by Ashley York
“Yes. My new life.” She looked down, avoiding his gaze. “A new adventure?” She faced him. “Do you think?”
Peter exhaled slowly and allowed himself to trace the side of her face with his fingertips. So soft. So lovely. Such a waste to be locked up in a convent with no hope for a future or a family. “Will all be well with you, sweet Brighit?”
“I pray it will be.” Her voice was quiet. “Will you pray for me as well?”
Peter couldn’t speak. He nodded. He took her hand, led her to Lachlann’s horse, then allowed the lad to pull her back up in front of him. “Let me know if you need to rest.”
“I will.”
A sudden tightness settled into his chest as he mounted. He grabbed Mort’s arm and pulled him up behind him. He gave the horse his lead. She would soon be left behind with her life and he would need to go on with his. He just wished he had more of a life to get back to.
Chapter Seventeen
The sun was low in the sky when they crested the last hill and the Priory finally came into sight. It was smaller than Peter expected. It appeared to be under construction by the amount of small rocks piled at the gate. From the flourishing tall grass and wild heather that grew around it, however, he’d say nothing had been done recently. Narrow arrow slits along the top of the building seemed to be the only source of light, giving the building an overall dark and forbidding appearance.
He spotted four, heavily robed women working in the field, one of which was very pregnant. Peter remembered how he had thought perhaps Brighit was with child and that might be the reason she was being brought to the Priory. When did he begin to see her differently? When he’d kissed her? When Ivan cowered her in front of him? When he’d gazed upon her naked loveliness which showed no visible signs of being with child?
The closer they got to the gate, the slower they all moved. Even Mort ceased his talking as if the atmosphere required a reverent silence. A lump rose in Peter’s throat. A tightness in his chest as if bound by a heavy cord that, with each breath, drew more taut. He did not want to leave her here with no one to look after her. Her life would now become all about her vows, her orders, her devotion. Brighit the woman would all but disappear. And she would be completely alone.
They halted their horses but no one moved to get down. When Brighit caught him watching her, she offered a reassuring smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
“I will be well,” she spoke the words aloud before turning to Lachlann. “Can you help me down?”
Peter was there before the Scot’s foot touched the ground, spreading his hands about her small middle and lifting her down. She weighed next to nothing. He didn’t immediately release her. She stood close enough to feel her warmth. She was close enough to kiss. She was close enough to still press against him.
“Lachlann, can you get the horses some water?” Peter asked, his eyes remaining on Brighit.
Lachlann moved in close. He glanced at Peter. Then at Brighit. He sighed as if in resignation then led both horses down the little hill. From the opposite direction came the women that were in the field.
“I will take you away from here if that is your desire,” Peter spoke in a hushed tone, for her ears only. “You need only say the word.”
Her rounded eyes were sad but she held his gaze. “I do what I must.”
“Greetings,” Mort called from behind Peter, his voice retreating as he no doubt approached the women. “Good day to you all.”
Brighit took a deep breath, straightened her shoulders, and looked deeply into Peter’s eyes. And waited. He fought down the ridiculous urge to throw her onto his horse, move up close behind her, and take her away despite what she said. He released his hands.
“Are you the MacNaughton?” A woman’s voice came from behind them.
Brighit dipped her head, darting a glance at Peter, and approached the women. “That I am.”
“Well, ’tis a great blessing to have you join us,” the pregnant woman offered and took her hand. “We expected you to be later than this.”
“Later?” Brighit asked.
Peter waited for more information, fighting the uneasy feeling Brighit’s one word question stirred in him. She hadn’t understood the woman’s statement either. The Priory had no way of knowing when she would get here.
“We received word that you would be delayed,” a shriveled woman of over fifty years spoke, then eyed each of the men as if they’d been the reason for her delay. “You’re here now and that is what matters most.”
“Who brought such word?” Brighit asked.
The woman was fixed on Peter, peered closer into his face, then withdrew. She appeared disgruntled as if she were far too important to deal with him right before she gave him her back.
“I couldn’t say for sure,” the pregnant woman offered.
“Ah, quiet now, Ruth. They have no right to question us.”
“They’re just curious. It is right to answer them.”
“It is not right to be questioned, so the answering is also not right.”
Ruth rolled her eyes then smiled at Brighit as if this bickering was something that happened quite often.
The older woman said, “We are glad you made it here unharmed.”
The two other nuns joined them. Closing in around her on all sides, the women moved as one toward the entrance. The realization that they were taking her away caused Peter to go into full-blown panic. It was suddenly difficult to breathe. His heart raced.
“Wait!”
The women stopped.
“We have traveled far with little to eat or drink in order to see her safely here. Have you nothing to quench our thirst from our weary travel?”
The four exchanged quizzical glances as if making a decision was a difficult thing. The elderly woman raised her shoulders for a moment and then dropped them.
It was Ruth who finally spoke up. “Forgive us. We are very excited to have her with us. My name is Sister Ruth. This is Sister Martha,” she indicated the older woman, “Sister Hannah and Sister Elizabeth.”
