“The nights are cold when the sun goes down, Atty,” she said. “So ye’re goin’ tae Wooler, are ye? There is a fine huntsman there and his wife makes all manner of cloaks and gloves and shoes. Go and see the man and see about getting’ Bridey her own cloak and gloves and shoes. She’s a-wearin’ Evelyn’s old things and Evelyn had nearly worn them through. The lass needs somethin’ of her own.”
Brighton shook her head. “T-the things that Evelyn gave me are more than serviceable,” she insisted to both Jemma and Patrick. “I do not need anything more, truly.”
“Pah,” Jemma said. She pointed a finger at Patrick. “Get the lass what she needs. The merchants in town know us; tell them we’ll pay for the things when next we come tae town.”
Patrick nodded, taking his orders from Jemma and not from Brighton, who was mortified that the de Wolfe family should spend money on her. As Jemma walked away, she turned to Patrick.
“P-please, nay,” she begged quietly. “There is no need to purchase anything for me. I would be terribly ashamed because I cannot pay you back.”
Patrick smiled at her as he mounted his horse, holding down his hand to help her up. With a heavy sigh, because he seemed to be ignoring her concerns, she put her hand in his and he lifted her up onto the back of his saddle. She shifted around to find a comfortable spot, gripping his trim torso as he spurred his war horse onward.
“D-did you hear me?” she said as they passed through the enormous gatehouse. “You do not need to purchase anything for me. I am perfectly content with what I have.”
Patrick gaze moved over the landscape as he began to make his trek down the hill to the road below. “I heard you,” he said. “But you have been overruled.”
“W-what does that mean?”
“It means that my mother already told me to buy you a few things, as a gift for having spent so much time entertaining the wild animals that pose as children. She is very grateful for all you’ve done.”
Brighton wasn’t convinced. “B-but that was nothing,” she said. “It was great fun to play with them. I love children.”
“And they love you. Penelope insists you are her best friend in the world, which means that you have superseded me in that position. I may have to challenge you at some point for the honor.”
Brighton laughed softly. “S-she is strong willed and brilliant, that one,” she said. “Your parents are in for trouble when she comes of age and they want to seek a husband for her. She has told me she will never have a husband and that she will fight for your father as a knight.”
Patrick grinned. “That is because my father tells her she is the best knight at Questing,” he said. “My mother tries to temper that with proper things for little girls to do, but my father ruins it when he sword fights with her. He purchased a pony for her six months ago and keeps the animal hidden away with the war horses, where my mother has not seen it, because he wants to give it to Penelope and is afraid of what my mother will say.”
Brighton continued to giggle. “H-he is going to have to tell your mother sometime,” she said. “Mayhap she will be understanding.”
“You do not know my mother.”
“B-but I am sure many young girls have ponies… don’t they?”
“Not a pony that has been fitted for miniature armor.”
“O-oh, goodness….”
“Exactly.”
Brighton simply grinned and the conversation trailed off after that, but it wasn’t an uncomfortable silence. They spoke now and again, about the weather, the road, or anything else that popped to mind. Moreover, Brighton had her arms around Patrick, something that was quite thrilling. As they made their way to the road south, she carefully laid her cheek against his armored back, closing her eyes and wallowing in the closeness between them. The last time she had ridden with him like this had been after the raid, when everything had been frightening and disorienting and cold. But today, the mood was different – everything was different.
It was heavenly.
It was mid-morning on this mild summer day as they headed south along a well-traveled road. The road was also relatively flat, strung along in flatlands between mountains to the west and rolling hills to the east. Everything was green and the lack of rain over the past few weeks had left the land dry and lovely. The road was a little dusty, in fact, kicking dirt up on the ends of the rabbit fur cloak. But Brighton didn’t notice; she still had her cheek against Patrick’s back as the horse plodded along, her arms around his torso and feeling him breathe.
She could have stayed like that forever.
