by Ashley York
“Nothing but matrons here.”
He glanced toward Tisa before chastely kissing his wife’s cheek. Thomasina must have told him to control his ardor in front of Tisa. Very thoughtful girl but not necessary. Tisa was becoming quite used to it, living with Darragh and Breandan. And then Caireann and Malcolm but they just held hands. Although since the formal betrothal was announced, Tisa did wonder about their disappearances. She beat her fist into the bread.
“Thomasina, ye will always be my lovely maiden. And what of ye, Tisa?”
She gaped at him. Did he ask if she were a maiden? “Beg pardon?”
Thomasina slapped his chest. “He is asking how ye are, ‘tis all.”
“Fine.” She turned the two ends and flipped the bread to punch it again.
“Well, we need to be traveling back to O’Brien land tomorrow.”
She ceased her movements, her irritation switching to overwhelming disappointment. “So soon?”
There was no reason for her to stay but going back to her father meant Darragh and Aodh would be taking her back to Inishowen and her very sad existence.
“Aye.” Sean’s eyes narrowed, no doubt hearing the desolation in her voice. “Tadhg will meet with yer father.”
Tadhg was coming with them? “About what?”
He raised a shoulder. “Clan business.”
Tisa nodded, wiping her hands on the cloth beside her. “Methinks I will collect my things.”
“Mayhap ye should rest. Use our bed.” Thomasina took her hand. “Traveling is so tiring and ye’ve a long trek ahead of ye.”
“Aye. Methinks I will.”
“I will wake ye for the evening repast.”
Tisa headed out the door. Her heart heavy, she avoided the children playing in the yard, choosing the quiet path that led behind the little, round buildings. Seeing the children upon their arrival had lifted her spirits, reminding her of when she and Brighit had played in the same area. That was ages ago. The passing time was even more evident now.
Brighit had wed a man who “held her in high regard” and even gotten her with child. Surely their future would be a happy one. Tisa stretched out on the pallet tucked close to the wattle and daub wall. It would be best for her to return north without delay.
It was good to be back among the people who knew her well. Fergus had been kind to her and again wished her the best. She had been able to see little Hannah who was growing like a weed. Mayhap she had thought of this as an escape but she did not belong here either. Not anymore. Her father seemed strong, even ready to meet with Tadhg. There was no reason for her to remain.
‘Twas not a terrible life she returned to. Not the life she had thought she would have, but a life where she was needed. Time spent preparing clothing, food, and herbs for the outcasts was time well spent. She’d only seen them twice since her encounter with Gerrit but it had warmed her heart to spend time among them, like she belonged. They appreciated all she did for them. She enjoyed her conversations with Aoife, Darragh’s mother, as well. She told of many things including how Aodh had poisoned the last chieftain, Eirnin. Eirnin was Lilith’s father.
Thomasina had been correct. Dressing as a man did give her a certain freedom. Once she’d learned to smear her face with ash and her clothes with fresh dung, she learned people kept their distance and her disguise worked even better. No one noticed her. It would be good to be back and check on them.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
~
York, England
In the Great Hall of the castle at York, John dropped a hefty log onto the fire. Sparks flew high into the air. It was good to be within the castle at last rather than freezing outside. Peter squared his shoulders and pressed into the high-backed chair with its ornate carving, gold trim, and cushioned seat. Ralph de Gaul had certainly never missed an opportunity to surround himself with luxury. No wonder he fought so hard against King William getting his share.
“What troubles you, John? King William is still a week’s journey from here. He will not travel in haste when the siege is over and the castle has been won.”
His friend nodded but continued to gaze into the fire.
Peter surveyed the unusual greenish-yellow vessel he held in his hand. Something he’d never seen even at William’s court. “Is it Rowena you miss?”
“Of course. I miss her greatly.”
“But that is not what concerns you now? Is it Leofrid?”
John put his hands to his hips and turned toward Peter. “They are both one and the same. William was wrong to order me to kill my wife’s only surviving family. The life she knew was ripped from her hands when we came here. She had nothing left. I could not very well kill her cousin. Mayhap if I cared nothing for her but I do care.”
He walked to the trestle table made from the same heavy wood as the chair and poured more of the cloudy liquid into a similar chalice before he continued.
“Her thanks for my decision to spare Leofrid’s life was more than I deserved. Her father falling on my sword was something I had tried without success to avoid. I owed her that much. That the man has to come back here to start trouble after his life was generously spared convinces me he must be mad. Look at all the havoc William has reaped on these Saxons. His need for absolute power knows no bounds. And Leofrid dares to return?”
“The missive from Sean of Drogheda said as much.”
John’s face lined with worry. “So now I must do what I had tried to avoid? And then tell Rowena her cousin is now dead?”
“Rowena knows of power struggles. Her uncle was king before William came and now he is dead. Surely she will not blame you.”
“How am I to help William with the unrest among the Saxons when he continues to view them as irrelevant, tossing them aside or trampling them underfoot while he grasps for more and more power?”
“And will your Saxons pledge fealty to him as he required from you?”
