Nunnery Brides: A Medieval Romance Collection

by Kathryn Le Veque

  Brighton stood there and watched him until he faded from her sight. After he was gone, she turned away from the hall entry with a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. Everything had happened so swiftly over the past few days, including this, that she was still trying to absorb everything.

  Muddled, and perhaps a bit frightened on Patrick’s behalf, she wandered back over to the table where Lady Jordan was sitting with her grandchildren, her daughters, and Lady Jemma. As she approached the table, little Penelope crawled off the bench and went to her, slipping her little hand into Brighton’s. Big, innocent eyes gazed up at her.

  “Will you sit with me?” Penelope asked. “Mama returned my sword to me. Come and see it.”

  The little girl was very excited about her sword, seemingly oblivious to the mood of depression that hung over the women of the table, the fear that seemed to carve into the very air around them. Fear for their men, fear for what was to come. Brighton sat down next to Penelope and was promptly shown a dull wooden sword with the lass’ name carved into it. Penelope, it said. The little girl was very proud of it and proceeded to show Brighton how it was used.

  Brighton watched her but without much enthusiasm. This was all very new to her, men leaving for battle and her confusion over her feelings for Patrick. But looking into the faces of Lady Jordan and Lady Jemma, she could see that whether it was the first time or the one hundredth time, the men leaving for battle never got any easier. The men were heading out to risk their lives and there was nothing anyone could do about it.

  All they could do now was wait.

  CHAPTER TEN

  It was a nasty skirmish from the start.

  It wasn’t just a few Scots raiding the border town of Coldstream for grain, it seemed like several clans. Patrick saw Nesbit tartan and he also thought he saw Armstrong, but it was difficult to tell because of the darkness. The entire town was in an uproar as homes burned and people fled for safety.

  The army from Castle Questing charged in like avenging angels. William, who had handled raids like this many times in the past, had a system for these attacks – he split his group in half, with some men going to one side of the town while the rest went to the opposite side. One group of men would then plow through town and drive the Scots to the waiting contingent, which usually resulted in the end of the raid fairly quickly. This time, the plan was the same. William led the group that would wait for the Scots to be driven to them while Patrick led the group that would do the driving.

  Given the fact that half of the village was in flames, it was easy to see who the enemy was. Patrick, Alec, Hector, and Kevin charged through town striking down anything that resembled a Scots, predictably driving raiders and townsfolk alike towards the other end of town where William, Kieran, and Apollo await. It seemed like a simple enough plan and Patrick drove his sword through more than one raider who tried to fight back.

  While reivers seemed to be unorganized groups of men from many clans, these raiders seemed to be organized from one or two specific clans. He saw only two specific tartans but there were a lot of men, much more than the numbers that reivers usually carried. Still, it was of little consequence. Having been raised on the borders, Patrick knew how to handle them.

  Or so he thought.

  His first hint that something was wrong was when he made it towards the end of the town, with a clear field of vision to where his father and the others were waiting. Only they weren’t alone. They seemed to be in a massive battle themselves and Patrick realized that the raiders must have also been split into two distinct groups, one of them lying in wait for the English who had their backs turned. Clearly, what he was seeing was far more than a skirmish.

  It was a battle.

  When Patrick and the other knights saw what was happening, they gave up herding the raiders through the town and made a break to go help his father and the others, who were seemingly overrun. Unfortunately, the men they’d been herding turned on them and the entire village deteriorated into two separate brawls. The raiders were going for the knights more than the men-at-arms, and Patrick found his skills being tested again and again. Men with short swords were trying to undercut him as he sat upon his horse, but he kept his shield low. With his sword, he managed to slice more than a few heads. He emerged the victor with confidence, but it was clear that this was no ordinary raid. The English had been drawn into something planned. Now, it occurred to him why the men from Pelinom were asking for help.

  It was an English death raid on the borders this night.

  With that knowledge, Patrick switched strategies. It was kill or be killed. Turning, he watched his fellow knights to make sure they weren’t in any particular danger. He easily held his own, especially astride his big war horse, who was biting and snapping and kicking. The horse injured or killed as many men as Patrick did. Off to his right, several dozen yards away, Patrick could see his father fighting off hordes of men trying to bring him down. They were swarming, really. He could also see Kieran fighting off men intending to do him harm.

  Old knights who had done this too many times to count, still fighting off the Scots even in their advancing years. Patrick respected and admired them greatly, but he was also very concerned for them. His father was aging and he would hate to see the man get hurt, or worse, in what was supposed to be a simple raid.

  And then, he couldn’t see his father anymore.

  Panic seized him and he spurred his horse through and over men who were trying to block his way. The horse stomped and snapped, and Patrick was able to drive the horse through the roiling horde until he reached the spot he had last seen his father. He could see his father’s horse off to his left, struggling against many hands that were trying to subdue him, but William was nowhere to been seen.

  More panic seized him. Patrick spurred his horse towards his father’s steed, getting close enough to the horse to remove his bridle, which gave the raiders the inability to control the animal. Patrick kicked the horse in the side, startling it, sending it bucking and kicking and running away, heading back to Questing. At least the horse would be safe that way and not fall into the hands of the raiders, but that meant William was without a mount. Patrick tried not to become hysterical as he searched the sea of fighting men for his father. Too many men, men on the ground dying, men on their feet fighting. But still, no William.

