by Ashley York
Jeanette. The frigid air made it hard to breathe. His gray warhorse, Roman, wandered a few feet away nibbling at the grass, its withers covered with mud from the trail. Although Jeanette was long dead, Peter had pushed the poor beast hard, almost believing if he could just get here fast enough, it wouldn’t be true. She would still be alive.
He stretched the rough, black scarf up to cover his nose from the cold and dug his fingers back inside his coarse, fleece-lined cloak. Peter glanced up at the late autumn sky. Snow was in the air. The babe would have been three months old now. That’s what her brother had told him. Rotten bastard. He probably hadn’t given a thought to her well-being.
Remorse tightened his chest and grief welled up, threatening to suffocate him. He finally let loose and bellowed his pain at the cloud-thickened sky. And again. His throat raw from the deep sound he expelled, like cries from hell. If only he’d known she was with child. It would have changed everything. They’d have been wed.
Peter would never have been like his own father. Leaving her to fend for herself. To die alone in childbirth. But unlike Peter, his father’s babe had survived. Survived to remind him every day of what he’d lost. With each pummel of the man’s fist, Peter knew the price of his meaningless life and the happiness he had taken from his father.
The overwhelming desire to lay himself down right there, close his eyes, and never open them again pushed him hard. To just hold her small body safely in his arms again.
“Peter.”
A man’s voice reached him, breaking through the morbid thoughts. John. He’d found him. Damn. The Queen must have told him about Jeanette. What did he want? To see how he fared?
“Peter?” The voice was closer.
John’s horse nudged Peter’s arm and snorted.
“Peter. My heart breaks for your loss.” John’s voice was low, barely audible. He’d loved her, too. Not in the same way but they had cared for each other. They cared because they had one thing in common—their love for him.
Damn! The air pierced his lungs with each laborious breath. He bit back the rage he felt but his voice was surprisingly loud. “We’ve arrived a bit late.”
The horse shifted behind him as its rider dismounted.
“Please, Peter,” John’s voice was loaded with pity and Peter wanted to punch him in the face. “You couldn’t have known.”
“I. Should. Have. Known.”
John’s hand was firm where he gripped Peter’s arm. “Do not—”
Peter turned toward him with such impetus that John stepped back as if in surprise.
“We didn’t have our farewells. I didn’t get to tell her how I felt.” Peter stepped toward John, forcing him farther back. “I wanted her to know I loved her.”
Peter turned away. He walked quickly to the lone horse now at the edge of the forest. He hesitated when he saw Rowena, John’s wife, a short distance away. His angry facade splintered, and pain threatened to erupt again, but he would not give in. He did not seek their comfort. He did not want their comfort. It was Peter’s fault the love of his life was dead.
His face hurt as he fought for composure, his muscles twitching. He could not be here, not with these people who had tomorrow and the next day and the next day. Even now Rowena bore the evidence of John’s child beneath her heavy cloak. They had their whole lives in front of them. They waited expectantly for something that had been ripped from Peter’s grasp before he had sense enough to grab onto it.
“Peter.”
Peter tensed at the commanding tone of voice.
“The King requires your presence,” John said.
Peter closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The King was not to be disobeyed.
He tipped his head in acknowledgement without turning toward John. Peter was a soldier again. Any life he may have wanted to build for himself was set aside for the pleasure of his King. That was the life he knew. For now, he must say his last goodbye.
John moved toward Rowena with his destrier in tow. She gripped his arm, her forehead creased in concern. He understood his wife’s anguish. He’d never seen Peter like this either. Well, maybe once when they were very young but never since William had put a stop to the boy’s self-deprecating ways.
“Is he going to disobey the King?”
John shook his head. “We should give him more time.”
Her eyes rounded and her lips parted. “How can you think you should leave him be? He is beyond devastated. Who was this woman?”
John sighed. How best to put it. “She was his…his mistress, I suppose would be the best word to describe her. But make no mistake. He loved her.”
“That is quite apparent. He would not feel so lost if it were not true love. But…did she not love him back?”
Jeanette’s bright red hair and smiling green eyes filled his mind. Always smiling that one. “She did. She did love him in her own way.”
Rowena frowned. “But not truly?”
John did not mean to be obtuse. He’d always thought theirs was a strange relationship. Peter would stay celibate for months and then spend days locked up with her. She was always nearby when he returned from battle. Being one of the many ladies attending the Duchess Matilda, now Queen Matilda, Jeanette never lacked for male attention. John had wondered more than once if she indeed had abstained herself.
“I would say she loved him in her way but it was hard to know, truly know, what she was thinking.”
“I suppose it matters not what she thought but what he felt is more to the point. What do we do to comfort him?”
John was moved by the concern his wife had for his closest friend. “I do not believe there is anything that can be done. He must heal from this pain on his own.”
She did not seem convinced. Standing beside her, a short distance from where Peter stood stiffly beside the newly dug grave, John was unconvinced as well. Perhaps his friend never would get over this loss. The loss not only for one he loved most dearly but for the one he’d never know, his child. John felt the sting of tears at the memory of his sweet, little girl born early as a result of the abuse his wife had suffered. He pulled Rowena closer against him as if to ward off any more hurt. She had been through enough. He wished for nothing more than to be able to protect her from any more sadness. Even if the sadness came in the form of concern for a dear friend.