John gave a heartfelt sigh. “My dear friend, they swear fealty to me alone for they know I care for Rowena and them. If they do as commanded by the king, ‘twill be out of deference to me and I do not accept the gesture lightly. I must see to their protection and that includes Leofrid.”
“John! Surely you’re not proposing to battle the king for Leofrid’s life! That would be foolish. His life is not worthy of the sacrifice.”
“I would not but my life will be forfeit when William learns of my betrayal to him. I disobeyed his orders.”
“My lord.” Mort came in from the front hall with great bluster.
He had traveled to the Priory without stopping to return with Peter’s most treasured item. Prickles of excitement danced along his skin. Mort paused, bowed, and stretched his arm beside him in presentation of who followed.
Brighit, red-cheeked and still well-covered from her journey, stopped behind him.
Peter’s breath caught. Brighit had arrived! He jumped from his seat to cross to her and took his very pregnant wife into his arms. The smell of her roused him, the feel of her pressing against him a boon to his time from her side.
“Sweet Brighit.” He whispered the words into her hair paying no heed to anyone else. “I have missed you, greatly.”
“It has only been a few days, Peter!” John said.
John’s exclamation left little doubt to how he felt about this display.
Mort coughed and shifted behind them.
Peter ignored them both.
“The child is growing well.” He spoke against her ear, not releasing her even when the babe inside kicked against him. “Hmm, I wish to see what this movement looks like.”
Peter pulled away just enough to turn her toward the stone stairs leading to the rooms that ran along the floor above.
“Peter!” John voiced his loud objection. Mort broke into laughter that followed even as Peter gently pulled her by the hand.
“You look lovely,” he said the words over his shoulder.
He led her up to the room. That room’s previous lord had snu
ck off into the night, leaving his young wife to face the siege of the castle alone.
Brighit merely smiled. It was a tolerant smile that reminded him of his improper behavior but he didn’t care. He needed his wife naked and in his bed. Now.
The burning fire warmed the small chamber and Peter’s burning need had him pressing her up against the closed door and tracing kisses along her neck.
“I’m a thirsting man in need of a drink.” He yanked up her skirts. She shifted away to free the material tucked behind her. “I am a man dying of hunger and you alone are my sustenance.”
His hot hands finally on her flesh, he stilled. Stroking up the length of her thigh and along her waist, he exhaled a slow, steady breath. “I have been too long with neither food nor water.” He moved to her mouth. “Give me what I desire.”
His hand slid over her rounded belly and dipped between her legs finding blessed moistness that spoke of her desire.
“The nectar I crave.” He kneeled right there before her and nosed his way into her most intimate spot. Dropping her hands to his head, she spread her legs, giving him full access. Her hips quickly rocking to the rhythm he set with his tongue as he stroked her. He gripped her bare flesh, enjoying the feel of her nakedness.
With an answering moan, she pressed him closer into her.
In one swift motion, he swept her up in his arms and deposited her onto the biggest bed ever built. He cupped her breasts with greedy hands. Squeezing and stroking, his head tucked into the curve of her neck.
“I have longed to have the taste of you on my tongue and more.” He rubbed his hard need against her hip.
She lowered the material from her shoulders and he wrestled her breasts free.
“I have longed to have ye inside me again,” she said.
He stopped, his nostrils flaring while he scanned those mouth-watering mounds. He grinned down at her. “Forgive my repeating myself but you do have the most lovely breasts.”
Gripping each from the underside, he ran his tongue over one with long, firm strokes, circling the hardened nipple before suckling her deep inside his mouth. Her deep, throaty sounds of her own need nearly undoing him. And when switching to the other breast, the sight of her with her eyes closed and her head pushing back into the bed challenged his willpower.
“Oh, my love. You push me to the edge showering me with such blatant desire.”
She pulled his mouth back to her bared bosom.
Peter obliged, continuing his assault of her breasts.
“Please. I have a great need for ye.” She sounded out of breath.
Peter’s prick ached to meet her need and he moved away to yank her gown up and over her head. That she had nothing at all underneath made him pause. He looked down into his lovely wife’s face, his brows high.
Her lips curved into a satisfied smile. “I know what my husband is about.”
Peter lowered himself between her legs, careful of the swell of their child between them. Brighit widened her legs to accommodate him.
“Mmm.” It felt so right to be there. Peter had some vague idea about saying how much he loved her, how many times he’d dreamed of taking her just like this, how he believed he was the most blessed man alive to have her. He couldn’t find words. His mind was full of overpowering need. He pressed himself into her slick sheath, its tightness overwhelmingly pleasurable.
He would show her how he felt by his awareness of every detail of her pleasure. Surely she would know by his loving what his words could not convey.
Opening his eyes, he watched her as he moved into her with long, slow movements. Her breath quickening. Her lips slightly parting. A deep groan of pleasure met his ears. Raising her hips, she met him thrust for thrust, her moans becoming more intense. Higher. Louder.
She tensed against him then sighed, her muscles pulsing around his engorged cock. He impaled her deeply. And again. Her guttural cries of fulfillment speeding him to his own release.