  Then, he saw his father.

  William was on his knees, being set upon by several men who were beating him more than they were actually trying to kill him, although one man had a short sword that he was trying to shove through William’s neck. The old knight was too seasoned and too skilled to allow that to happen. The great Wolfe of the Border managed to disarm the man with the sword and turn it against him, killing the man even as others were trying to beat him.

  That was all Patrick had to see. He charged through the men attacking his father, kicking them in the head or using his sword on them as he reached down to pick his father up. William grabbed hold of Patrick but was pulled down by more men who were trying to separate the father and son.

  That was when Patrick went mad.

  His sword was swinging ferociously, cutting off limbs and slicing through bodies. Men began screaming, falling away from him, as he reached down a second time to pick his father up from the ground. William, weakened by his fight, grabbed hold of Patrick a second time. This time, Patrick managed to lift his father up onto his saddle, which was no easy feat considering how much William weighed. He was not a small man and the fact that Patrick was able to lift him up onto his horse was a testament to Patrick’s sheer strength. William ended up behind his son, on the back of the horse, holding on as Patrick drove his war horse through the fight and away from the battle for the most part. When they were outside of the perimeter of the burning town, Patrick pulled his frothing horse to a halt.

  “Are you injured?” he asked his father, panic still in his voice. “Did they get to you?”

  Behind him, William grunted. It sounded as if he w
as in pain. “Where is my horse?”

  “Safe. He is running for home.”

  “Your mother will be worried if the horse returns without me.”

  “Do you want to return home as well?”

  A bloodied hand suddenly appeared in Patrick’s line of sight.

  “I think I’d better.”

  That was all Patrick needed to hear. As the battle raged on behind them, he took his father back to Castle Questing as fast as the horse would carry them.

  ‡

  “I am fine, love. You do not need to weep any longer.”

  In the lavish bower suite of Questing, William was upon the massive bed as his wife and Jemma, as well as Katheryn and Evelyn, hovered over him. Everyone was hovering over him, fearful he was about to disappear.

  The long gash in his left side had been stitched by his wife, twelve stitches in all, and his torso was bound with boiled linen to stop any leakage or bleeding. It wasn’t a deep gash but mail had been shoved into it, meaning it was a dirty gash. Jordan had spent an hour picking mail out of her husband’s side before stitching it.

  Once the job was done, the delayed tears of fright and relief came. Jordan had been through this kind of thing with her husband for over thirty years and it never got any easier. In fact, every time, it grew worse.

  “If it wasna for yer son, I would have lost ye.” Jordan wiped her nose with a big linen kerchief, torn between tears and anger. “Have often have I told ye that yer too old tae fight? Ye dunna need tae prove yerself any longer, English.”

  William was propped up with some pillows while Penelope snuggled against his right side, sucking her thumb and half-asleep. He listened patiently to his wife’s scolding, but it was something he’d heard before, many times. He pulled the covers up around his baby girl before answering.

  “And I have told you that if there is action involving Questing, then I must attend it,” he said quietly so he wouldn’t wake Penelope. “We have had this argument too many times, love. I am a knight and….”

  She cut him off, waving her hands angrily. “… and fighting is yer vocation,” she finished his standard line. “I know that. I’ve heard it a thousand times and I hate it when ye say it. But the fact remains that ye’re too old tae fight any longer. The only reason ye go these days is tae satisfy yer pride. I willna stand for it any longer, do ye hear? Do ye want Penelope tae grow up without her father? Is that what ye want?”

  William sighed faintly, looking down at his little girl, sleeping contentedly against him. Nay, he didn’t want her to grow up without him. But he also didn’t want to fight with his wife about it. She didn’t want him to risk himself; he was doing the only thing he’d ever known.

  It was a painful dilemma for them both.

  A knock on the chamber door interrupted the argument and Jordan wandered away from the bed in an attempt to calm her tears. Katheryn, feeling a good deal of pity for her mother’s side of things, pulled the panel open to see Patrick and Kieran standing there.

  “Come in, Atty,” Katheryn said. “Has everyone returned?”

  “Aye.”

  “Where is my husband?”

  “In the bailey disbanding the men.”

  “Is he injured?”

  “Not a scratch,” Patrick replied as his gaze drifted to their father. “How is he?”

  “Papa is going to be fine, the old fool.”

  Patrick entered the chamber, dirty and splattered with blood, and Kieran followed him in. Kieran looked absolutely exhausted, pale to the point of being pasty, and his wife went to him immediately, putting her arms around him in concern. Patrick could hear them speaking softly, her great worry for her husband and Kieran’s soft assurances that he was fine, but his focus was on his father.

  “What is the damage?” Patrick asked William, trying to make light of the situation and the room full of worried women. “You look better than you did the last time I saw you.”

  William held up a hand for his son, who took it strongly. He squeezed his boy’s hand. “I will survive, thanks to you,” he said quietly. “You returned to the battle after you brought me home. What is the situation now?”