Ten miles went very fast when one was hoping it would last a lifetime. That’s what Brighton thought when the outskirts of Wooler began to come in to view. There were farms dotted across the landscape and people out working the land. She saw small homes all bunched up around the edges of the town as they drew closer.
As they passed into the town, Brighton lifted her head, watching her surroundings most curiously. She’d never seen anything like this, not ever, so this was a new experience and a very interesting one. Her life since leaving Coldingham had revealed to her so much about how others lived, those who weren’t pledged to the cloister. Now, they were entering a small town that seemed quite busy and prosperous for the most part. Life seemed to be rich here.
Brighton found it fascinating how the beautifully-colored fields of greens and yellows and golds transformed into the rather colorless huts that were clustered around the edge of Wooler. The homes seemed to look the same, slapped together with waddle and daub, with pitched roofs, sitting on avenues that were uneven and full of ruts. Women in dirty caps stood in the doorways, yelling at children who ran about the streets with dogs barking after them. She saw a little girl with a stick poppet and a little boy with a boat he’d made from a leaf. It was a wondrous world before her and she drank in every single drop of it.
“My mother said that the thread merchant is near the town’s well,” Patrick said, breaking into her thoughts. “When we are finished with him, I will have to find the huntsman that Aunt Jemma spoke of.”
Brighton leaned sideways so she could see around him, seeing that the road headed up a hill to the town square up ahead. “T-truly,” she said. “You do not have to purchase a cloak for me, or shoes or gloves. I am very uncomfortable accepting such things when your sisters have given me perfectly serviceable clothing.”
“Quiet, woman,” Patrick said softly, but with jest. “Do you not know when people are trying to do something nice for you? If you are not careful, you will offend my entire family and then we’ll be in the soup. Just you see.”
Brighton grinned, looking up at him. But she could only see the side of his helmed head. “I-in the soup?” she repeated. “What does that mean?”
He turned his head, which was difficult with the helm he wore. “Have you never heard that term?”
“N-never.”
“It means we shall be in a bind. In trouble. In a stew, as it were. Now do you understand?”
She laughed softly. “T-thank you for being so kind and explaining it to me.”
“My pleasure, my lady.”
His free hand ended up resting on her right arm, his fingers seeking hers. Thrilled, Brighton held his hand tightly as they headed into the heart of the town.
Up ahead, they could see that the village’s center was rather crowded. The buildings here were of better construction in this main part of town, with a few stone shops that had both a first and second floor.
As the horse plodded into the crowded part of town, Brighton found fascination in the people they passed – merchants, visitors, travelers, and some armed men as well. There were several hanging out front of a stone building called the Angel Inn, drinking and generally being loud even at midday. They stopped their drinking and chatting to eyeball Patrick as he rode by, but no one moved against him. It was a professional assessment and nothing more. Once Patrick moved past, they resumed their conversation.
But their attention to Patr
ick had concerned Brighton. She was nervous that armed men should pay such attention to him and also to her. She was glad when they rode past the group in relative peace. But her attention was soon diverted as they passed by one of those stone buildings and Brighton could see that it was a food vendor. She could smell fresh bread and there were people inside the business, emerging with food in their hands. Being that she hadn’t eaten since the morning meal, her stomach was rumbling.
“A-are you hungry?” she asked, hoping for an affirmative answer.
It wasn’t long in coming. Patrick turned to look at the food vendor as well. He deeply inhaled the culinary scents.
“Aye,” he said. “There is a livery around the corner. Let us leave the horse off and then we can go about our business.”
Brighton was quite agreeable with that. Patrick spurred the big war horse down the road and turned down an offshoot, a small alley, where there was a big stone livery there complete with two separate yards. Patrick took the horse straight to the livery owner, muzzled the beast, and paid well for the man to tend the animal. Then, he removed Brighton from the horse, tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow, and headed back out to the street with its gastronomic delights.
Brighton held tight to Patrick as they made their way to the main avenue and headed back towards the food vendor. All the while, she was looking around at the new sights, her head was on a swivel, with enough enthusiasm so that Patrick noticed. He watched her as she investigated every sight and every sound.