“Oh, Peter. I am such a wanton.” Her words were panted as she struggled to catch her breath. “I dreamed each night of ye taking me. It must be that I am with child. I cannot get enough of ye.”
“Sweet Brighit,” he nibbled her neck, stroking it with a firm tongue, “do you hear a complaint from my lips?”
“Nae. And ye do see to my every desire.” She blew a breath then sighed. “I am never satisfied. Not for long.”
Peter rolled onto his back and tucked her in close beside him. “You need but say the word and I am roused to readiness.”
“I fear ye will tire of me too soon.”
“Never.”
He covered them both with the heavy, woolen cloth then kissed the top of her head. “Welcome home, my love.”
Mort poured himself a generous amount of mead. He took a sip and smacked his lips several times. It was, indeed, quite good. No doubt brought up from the Priory. But he was avoiding the unavoidable with digression and inconsequential matters. The problem at hand? How best to approach such a touchy subject as treason with the Earl of Essex.
Having been sent by the king to follow John when he’d first returned to England, Mort was given the task of seeing how the man was adjusting. The king knew full well that John had left his Saxon bride rather quickly and despite being given nigh five years, never felt compelled to return to her. That left the king with no alternative but to order his return.
Mort knew the man’s past. A bastard of unknown parentage being raised by a cruel man with a hard fist. William, then Duke of Normandy, learned of John’s plight and, no doubt, his parentage, and brought him to the monastery. Though he never spoke of John’s father, Mort assumed it was one of William’s closest friends if not William himself. It wasn’t until the death of the Duke’s dearest friend, William FitzOsbern, that William took John in to train as his squire, keeping him close at hand. Mort was no simpleton. Obviously John was the bastard son of William FitzOsbern. It was confirmed when John and Rowena were called in for an audience with the king and Mort was told to ensure John and Emma, FitzOsbern’s only daughter, did not spend too much time alone. ‘Twas John himself who informed Mort of the attraction he’d felt for Emma and that he’d even asked to take her to wife. William had been mortified which had surprised John but not Mort. They had the same father.
Mort found in John not someone he needed to keep an eye on but a man trying to do the right thing for all involved. The Earl of Essex was a good man. A man Mort genuinely liked. But that was not the information William required. William would want to know the details of how John had defied the king by allowing Leofrid Godwin, the king’s enemy, to live and merely exiling him to Ireland.
Since Mort had decided against informing the king, the seemingly inevitable return of the exiled man was creating problems for all. They would need to get their stories straight, preferably before the arrival of the king to the castle at York.
“My lord, do you agree with Peter that monasteries and priories have the best libations?”
John paused and settled himself on a stool beside the fire before responding. “I believe I was the one who made that observation to Peter. Do you agree?”
“I do!’ Mort removed his hat with the new peacock feathers, righted the tiny bell around his neck, and sat opposite John. “I really do. Why do you suppose that is? Is there aught they do, some knowledge that they may have—being men of God—that is vital and unknown to the rest of us? As if, mayhap, being in league with God Himself and striving to do the Lord’s work, they are privy to some great secret? A secret that may not even be knowable to us mere mortals. And yet would it be right for such grand knowledge to be bestowed on any mortal man? Saint or sin—”
“Mort!” John’s face was tight. “Speak with me about what is bothering you. I cannot listen to one of your tirades right now.”
Mort bowed his head.
“Forgive me, my lord. You know me well.” He took another sip of the mead. “Still—”
“No!” John cut him off. He turned his head to
one side and then the other, his eyes never leaving Mort’s face. “Speak of what is on your mind.”
“The king will be here and we must decide what information to give him regarding your wife’s cousin.”
“So he has not yet been informed that the man still lives?”
Mort held his gaze a moment, surprised at the question. “I did not deem it necessary to inform him.”
“My thanks for that.”
Clearly the man did not understand how Mort felt. “I do not believe the decision was made to defy the king but rather to keep peace. If I am questioned, I will convey as much.”
“You mean if he discovers the truth and wants to know why you kept it from him?”
“Yes.”
“We both know the king. If he discovers our treachery, we will pay the ultimate price.”
Loyalty was something akin to the blood that runs through the veins, not something you took up only when it suited you.
“My lord, I have no regrets. The decision to not relay the information was mine and mine alone. Your time with the Saxons was bearing fruit. The men were accepting you as their lord. It would have been wrong for you to be removed for such a minor offense.”
“That places you in the position of judgment, my friend. God help you if the king feels your judgment was in error.”
“My judgment was not in error. You and your lovely wife have done much to mend the chasm between the Saxon and Normans. The end result being a more peaceful place for King William. Granted, he may not see it that way. And if he does not? I will gladly take the punishment.”
“You would die for me?”
“I would.”
“A plea of ignorance could save you.”
“I will not lie.”
John would prefer Mort save himself if the truth were discovered? Just claim he was unaware of the decision John had made to allow Leofrid to live? Never! Mort would stand beside this man whatever the outcome.
John’s eyes pierced him through, his face tight with emotion. “My thanks for your loyalty, Mort.”
Mort dipped his head. “I am at your service, my lord. Always.”