  Patrick scratched his head wearily. “Half of the village has been burned down,” he said. “I caught up with some of the Pelinom men and it seems that this was a fairly large and organized raid by Clan Nesbit. The soldiers at Pelinom were drawn out into a rather large battle which is why they sent for us. Then we were drawn into it as well. The best I can come up with is that it was a murder raid. The Scots never touched the wheat stores.”

  William listened to the news grimly. “I would not be surprised,” he said. “They have tried that before. Pelinom sits in Nesbit territory and they want the fortress badly.”

  “Have they ever made any attempts on Questing like that?”

  “Never. We are too big and hold too many men for them. They’d have to rouse half of the lowlands to overtake Questing and they do not have the support.”

  “But they keep trying.”

  “Aye, they do.”

  Patrick chewed his lip thoughtfully. “What about James?” he asked, speaking of his younger brother who was, in fact, Katheryn’s twin. “Wark Castle sits closer to the border than Questing does and Northwood sits directly upon it. Do they have the same trouble with Nesbit?”

  William shook his head. “Only Pelinom because it is actually in Scotland.”

  Patrick grunted. “The Scots left it alone for years, especially when Ajax de Velt was in command,” he said. “No one would dare challenge the Dark Lord. Now his descendants have the castle, men who are fine knights. They’ve managed to hold off the Scots this long.”

  William leaned his head back against the wall, wearily. “Aye, they have, but it hasn’t been for a lack of trying on the part of the Scots,” he said. He fell quiet a moment, gazing up at his enormous son. “Had it not been for you tonight, I suspect I might not have made it out of there alive. I am very grateful, lad.”

  Patrick looked down at his father, seeing how exhausted the man was. He’d always seen his father as strong and young and powerful, not older and more easily tired. He was coming to realize that his father was no longer that young, powerful man, but an older man who more than likely shouldn’t be fighting battles any longer. At least, not skirmishes like this. He squeezed his hand.

  “Maybe you should let the younger men flight these little skirmishes, Da,” he said quietly. “You are the greatest knight who has ever lived and it would be a fine prize for some foolish Scotsman to claim your life. I would have to go on a murder rampage myself if that were to happen. So on behalf of the Scots along the border, spare them my rage and do not go out on any more of these little skirmishes. They would be grateful and so would I.”

  William smiled weakly. “Your mother was just saying the same thing.”

  “Aye, I was,” Jordan said, no longer able to stay out of the conversation. “Now ye’ve heard it from yer son. Ye’re too old tae be fighting other men’s wars like that. Ye’ve earned the right not tae fight every little battle that pops up.”

  Patrick eyed his father. “I must agree with what she says,” he said. “Save yourself for the big things. Let others fight the smaller battles.”

  William sighed heavily as he turned his head, looking away. “I have never been very good at avoiding battles,” he muttered. Then, he caught sight of Kieran over near the door where Jemma had pushed him down into a chair. “But Kieran… he has not been well lately. The physic says it is his heart. I worry for him.”

  Both Patrick and Jordan turned to look at Kieran in a chair as his wife wiped at his brow. The big man looked ready to collapse. Patrick’s gaze lingered on the man for a moment before returning his focus to his father.

  “He will never let you go to battle without him,” he said quietly. “If only to spare Uncle Kieran’s life, mayhap you should reconsider going to battle every time there is a little skirmish.”

  It was a reasonable way of putting it,
as if being thoughtful of Kieran’s health as an excuse to stay out of battle was easier to swallow. Still, William was reluctant.

  “Mayhap,” he said softly.

  Patrick wouldn’t let it go so easily for he was genuinely concerned. “Please, Da.”

  William sighed heavily, unhappy that he was now getting pressure from his son. “I said I will think on it and I shall,” he said. “For now, please know I am very grateful for what you did, Patrick.”

  Patrick nodded, his gaze lingering on his father a moment. “There was nothing else I could do,” he said. “When I saw that you were off your horse, there was only one thing on my mind – to find you. I am glad I was in time.”

  “So am I.”

  A brief pause followed. “Da,” Patrick said slowly. “What I said earlier… about the fact it was a mistake to seek your counsel today. I did not mean it. You are the wisest man I know and I shall always require your counsel. I am sorry for my harsh words.”

  William looked at his son and thoughts of the day began running through his head; in particular, thoughts of Lady Brighton. William and Jordan had been speculating all day about Lady Brighton’s relationship to Patrick and what the man could possibly feel for her. It seemed to William that now was the time to ask about it. They could speculate all they wanted but nothing would solve their dilemma more than seeking the truth from Patrick himself. Perhaps it was time for a bit of honesty, on all sides.

  “There is no need to apologize,” William said. “I suppose if my father was meddling in my affairs, I would be angry, too. But I would like to ask you a question.”

  “Anything.”

  “What does this woman mean to you?”

  Patrick faltered; both William and Jordan could see it. He seemed to grow nervous very quickly and averted his gaze.

  “I told you,” he said. “I swore to protect her. I do not give my oath lightly.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Aye.”

  “Ye dunna feel something for the lass, Atty?” Jordan pressed when her husband wouldn’t. “Are ye… fond of her?”