“You are swinging your head around so much that it is going to fly off at any moment,” he told her with a smile. “Surely not everything is so interesting.”
Brighton grinned sheepishly. “I-if you have never been outside of the walls of your home, then everything is interesting,” she said. “There are so many people here. Where are they all going?
Patrick looked around. “I do not know,” he said. “Farmers, merchants, women going about their shopping. This is a busy market town. I can remember as a child that there was a merchant who imported sweets from all over the world. He had marzipan, candied fruits, honeycomb, and cakes made with sweet salt. Have you ever had such a thing?”
Brighton shook her head with wonder. “S-sweet salt? What is it?”
Patrick could see their destination up ahead. “Men brought it back with them upon returning from pilgrimage to the Holy Land,” he said. “It is from the Far East. Sweet granules that are white and look like salt.”
Brighton was intrigued. “I-I have never had it but it sounds delicious.”
“It is. I will see if we cannot find you some to sample while we are here.”
Brighton thought that was an astonishingly good idea. The food vendor was looming close now and there were people coming in and out of it. Brighton got a good look at the steaming food in their hands – roasted meat with carrots and peas all packaged up in neat little trenchers. People were eating it with gusto, which only made her more hungry. Just as Patrick ducked his head down to enter the door of the shop, a shout stopped him.
“De Wolfe! I thought that was you!”
Patrick calmly turned towards the shouting and Brighton watched as the man’s face suddenly split into a smile. When she looked to see what had him smiling, all she could see was a very big knight in well-used armor and a dirty tunic crossing the road towards them.
“Bloody Christ,” the knight said as he approached. “The Nighthawk himself. There is no man in all of England as enormous as you are. Has anyone tried to put a saddle on you and ride you yet, you big stallion?”
Patrick laughed softly as he reached out to take the man’s offered hand. “Le Sander,” he muttered with satisfaction. “Has anyone tried to cut that glib tongue from your mouth yet?”
The knight laughed. “I am too fast and too powerful,” he said. “Mayhap they have a dirk with my name on it, but it would do no good. They cannot catch me or kill me.”
Patrick slapped him affectionately on the cheek. “That is true,” he said. “You have survived battle when it should not have been survivable, my friend. And it has been a long time since I have seen you.”
“It has,” the knight agreed, his expression suggesting he was quite fond of Patrick. But his gaze inevitably trailed to Brighton, standing next to Patrick with her hand still on his arm. “But it looks as if life has been very good to you. Lady de Wolfe, I presume?”
Brighton’s cheeks flushed a bright red and as she shook her head, Patrick answered. “Nay,” he said. “She is not my wife. My lady, this is an old friend, Sir Kerk le Sander. The last I heard, he served Sir Henry Grey of Chillingham Castle. Is that still true, Kerk?”
Kerk nodded. “It ’tis. I am his captain, in fact. I am in town on an errand for my lord.”
Patrick nodded before finishing the introduction. “I see,” he said. “Kerk, this lovely creature is Lady Brighton de Favereux.”
Kerk, a devilishly handsome man with eyes the color of the sea and hair so blonde that it was nearly white, displayed his best alluring smile. He took Brighton’s free hand, bringing to his lips for a chaste kiss.
“My lady,” he greeted in a deep, sweet voice. “It is an honor to meet you. May I ask if there is a chance that I may steal you away from my enormous friend?”
Brighton was so red in the face that she thought she might ignite into flames at any moment. “I-I do not know,” she said, gazing up at Patrick as he smiled down at her. “D-do you mean to have me for a servant?”
Patrick laughed loudly as Kerk shook his head. “Nay, lady,” he said patiently. “Not as a servant. I should like a beautiful woman on my arm today.”
“Why today?” Patrick asked, not entirely sure he liked Kerk’s attention towards Brighton. “What are you doing in town, anyway?”
