“You may ask her yourself when you return to Coldingham,” he said quietly. “My lady, please do not think me unkind, but your troubles are your own. I cannot involve myself, especially where the church is concerned. I would assume you are a pledge?”
Tears were filling Brighton’s eyes. “I-I am, my lord.”
“And you are intending to take the veil?”
“A-aye, my lord.”
“Then I truly have no business involving myself. You must return to Coldingham.”
Brighton didn’t argue with him, mostly because she was close to openly weeping. She dropped her head, her chin to her chest, trying desperately not to cry but not being successful at it. The tears trickled down her cheeks and she reached up, flicking them away quickly with shaking hands. William was coming to feel increasingly terrible about denying her when his wife approached the table with their young daughter and most of the grandchildren. Distracted from the weeping lady, he began lifting little bodies onto the bench beside him as Jordan lifted Penelope up to sit beside Brighton.
“I feel as if I’ve been herding ducklings for the past hour,” Jordan grumbled. “Ye get most in line and two wander away. Ye find those two and another two wander away. Keep watch of them, English, while I see tae their meal. I’ve had the cook make a fowl stew for their little bellies.”
William had Evelyn’s youngest daughter on his lap, little flame-haired Lisbet. “Go ahead,” he said. “I will try and keep them entertained.”
Jordan blew out her cheeks, indicative of her level of frustration, but as she turned from the table, she caught sight of Brighton’s lowered head and a glimmer of water on her face. She paused, putting her hand underneath Brighton’s chin and forcing the woman to look at her. Immediately, she saw the tears and her eyes widened.
“What’s this?” she demanded softly. “Why are ye weeping, lass?”
Brighton tried to swallow her tears and answer; she really did. But the moment she saw Jordan’s concerned face, everything crumpled. She burst into quiet tears and Jordan dropped onto the seat beside her, putting her arms around the woman.
“There, there, lass,” she said soothingly. “’Twill be all right, I promise. What has ye so upset?”
Brighton struggled; she didn’t want to incriminate William but that would be difficult if she answered Jordan directly. She tried to stammer through it.
“I-I have been told that I-I will be returned to Coldingham,” she sobbed softly. “I-I do not want to go.”
Jordan hadn’t heard the discussion in the solar with her husband and Patrick. All she knew was that the lady had been abducted from Coldingham Priory by reivers and that her son had saved the woman. But she also knew that there was something more to it, something Patrick would not tell her. There had been a great mystery about it. She was therefore confused in general.
“Then ye dunna have tae go,” she assured Brighton. “We willna send ye back if ye dunna wish tae go. Will we, English?”
Across the table, William cleared his throat softly. “She must return.”
Jordan looked at her husband, frowning. “Why?”
“Because she is a ward of the church and she must be returned.”
“Why?”
He sighed with exasperation. “I will not discuss this with you,” he said. “I am sorry that she does not wish to be returned, but she must go back.”
Brighton wasn’t a manipulative person by nature but she saw a chance to, perhaps, plead her case to a higher power than William de Wolfe himself – the man’s wife.
“I-I am afraid that I will be in danger if I return, my lady,” she wept. “The reivers that abducted me had gone to Coldingham to find me. I-I am afraid that if I am returned, they will simply abduct me again. They might hurt others in the process. I am afraid to go back.”
Jordan was stricken with what she was hearing. She looked at her husband. “Do ye hear this, English?” she asked, incredulous. “The lass is a-feared tae return and ye’ll make her go? I canna believe me ears!”
William rolled his one good eye, shaking his head because he was coming to sense there was a battle on the horizon – one between him and his wife. Rather than escalate it with a response, he knew his wife well enough that he knew he had to placate her, somehow. He held out a quelling hand.
“I do not wish to discuss it with you now,” he said, “but I promise we will discuss it later. If you will just give me an evening of peace, I promise I will tell you everything tomorrow and you will know why I have decided upon this course. I think you will agree with me.”
Jordan wasn’t so easily pacified but she respected her husband enough not to fight with him in front of a stranger. Eyeing him for a moment, as if to silently convey that he had better keep his promise, she returned her focus to Brighton.
“Enough tears, lass,” she said, wiping at the woman’s chin. “I will discuss this with me husband and we will settle it. Ye’ll not have tae do anything ye dunna want tae, I promise. Will ye stop yer tears now and enjoy yer food? I’ve had a few special dishes prepared that I hope ye’ll like.”
Brighton was very grateful for Lady Jordan and her fierce advocacy. She nodded, swallowing away the remainder of her tears and wiping off her face. “Y-you are very kind,” she sniffled. “Thank you for your hospitality.”
Jordan nodded, patted her on the cheek, and left the table. Brighton didn’t dare look at William for fear of seeing disapproval in his eyes for pleading to his wife, so she kept her gaze averted. It wasn’t long before she noticed the child sitting next to her, a doll-like little girl with big hazel eyes and dark hair who was looking up at her quite curiously. Brighton smiled weakly at the child.
“G-Greetings,” she said.
The little girl looked her over. “Who are you?”
“I-I am Bridey. Who are you?”
“Penelope.”