“I believe it will take time. But perhaps we will see him smile yet again at some far off time.”
Peter returned to kneel on the cold ground beside his dead lover’s grave.
“We need to leave him like this then?”
“I’m afraid we must. The King has called for him. William will know best how to assuage his pain.”
Rowena made a face of disbelief. The King had shown a definite lack of consideration when it suited him, as was the case with her people, the Saxons. He could also have great compassion for his own.
“He will keep Peter busy which may help him bear up under the burden of this loss.”
“I pray you are right.”
John gently guided her to where her horse stood waiting.
“Should we not say anything to him?”
John shook his head. It seemed cruel to Rowena but Peter was a proud man. He would not want to be seen in this weakened state, not even by them. He was a warrior. Warriors did not break. Warriors did not falter. Warriors fought on. John sent a prayer to heaven that it would be so.
Chapter Three
Brighit took in the surrounding green hills and cloudless sky, the moist smell of earth from the morning dew, and fought back tears. It was a beautiful day. Instead of being allowed to enjoy it, she stood stiffly beside her escort, Uncle Ronan. He and her brother worked out the details of her departure. She mattered very little.
She’d met her uncle when she was young but he had never left much of a shadow on her life. His barrel chest and muscled legs were those of a warrior. His speech and manner were gruff. He was an islander. Danish from her grandfather’s side, her uncle had blond ha
ir. Her mother had the darker hair of Brighit’s grandmother, who had been a Celtic Princess. Brighit took after her mother.
The small man at Uncle Ronan’s side leered at Brighit. Covered from head to toe with a dark cloak, he seemed to grow up out of the earth. She was properly covered as one becoming a nun. Ner a strand of her dark brown hair was visible, no indication that beneath this rough sack of a kirtle there was a woman’s body and yet Ivan, her uncle’s man, seemed to see right through her disguise. His crooked smile showed black teeth and a fat tongue that darted out between plump lips. Through narrowed slits, he perused her up and down as if imagining having his way with her. Panic seized her. She moved closer to her imposing brother who would rip Ivan’s face off if he ever dare touch her.
“Tadhg.” The sudden need to be shielded from this man erupted in her mind. Certainly her brother would not allow her to be placed in such close proximity to this lecher. She needed him to notice, so she yanked his arm. “Is Sean coming for farewells?”
She tipped her head as much as she dared to indicate the little man but Tadhg merely appeared perplexed.
“He sends his regrets at being unable to see you off. He wishes you well, Brighit. You are like a sister…” She nodded her head the slightest bit to indicate where she wanted him to see, “…but he has…” She tried again to no avail, “…much to do at this time of year.”
Tadhg stopped talking and frowned in irritation. “What is amiss?”
Smiling tightly, Brighit turned back to her uncle, but was surprised to see his lackey merely standing at attention at her uncle’s side. Her shock must have shown on her face.
“Niece?” Uncle Ronan prompted her.
Her eyes flashed at the little man before she smiled at her uncle. “Forgive me, Uncle, I am under much stress in my preparation for this sudden journey. I fear I am not myself.”
Uncle Ronan laughed at this, a loud, boisterous laugh which caused his body to shake. “Well, my dear niece, you’ve nothing to fear. We will see you safely to the Priory, just as we did your mother before you.”
“Ah, yes, you were the one who brought her to Tanshelf,” Tadhg said.
“It was none other. Your sweet mother looked to Elizabeth—beg your pardon—the Prioress now, as her protector as you should as well, Brighit. She’ll let nothing evil befall you. I can grant you that.”
Tadhg frowned and glanced toward Brighit before voicing his concern. “Then how did she come to be wed to our father? I mean after taking vows?”
The sudden silence was deafening. Uncle Ronan puckered his lips in a contemplative gesture that caused his chin to wrinkle. After a long moment, he nodded slowly.
“Well. I don’t recall, except to say your mother was protected within that Priory until she was wed to your father in their chapel.”
Tadhg turned a bright smile toward Brighit. “Ah, the last thing she would have imagined happening within the walls of such a place.”
“That’s true enough.” Ronan said.
Tadhg glanced around, suddenly concerned. “Will there just be the two of you then, Uncle? Do you believe that will be enough?”
“No, we are meeting up with other men who will ferry us across and guide us to the Priory. There will be enough protection for Christ’s future bride, to be sure. We will see her safely off, won’t we, Ivan?”
The little man puffed up with the importance of the job. “We will, my lord. We know how to care for lovely women in our charge.”
Brighit shivered at the double meaning.
“See?” Tadhg took both her hands. “You will be well cared for. Uncle Ronan has his men waiting for you at the coast. I wish I could come with you.”
“How is father?”
“He is holding on. It will not be long now.”
“Mayhap this trip should wait until later? When you can join us?”
“Father is afraid of what the O’Brien will do. If he compromises you—”
Brighit gasped. “He would never dare!”
“Your virtue is his only concern. I am sorry.” He kissed each cheek, a sad smile on his face. “I will miss you, sweetling.”