The other two women nodded.
“Please! Come into the courtyard where you can partake of food and drink before you depart.”
Within the high-walled bailey was a wooden table carved with rough-hewn wood and benches scattered around. Martha indicated the men needed to remain there then they all disappeared inside the stone structure. When Brighit was no longer in his sight, Peter paced the small area.
“Surely, she is safe here,” Mort said.
Peter continued his walking.
“There is nothing more for us to do.”
Stopping suddenly, Peter gave Mort a wide smile. “I believe I need to meet with the head of the Priory.”
Mort mirrored his expression. “That seems reasonable.”
The two jumped up and nearly ran to knock on the wooden door set within the small entrance. No answer.
Mort glanced nervously toward Peter, his small hands rubbing together. He knocked again, louder. No answer.
“Perhaps they are out of earshot?” he asked.
Peter looked around the small area. “It doesn’t look big enough to ever be beyond earshot.”
He went as far as he could within the bailey. The building had thick, impenetrable walls and small towers at every advantage point. There was a long building, just visible that connected to the back.
“This place is built to resist attack,” Peter said.
“Many Priories and Monasteries are.”
Frowning, Peter gave an irritated look to the little man who then raised his hands as if in surrender. “I’m just saying it is not unusual for them to be well fortified.”
“It would be near impossible to break through the wall without a battering ram.”
“Are you making plans to attack, my lord?”
Peter blew an exasperated sigh then retraced his steps. They seemed to be taking an awfully long time. He settled himself on the bench and counted to ten.
“I think I h
ear someone,” Mort said from where he had his ear to the wooden door.
He quickly shifted away. Peter stood alongside him.
The door opened just enough to reveal Martha’s face. “I’m sorry you can’t be entering.”
“I need to speak with the Prioress.”
“The who?”
Peter’s throat went dry. “The Prior?” He searched beyond the head of the little woman but could only make out a darkened hall behind her.
“Oh, you mean Father Tinsley? He is not here now. He won’t be back until later.”
His body tensed. His fingers flexed. “Then I would speak to Brighit.”
Certainly she wouldn’t wish to be left here without all the details worked out. Peter didn’t know any of the details but until she indicated to him that all was well, he would prefer to stay near.
“Can’t.”
Peter leveled his gaze at the woman, his jaw clenched. Mort pushed in a little closer and Peter gave him room. Martha, however, resisted the slight push he gave against the door. “Please. We would like to see Lady Brighit to know what she wants us to do.”
“She wants you to leave.”
“NO!” Peter didn’t regret his forceful tone. He was about ready to rip the door down. The four straps holding the door in place appeared quite sliceable. Not very good planning on their part. “I will see Lady Brighit.”
The woman shoved the door against his boot when he started to slip it inside. Pain shot up his leg.
“Lady Brighit is no longer here.”
“WHAT?” his voice boomed. His fingers gripped the width of the wooden door, preparing to pull it lose.
“She has a new name within these walls.”
Peter’s face reddened. He released the door. She was referring to the vow taking, not that she was no longer within. He breathed a grateful sigh.
“I wish to speak to her, whatever you may choose to call her—now.”
Someone spoke behind the woman and she glanced back.
“No. Please, Sister Martha.” It was Ruth speaking.
“You can’t let them inside.” Martha’s words carried over her shoulder.
As they bickered back and forth, Peter fought to remain composed. He would not be leaving without seeing Brighit regardless of who won the argument.
Ruth elbowed her way past the older woman. With a huff, Martha opened the door wider, allowing the pregnant woman to step through and for Peter to see down the hall straight ahead and a door to the right just inside.
Ruth smiled. She carried a tray of hard bread and cheese, a pitcher, and mugs to the table. “I have brought you what you requested. Come. Please.”
He glanced at Ruth, then at Martha who glowered at him.
Mort remained where he was. Peter acquiesced and walked to the table, accepting the cup offered him.
“Forgive, Sister Martha, we do not have many visitors here,” Ruth said. Her tone dropped when she added, “and she trusts no one.”
Peter couldn’t care less what Martha thought. He was going to see Brighit. Out here or in there but he would be taking his leave only after she presented her reassurances.
“She will be here anon,” she said as if reading his mind, then poured a cup for Mort.
“Thank you, Sister Ruth,” Mort said as he took the cup.
“How long will we have to wait for Brighit?” Peter regretted demonstrating his extreme impatience with the situation but refused to back down.
“I believe they are just showing her where she will sleep.”
He reached to the sack that hung from his belt, assuring him that the flute he bought her was still inside. Perhaps she’d be allowed to play quietly here.
“Is it her own area?” Mort said, always so adept at idle chatter.
Ruth took a sip of her drink, her hand resting on the bulge where her child lay, and smiled. “It is very small, but yes, it is her own.”
Peter ground his teeth. How long would they keep Brighit?
“How long have you been here?” Mort appeared to be trying to ease the tension. Peter was fine with the amount of tension.
“About a year.”
Peter stilled.