“’Tis a pleasure to meet you, Lady Penelope.”
Penelope continued to look her over. “Why are you crying?”
Brighton cringed inwardly, knowing that William was listening. “I-I suppose I am sad,” she simply said. “How many years have you seen, Penelope?”
Penelope cocked her head. “Three,” she said. “I have a sword.”
Brighton pretended to be impressed. “Y-you do?” she said. “Are you soon to fight alongside your father?”
Penelope nodded. “I will be a knight someday,” she declared.
“Not if Mother has anything to say about it.”
Patrick had come up behind them and Brighton turned at the sound of his voice, her heart swelling with joy as she gazed up at the man. But just as elation filled her, it was doused by the thought that Patrick must have agreed with his father if William was intent on sending her back to Coldingham. His reasoning with her the night they’d left Berwick must not have meant anything to him now – the danger she would face and his vow to protect her from it. Nay, she was certain it meant nothing to him now and she was starting to feel like a fool. A silly, burdensome fool. Just as quickly as she had looked at him, she lowered her head.
It was a gesture not lost on Patrick. Brighton sat there with her head down, refusing to look at him. With his father sitting at the table across from her, he could guess why. He knew his father had told her of her imminent return to Coldingham. As he went to sit beside her, Penelope jumped up and tried to climb on his lap even as he was sitting down.
“Atty!” Penelope said. “I want to fight! Will you fight with me?”
She meant with her wooden sword. Patrick shifted her so she was sitting on his thigh and not trying to climb up all over him.
“Mayhap after sup,” he said. “You must ask Mother.”
Penelope frowned. “She will not give me my sword back.”
“Then how are we supposed to fight each other?”
Penelope grinned, a very big grin with a mouth full of big gleaming baby teeth. “You will give me another sword!”
Across the table, William chuckled; Pat
rick could hear him. “Alas, I do not have another sword for you,” he told his little sister. “You must ask Mother to return your sword and then we shall fight.”
Penelope didn’t like that idea in the least. As she tried to argue with her brother in favor of him lending her another sword, a real sword, servants began to bring about trenchers of boiled beef and carrots. Next to Patrick, Brighton leaned over and whispered something to the servant that had just placed a trencher in front of her and the servant pointed towards the east side of the hall. Then, she suddenly stood up and quickly shuffled in that direction. Although Penelope was chatting in his ear, Patrick turned to watch her go, seeing her figure in the beautiful red silk. She looked positively stunning. Ignoring his sister, he turned to his father.
“You told her, didn’t you?” he asked quietly. “About Coldingham, I mean. You told her.”
William regarded his son over the top of his wine cup. “She asked,” he said evenly. “I am not going to lie to her, Patrick.”
Patrick sighed heavily and removed Penelope from his lap. “That news should have come from me,” he said flatly. “I am the one who has been directing her life for the past two days. I am the one who told her that it would be dangerous for her to return to Coldingham. News of returning her to Coldingham should have come from me.”
With that, he abruptly stood up. William watched him. “Where are you going now?” he asked.
Patrick was clearly displeased. “To talk to her,” he said. “To apologize for the fact that my father will not help me protect her.”
William could see the anger from his passionate son. “You came for my counsel. If you did not want it, then you should not have come.”
Patrick looked at him with an expression William had never seen before. It was wrought with anger, with disgust, and, perhaps, a great deal of disappointment. “You are correct,” he said, lowering his voice. “I should not have. I will not make the same mistake again.”
With that, he stormed off, heading in the direction that Brighton had gone and nearly running his mother over in the process. She was carrying a bowl of something destined for her grandchildren. Patrick paused and apologized for nearly knocking the woman down but continued on before Jordan could reply. She stood there a moment, watching him walk off, before continuing to the table where her grandchildren and husband were sitting.
Setting the bowl down on the table, which the children swarmed on because it contained fried balls of dough, chicken, and carrots, Jordan looked at her husband most curiously.
“Where is Patrick going?” she asked.
William wasn’t pleased about the entire situation and he was particularly upset about his son’s words. Patrick adored him and he adored his son, so harsh words between them were very unusual. He downed the entire contents of his wine cup and slammed the vessel onto the table.
“He is unhappy with me,” he said. “He has gone to speak with Lady Brighton.”
Jordan turned to look off in the direction Patrick had taken again but he was gone by that time. She paused, perhaps thinking of her enormous son and the lovely lady he had brought with him. She’d seen the interaction between the two, the expression on her son’s face when he looked at the woman. If she didn’t know better….
She returned her focus to her husband.
“Careful, English,” she murmured. “When it comes tae a woman, ye must be very careful.”
William’s jaw ticked. “He should have never brought her here in the first place,” he said. “He was wrong and he does not want to admit it.”
Jordan mulled over those words. “It is possible that is not the only thing he doesna want tae admit.”
“What do you mean?”
Jordan shook her head, finding a seat amongst her grandchildren. “I am not sure,” she said. “It ’tis possible that Atty brought the young woman here for other reasons than what he has told ye.”
William didn’t want to hear that. God, he didn’t want to. He’d been wrestling with that fear for the past hour.