Kerk threw a thumb back over his shoulder, in a westerly direction. “Did you not see the banners for the games?” he said. “Lord Horsden of Highburn House is sponsoring contests today. Tugging rope, archery, that kind of thing. I have no lovely lady to cheer me on so I thought you might sell me yours.”
Patrick was interested in the games. “I will not,” he said flatly. “She stays with me. But these games – are you competing?”
“I am.”
“Have you already entered?”
“I have.”
Patrick looked at Brighton a moment, perhaps to see her reaction to the mention of entertainment, before replying. It occurred to him that having her watch him compete in a game of skill might make her proud of him, if only just a little. He’d never had a woman’s attention like that, at least not attention that he really wanted.
And he very much wanted hers.
“It has been a long time since I have competed in any games,” he said to Kerk. “Where are the marshals so that I might see the areas of contest?”
Kerk’s gaze lingered on Brighton, too, realizing that Patrick had no intention of parting with the woman. His betrothed, he thought to himself. Certainly, from the way Patrick looked at the woman, it was an easy deduction.
Lucky bastard!
“They are up by the competition field,” he said. “Come along; I will show you.”
Patrick was eager to see where the games would be held. But the moment he took a step to follow Kerk, he remembered the food he’d promised Brighton. He quickly turned for the shop again.
“A moment, please,” he said to Kerk. “I promised my lady some food. I will be just a moment.”
Kerk dipped his head politely in Brighton’s direction. “By all means, feed the lady,” he said. “In fact, I will join you.”
Patrick was more than happy to have his old friend attend them but he found himself having to fend Kerk off of Brighton. He wanted to talk to her but Patrick would not permit it. He actually put himself between Kerk and Brighton at one point, a very large guard dog protecting a flower of a lady. Kerk had no choice but to take the hint.
Oddly enough, Patrick knew he had nothing to worry over, because Kerk was a noble knight a
nd a man of good character, so his reaction to his friend underscored just how protective he felt over Brighton. It also showed how attached he was becoming to her. The past nine days at Questing had only sealed those feelings.
Your wife? Kerk had asked. Patrick realized he had wanted to tell him that she was. God, he’d been afraid of such thoughts before. Terrified of her and thoughts of her. That first night at Berwick, he’d literally run from her when he realized he was attracted to her. He’d put off his mother’s questions, or any questions about his feelings for Brighton, because he was afraid. But looking at her now, he wasn’t afraid of those feelings anymore. Intentions of assuming his post with Henry as a married man were fading further and further away.
God help him, they were.
It was a stunning realization and one he was finally ready to accept. It had taken Kerk’s unwanted attention towards Brighton to force him to make a decision. He couldn’t, and wouldn’t, stand for Brighton being with another man. He couldn’t stand the thought of leaving her behind when he went to London. But with that decision came peace he’d never experienced in his life. Something settling and warm. Something that seemed to soothe his soul.
He’d never felt such confidence in something that was right.
She belonged to him.
He was distracted from his thoughts once they entered the food shop, a rather large space within the stone building that smelled heavily of fresh bread and roasted meat. Straw was scattered over the hard-packed earthen floor, something to keep the dust from getting into the food. There was an open door at the rear of the building and beyond, a yard that had two great fires going. Over those fires were a pig and half a cow on a spit. Glendale beef, the vendor was telling everyone. People, lured by the smell of the roasting meat, were standing around waiting to pay for their food just as Brighton and Patrick were.
But Patrick had the advantage – being very big and armed, he was able to procure food for himself and Brighton because people naturally moved to get out of his way. Kerk came in behind him and demanded food as well, so the three of them were sent away with stale bread bowls of beef, carrots and peas in gravy. It was delicious and filling, and the gravy soaked the bread so that they ate that up at the very end. By the time they were finished, Brighton was miserably full but she didn’t complain in the least. Many times at Coldingham, she had gone to bed hungry. So to have a full belly was the best feeling she could imagine.
Nunnery Brides Page 45