Mort nodded and sipped his drink then glanced around. “It is lovely here. Do you tend all these gardens?”
Peter wanted to pulverize the man for interrupting. A year? She’s been here a year and she’s pregnant? He began to count to ten but stopped at three.
“Were you not with child when you arrived?”
Ruth lips parted slighted but then she smiled, her nose wrinkling with the gesture. “Of course. I am past my time to give birth.”
The chords in Peter’s neck tightened. She would have a child here? The macabre sense that they would not survive wormed into his gut. He put down his cup and returned to pacing.
Mort demonstrated a spark of wisdom by deciding to cease the idle conversation.
“Let me see what is keeping Sister Mary.”
“Sister Mary?” Peter bellowed then clamped his mouth, trying to check his irritation. “It is not Sister Mary we care about. We wish to see our ward, Brighit.”
“I will see what is taking so long.”
Once alone, Mort turned on Peter. “My lord, Sister Mary must be her name now.”
Peter threw his arms up to the heavens. “She has barely arrived. How can she already have a different name? She is not a different person!”
“Please try to calm yourself—”
The door opened and Peter gasped at the sight of Brighit covered in several layers of rough linen, from the tip of her head to the bottom of her feet. If not for the expressive, brown eyes, he would recognize anywhere, he wouldn’t have known her.
“Forgive me for taking so long. I didn’t mean to worry you,” she said.
He recognized the voice as well and relief swept over him. He stepped toward her. Martha and Ruth, who were right on her heels, moved to stand on either side of her. They halted his approach with a look.
“May we speak in private?” He refused to hide his hostility.
“NO!” Martha used the same tone he had earlier. He reddened again.
“My apologies for my earlier surliness. Her safety has been my concern of late... it is hard to let go.”
Martha nearly harrumphed her irritation. “No. You may no longer spend time with her alone.”
“Then just a few feet away? Within your sight? Just so I can be sure she is well?” It galled him to ask for their permission. He’d noticed Brighit’s fearful expression at his earlier outburst. It was out of concern for her that he attempted to quell his resentment now.
“No. You may speak to her in front of us.”
Peter ground his teeth again. Focusing on Brighit’s face, the little he could see, he took a slow breath, then smiled. “How does it seem? Will all be well?”
She gave a half-hearted smile. “I will adjust. Do not fash yourself. I will be fine.”
He began to nod. “Oh.” Peter reached into his sack and pulled out her flute. “I didn’t want you to forget this.”
Martha would have grabbed it but Ruth stilled her hand and said, “We do not have music at this time. Perhaps we can let Father Tinsley care for it?”
Brighit allowed the younger woman to take the flute. Peter was enraged but cooled his ire. Upsetting Brighit further was not his intent.
“So you wish to stay? Even now?”
Despite the confusion that passed between the other two women, Peter knew Brighit understood his question. Without her music, would she be able to get by?
“Yes.”
An awkward silence covered them like a heavy blanket. Suffocating. Peter struggled with what to say. This felt wrong to just leave her here. Mort moved in close, took her hand to his lips and bestowed a feather-light kiss.
“All the best for you, Lady Brighit.”
Martha inhaled sharply in protest but Ruth put her hand on her arm.
He stepped back, retreating to the horse. Brighit searched P
eter’s face and waited.
“You are very good at practicing patience.” He spoke in quiet tones. “You wish for me to leave you here? Would you prefer that I stay longer?”
“You may leave me here.”
Peter took her hand as Mort had and pressed his fingers into her warm palm as he brought it to his lips. He held her gaze. Her brown eyes bright but clear, then kissed her knuckles.
“All the best indeed.”
Slowly he released her hand and stepped back. He glanced between the other women but they paid him no heed. They were too interested in quickly turning Brighit back toward the entrance. Peter refused to look away. He would watch her safely enter that door. What happened beyond that, he would never know. At least he would be assured he saw her cross the threshold.
“Goodbye dear Brighit.” His voice was barely a whisper for no one else’s ears but his own. The door thudded closed and the unmistakable sound of the bar being lowered echoed in the courtyard. His face tightened. He could still manage to bust the door down. That gave him great comfort.
Peter turned quickly, nearly colliding with Lachlann who was out of breath.
“Did I miss the goodbyes?”
“You have.” Brighit had not looked for him either which gave Peter great satisfaction. “They were rather quick to snatch her up and hide her away.”
The young man’s crestfallen look was genuine. Peter patted his back. “She knew you wished her well.”
Peter turned toward his horse, taking the reins as he mounted in front of Mort who was already mounted. “I’m damn sick of riding with you in case you wondered.”
“But now there is no one else you’d throw me over for so I believe I’m safe.”
Peter snorted a quiet laugh then added. “Really? You believe I would throw you over? Never. Your golden tongue alone is worth... something, I’m sure.”
Mort crossed his arms, effectively poking Peter in the back with the movement.
“We need to head back to York,” Peter said with as much determination as he could muster. “The King will want to hear from us on the situation rather than waste the trip north.”
Mort did not respond. Peter glanced back to witness the expression of a very irritated man.
