly in some kind of disagreement. While that was going on, Patrick spoke to the monk once more.

  “You,” he said. “Are you from Coldingham?”

  The monk nodded. “I am, my lord.”

  Patrick’s eyes flicked to the whispering, hissing Northmen standing behind him. “You delivered the missive to Magnus personally?”

  “I did, my lord.”

  “Did you see the missive Mother Prioress gave you?”

  “I saw the missive because I had to translate it for them, my lord.”

  Patrick’s gaze was still on the Northmen, making sure someone didn’t do something stupid like try to rush him. They seemed to be very agitated and he was cautious.

  “I do not understand why Mother Prioress sent the missive in the first place,” he said. “Did she tell you?”

  “She did not, my lord.”

  Patrick pondered that for a moment. It seemed that the monk didn’t know much more than what he’d already told him. He took a step closer to the tiny man.

  “Is Magnus standing behind you in that group of men?” he asked quietly.

  The monk closed his eyes, tightly, as if Patrick had just asked him something horrible. But he nodded sharply, once, and that was it. Patrick didn’t press him further because he could see how terrified the man was, but he needed to get a message across to Magnus. If the man wasn’t going to be brave enough to show himself, then Patrick would just have to tell everyone what he needed to say and hope that Magnus had the courage to step forward. Reaching out, he grasped the monk by the shoulder.

  “I have something to say to Magnus and you will translate for me,” he said. “Does Magnus understand Latin?”

  The monk was clearly frightened. “Nay, he does not,” he said. Then, he pointed to the group of men who had now noticed that Patrick had pulled the monk away from them. “That man, in the red robes, is a holy man from the land of the Danes. He understands Latin, so I translate into Latin and then he translates it into their language.”

  Patrick could see the system they had going, clever if not entirely efficient. “Then you tell that holy man that he is to translate what I say. Do it now.”

  The monk spoke in his trembling voice. “Quod est loqui Anglorum Magnus.”

  The Englishman must speak to Magnus.

  The red-robed holy man looked confused but, prompted by the monk, he relayed the words in their language. That seemed to have everyone’s attention and Patrick didn’t delay. He had a great deal he needed to say and he wasn’t going to waste any time.

  “You will tell Magnus this,” he said. “Tell him that the danger his daughter was in was from the mother prioress herself. She plotted to have his daughter murdered and I saved her from that plot. His daughter is in excellent health and she is now my wife. I married her. Tell him that this is my castle and I am an honorable warrior. He needn’t fear for his daughter or her safety.”

  The monk’s eyes widened at the shocking information and hesitated to translate, but Patrick squeezed his shoulder with a trencher-sized hand. “Also know that I understand Latin,” he rumbled. “If you do not tell him exactly what I told you, they will have to drag the river for your body. No Northman is going to save you from my wrath.”

  The monk went ashen. Turning to the group, he relayed what Patrick had told him, verbatim, and then Patrick could see the reaction on their faces when the holy man in the red robes related it in their language. More hissing and whispering went on when the man in the red robes said something to the monk, who turned to Patrick.

  “Magnus says that a woman of God would never do such a thing,” he said. “My lord, I cannot believe it myself. Mother Prioress is beyond reproach.”

  Patrick lifted a dark eyebrow. “Did you see the Scots surrounding my castle when you came upriver?”

  The monk’s brow furrowed with both thought and confusion. “I heard the men say that there was a battle at the castle,” he said. “They saw something but, alas, I did not.”

  Patrick pointed a finger to the Northmen. “Tell them that the men they saw around the castle were Scots from Clan Gordon, led by a man named Richard Gordon. He is the brother of the mother prioress. They had come to take Magnus’ daughter because they wanted to kill her. I believe that is proof enough. Tell them this.”

  He snapped the last three words and the monk jumped, relaying that to the red-robed holy man who then, in turn, relayed it to the Northmen. More disbelief, more hissing, but there wasn’t the suspicion in their expressions that there had been before. Suspicion was transforming into something else; Patrick hoped it was understanding. The monk, huddled and trembling and still in Patrick’s grip, shook his head.

  “It does not seem possible,” he said. “But… but I did see Richard Gordon at Coldingham before I was sent to deliver the missive to Magnus.”

  Now it was Patrick’s turn to be surprised. “You did?” he asked, trying not to show so much astonishment in front of the Northmen. “Was it after Magnus’ daughter had been abducted?”

  “Aye, my lord.”

  “Do you know why Richard was there?”

  “I do not know, my lord, but they came to see the mother prioress.”

  “Was that an unusual event? What I mean to ask is if Richard Gordon was a frequent visitor.”

  “Not too frequent, my lord. We did not see him often.”

  Then it was a visit, in Patrick’s mind, that was not a coincidence and he felt more relief at that moment than he ever thought possible. Richard Gordon’s presence at Coldingham, witnessed by the monk no less, was confirmation of everything he’d been speculating all along, everything that Tommy Orry had told them – Richard Gordon and Mother Prioress were in collusion. In fact, Patrick felt a good deal of validation in that moment.

  “Then you have your proof,” he said. “Richard Gordon came to Coldingham to plot with Mother Prioress to kill Magnus’ daughter. Go on and tell them.”

  The
monk did. From what Patrick could understand, he told the Northmen, in Latin, of his own experience seeing Richard Gordon at Coldingham right before he’d left to deliver the missive to Magnus and that, combined with what Patrick was telling them, seemed to convince them that Patrick wasn’t lying. At least, they weren’t looking at him so guardedly any longer.

  Now, there was a basis for an understanding.

  But Patrick wasn’t satisfied with this level of communication. Understanding or no, he had come to speak with Magnus and that was what he intended to do. It was time to bring the man out.

  His fingers dug into the monk’s shoulder again.

  “Tell Magnus that he shows a lack of respect to hide from me behind his men,” he said, knowing full well that he could possibly be stirring a hornet’s nest. “I came to speak to him and that is what I will do. Tell him that I consider his actions cowardly.”

  The monk’s eyes widened but he dutifully relayed the message to the holy man, who relayed it to the Northmen. Just as Patrick had hoped, the group became indignant and the hissing was now directed at him. But Patrick stood his ground, bracing his legs apart and folding his enormous arms across his chest. At the moment, he did not regret saying such a thing but that might change if the group charged him. He hoped he was prepared but he wanted to give the illusion that he didn’t much care what they tried to do. He was ready for them.

  At least, he hoped so.

  Patrick wasn’t really sure how long he stood there. Men were whispering loudly, pointing to him, and arguing with each other. Just when he was certain he’d have to make an even more offensive statement about Magnus’ bravery, a man pushed through the crowd and walked towards him.

  Patrick studied the man closely. He was moderately tall, older, with a crown of graying hair and a handsome, if not weathered, face. But the eyes… the moment Patrick looked the man in the face, he recognized those eyes.