As if suddenly overwhelmed, he crushed her to him.
She swallowed hard against her tears. “I can stay at your word, my lord.” She whispered in his ear. She longed to beg him to not make her go, to tell him her deepest fear, to convince him to let her stay.
Instead she stepped away. Her lips frozen into a tight smile. “But father’s wishes will be seen to.”
She tugged her wrap closer around her. The stable boy placed the step-up box beside the carriage. He gave her his arm to help her into the wood-sided conveyance. If she even breathed, she knew she would cry. She was a MacNaughton. She needed to be strong. She would get through this as she had gotten through everything else. She held her head high as she sat, unyielding, on the cushioned bench.
“Fare thee well.”
Brighit found Ivan sitting in the far corner. His face averted. A study in propriety.
She turned toward her brother, now standing beside the carriage. “You will be foremost in my prayers.” Besides my own safety.
The stable boy hopped onto the high seat. Immediately the carriage shifted and they were under way.
“God be with you,” Tadhg called out.
Uncle Ronan raised his hand in acknowledgement from his seat beside Ivan, his knees occasionally touching hers. The curtains that would cover the square openings in each door were secured to allow air flow. Brighit wanted to yank them down, cutting off the outside, and enshroud herself in this moving casket that led to her grave. Instead, she remained seated and politely faced forward.
Her uncle’s glances became less frequent by mid-morning, indicating he was lost in his own thoughts and paying her no heed. Ivan, on the other hand, kept a steady eye on her, or should she say her breasts, especially when the horse was led along the bumpy road which ran alongside the ocean. She tried crossing her arms about her until she realized his face brightened at that, pulling her gown tight against her as it did.
Brighit shook her head and looked out the window. She reassured herself yet again that she was fully clothed. Ivan could not see anything he should not be able to see. The man was just depraved. She prayed there would be no opportunity for this man to be alone with her. By dusk, her uncle had taken to his horse to escape the tight confines of the carriage. He rode ahead, leading it rather than protecting her.
“How fare ye, niece?” His loud voice boomed, startling her from her thoughts.
“Well enough.”
“Perhaps some food and company? There is an inn down the road where we will stop to rest. Ivan?”
“Yes, my lord.” His leering smile stayed on Brighit.
“Can you see to my niece’s comforts while I search out our boatmen?”
Brighit shifted forward so her voice would carry. “No, ah—”
“Of course, my lord.” Ivan spoke more loudly than her. That or her uncle chose to ignore her.
“Ah, Uncle—” she tried again.
“Do not trouble him.” Ivan’s quiet voice purred like a contented cat. “He has done so much for you already. He’s disrupted his own duties to see to you. Allow him a few minutes to himself.” He threw his cloak over his shoulder and rested his hand on the sword hilt at his hip, small as it was. Was he threatening her? With disgust, she noticed a little bulge fairly bursting through his breeches. “I will take very good care of you.”
The thatched building, aptly named the Crossroads Inn, was set just off the much traveled crossroads that led down to the sea. The smell of salty water permeated the air but Brighit hadn’t yet spotted the turbulent tides she’d soon be crossing. Not having spent much time on the ocean, she feared it. She was convinced the dark, churning depths that separated her from her new home were totally impassable. When her uncle returned, he assured her it was doable.
“The crossing to England is not a long one. I travel it myself quite often.”
&n
bsp; “You do?” This surprised her. “For what purpose?”
He stared blankly back at her before answering. “Now, now you needn’t concern yourself.”
His irritation with her was apparent by his tone.
“My apologies, Uncle. I meant no harm in asking.”
He blew out his annoyance. “Enough! Just don’t be daft now. You’ll land with no harm coming to you. Come along, Brighit.” Uncle Ronan grabbed her arm and directed her inside the small building to the center trestle before the fire.
The walls of the great room they entered were black with soot and ash and it reeked of urine and stale ale. The few patrons, dark and foreboding, blended into the shadows.
“That’s a good girl now.” He helped her to the bench but didn’t sit down himself.
A small, elderly woman brought one plate with various hard cheeses and dried fish along with one tankard of cider.
Brighit’s throat tightened. “Are you not joining me, Uncle?”
He looked about the empty room as if searching for someone. Having just sent Ivan off with the stable boy to care for the horses, Brighit had no idea who that could be.
“Do you know this place?” she asked. “Do you stop here often on your travels?”
Uncle Ronan seemed distracted. “You ask too many questions. I’ve some things to see to.”
“Things?” Fear clawed at her insides.
His frown deepened. He glanced at her with a questioning look.
“Didn’t you already see the boatmen?” Brighit said.
“Oh, yes. I have some other things... When Ivan returns—”
“Uncle, I wish to speak to you about Ivan. I do not feel safe in his company and—”
The older man beamed at Ivan who came up beside them, dropping onto the bench next to Brighit. He was far too close. She moved away, raising her voice.
“Uncle! I am not—”
“At your behest, my lord,” Ivan spoke over her. “He has agreed to meet with you.”
Brighit’s jaw dropped. “What? Who? Who has agreed to meet you? Another boatman?”