“Nay,” he finally said, shaking his head. “I will not hear of it. Patrick is going to London to assume his post and there is no time for what… whatever it is you are suggesting.”
Jordan could hear the distress in her husband’s tone. “Something like this doesna have a time. It happens when it happens. She is a lovely lass and quite kind from what I’ve seen. And she’s beautiful; surely he’s noticed that.”
William was becoming increasingly frustrated. “If she was English, would you be so supportive?”
“What do ye mean?”
“I mean that she is Scots. Is that who you see for Patrick? A Scots wife?”
Jordan lifted her eyebrows. “It was good enough for ye, English. Why not Atty?”
William sighed sharply, with frustration. “Not him,” he mumbled, holding up his cup for a servant to fill. He remained silent until the cup was overflowing and the servant moved away. “Not for Patrick. He will have a great marriage, Jordan, and a wife that can bring him wealth and prestige. The daughter of a man who has a mighty army and lands to offer him. My son is destined for great things and needs a wife who can help him achieve them.”
Jordan shook her head slowly. “I canna believe what I’m hearing,” she said. “Ye were destined for great things and ye achieved them. Did I hold ye back?”
He rolled his eye, taking a huge drink from his cup. “It is not the same.”
“Aye, it ’tis!”
He was perturbed that she was arguing with him. “You were the daughter of a clan chief. Marrying you secured an alliance. Lady Brighton – for all of her obvious beauty – offers nothing to him.”
Jordan just looked at her husband, shaking her head sadly. “Is it true, then?” she asked softly. “Is it true ye’ve forgotten what is in a young man’s heart? Atty will love who he loves, regardless of her station in life. I canna believe ye’d be so blind tae that. And so cruel.”
“Cruel?”
“That’s what I said – cruel. Are ye deaf?”
William didn’t want to be lectured by his wife, and most assuredly not when she was actually making some sense. Taking his drink, he rose from the table and headed off into the crowd of men who were gathering over near the entrance. He could see Alec and Hector, Kevin and Apollo and Kieran. Men who would confirm that he was doing the right thing by sending Lady Brighton back to Coldingham where she belonged.
And she belonged away from Patrick.
Damn his wife for making sense. Damn her for explaining the situation as a matter of the heart and not of the head. Was she right? Was he so upswept in what he wanted for Patrick that he failed to see what Patrick wanted?
He wondered.
CHAPTER NINE
He followed the sounds of the sniffling.
The eastern end of the hall had an alcove used by the servants to prepare trenchers and plates meant for the table, and it also had a door that led out to the kitchen yard and gardens. Once outside that door, off to the left, was a garderobe built into the thickness of the wall. A well-like trench below it then went under the outer bailey, under the outer wall, and dumped everything into the moat. It was a clever feat of engineering.
It was dark when Patrick emerged from the great hall and into the kitchen yard, and he immediately heard the sniffling. The part of the yard that he emerged into was actually a small grove of trees that grew inside the walled garden area, trees that bore apples and pears. On a warm day, they made wonderful shade and, therefore, there were several stone benches underneath the trees.
Patrick could see a lone figure on the perimeter of the trees and that was where the sniffling was coming from. Small and shrouded by the shadows, he could see the silhouette trembling as it sniffled. He headed in that direction.
Although Patrick really couldn’t see who was weeping in the darkness, the size and general shape told him that it was Brighton. When he drew closer and could confirm his suspicions, with the distant light from the kitchen�
�s fires casting just enough light to see by, he cleared his throat softly to announce his presence.
“I cannot believe you have already eaten your fill and have come out here to wallow in gluttonous misery,” he said, trying to lighten the mood. “Or did Penelope chase you away from the table?”
Startled by his presence, Brighton very quickly wiped at her face, erasing the tears that had been so freely flowing. “N-nay,” she said. “I… I simply came to have a breath of fresh air. I-I have never supped in a great hall before. It was quite warm and overwhelming… so many people….”
Patrick knew she was lying but he didn’t contradict her. “I see,” he said, moving closer to the stone bench she was sitting on. There was just enough room for him. “It is peaceful out here. May I sit with you?”
Brighton didn’t say anything for a moment, nor did she look at him. “Y-you should be inside with your family.”
“Yet I am not. May I sit?”
She shrugged and he took it as permission. Planting his large body beside her, he didn’t look her in the face. At least, he tried not to. His attention was everywhere but her face because he knew the minute he looked at her, the situation would grow personal. Even just sitting with her, so close to her, he could feel it growing personal. As much as he had fought such a thing the night before, he didn’t feel much like fighting it now. He’d run from her the night before, hiding in his chamber like a frightened squire. But the truth was that he wasn’t a squire and he was attracted to her. God help him, he was. Perhaps that was why he was so upset with his father.
He was willing to admit he might have a personal stake in all of this.
Might….
“I spoke with my father this afternoon about your situation, just as I said I would,” he said. “My father seems to think you will be better off returning to Coldingham. He is concerned that you are a ward of the church and therefore their property. He feels that mayhap the church is better suited to protect you from whatever trouble follows you.”
Nighthawk: Sons of de Wolfe (de Wolfe Pack Book 7) Page 14
