Perhaps he was being impetuous or perhaps he was simply a man who knew what he wanted, finally, and would wait no more. He really didn’t know which best described him. But in any case, he and Brighton headed back toward the town center to purchase the thread his mother wanted before collecting his steed and heading to the edge of town where St. Mary’s Church was situated.
The old church was grand with a tall spire and moss-covered stone walls, the interior smelling of dirt and fatted tapers. With a few coins to the priests, generous enough so that there weren’t any questions, Patrick and Brighton were married at the entrance to the church with two priests, four acolytes, and a few of the townsfolk as witnesses. It was a bit surreal for him and for Brighton, too. She had a rather dazed look about her, but nothing in the world had ever felt so right.
When the priest said the wedding mass and wrapped their joined hands with holy silk borrowed from the second priest, Patrick knew that marrying Brighton was the most certain thing he’d ever done in his life. That beautiful postulate, that divine and sweet guest of the de Wolfe family, was now his wife and when the priest gave the final blessing, it wasn’t Brighton who shed a tear. It was Patrick.
It was done.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Angel Inn
Wooler
“Are we not returning to Castle Questing tonight?”
Patrick shook his head as he escorted Brighton into the biggest and best room that the Angel Inn had to offer. He had his saddlebags in one hand, bags that contained various possessions including his coin purse, and he tossed them onto the end of the bed.
“Nay,” he said. “We are going to stay here tonight.”
Brighton wasn’t particularly seeing his logic. “But why?” she asked. “Castle Questing is not so far away. The sun has not even set.”
Patrick shut the door to the chamber, throwing the bolt. The walls were thin and noise from the common room below could be heard, loud laughter and an occasional woman’s scream. It was all quite chaotic and the door didn’t do much to shut out the commotion as Patrick crossed the floor towards Brighton, who was confused by the fact that they weren’t returning home for the night.
“I realize it is still light outside and we could easily travel back to Questing, but I will be honest when I say that I do not want to,” he said. He smiled thinly. “We must make sure this marriage cannot be dissolved.”
She still had no idea what he was talking about. “It cannot be dissolved at all,” she said. “We were just married.”
He could see she was clueless. Sitting on the bed, he pulled her onto his lap, relishing the feel of her in his arms. God, she felt good. He propped his chin on her shoulder.
“Has no one ever told you of the ways between men and women?” he asked. “The ways between a husband and a wife?”
She eyed him as if only just coming to realize what he meant. Her cheeks turned pink. “Not much, I am afraid,” she said, trying not to look too embarrassed. “We have goats and pigs at Coldingham and I have seen them couple. Sister Acha told me once about the way that a man plants his seed in a woman, but she said it was wicked and painful.”
He lifted his dark eyebrows. “As a nun, I suppose she would see it that way. But I assure you it is not wicked, at least between a husband and wife.”
“But is it painful?”
Now he was becoming a bit pink in the cheeks. “Not for me,” he said, watching her eyes widen. He laughed softly and kissed her cheek. “Not to worry, Bridey. I will be very gentle with you. But we must consummate this marriage so it cannot be annulled or dissolved, by anyone.”
A flicker of fear crossed her features. “Do you believe someone will try? Your father, mayhap?”
He shook his head. “Nay,” he said. “I do not honestly believe he would. But it is better to be safe.”
Brighton trusted him. He knew so much more than she did about the world in general so she didn’t question him further. She simply wrapped her arms around his neck and hugged him.
“As you say,” she murmured. “What would you have me do?”
That was a question with many answers as far as he was concerned. Aye, lass, let me count the ways! He almost laughed but managed to hold off any semblance of a smile because he knew she’d have no idea about the double entendre. So, he gave her a light squeeze and set her on her feet.
“I want you to remain here,” he said. “I have something I must do, so you will remain here and rest. Take a bath if you wish. I will return shortly.”
She looked surprised. “A bath in the middle of the day?”
He winked at her. “It is not the middle of the day,” he said. “Dusk will soon be upon us. But if you do not wish to bathe, send for wine, sit in the window, and watch the street below. You have been fascinated with watching the people since our arrival.”
She nodded, turning to look at the big window, shuttered. There was a bench seat directly below it.
“I have simply never seen so many people in one place,” she said. “But I will wait for you, of course. Where are you going?”
He bent over, kissing her on the nose. “Do not ask any questions,” he said. “If I wanted you to know, I would have already told you. But know I shall return as soon as I can.”
He had effectively shut her down so she smiled timidly. “Please do.”
“I promise.”
With that, Patrick quit the chamber, hearing her bolt the door as soon as he shut it. A smile played on his lips as he headed down into the common room of the inn, a big room that was sunk down into the earth. Old straw covered the floor and the tables and benches appeared as if they had been repaired and repaired again. A few of them were even whitewashed. As far as inns went, it was one of the better-tended ones he’d seen, and he hailed the nearest serving wench and instructed her to take wine and cheese up to his wife.
His wife.
Even saying that made his heart leap, for when he stopped to think about it, he’d never been so happy about anything in his life. But that happiness was tempered by the reality of what he’d done. To be truthful, he didn’t want to think about what his parents would say to the spur-of-the-moment marriage and he didn’t want to think of the consequences. He knew his father would be worried about Coldingham, since the lady had been their charge. But the fact remained that he had married Brighton and no one could separate them, not even the church. He didn’t give a hang about Coldingham. The only thing he cared about was marrying the only woman who had ever meant anything to him.
The Nighthawk had finally found his mate.
As he headed out onto the busy street, he had something in mind – gifts for his wife on the event of their wedding. So he was looking for any merchant who sold goods for women. He thought about looking for the huntsman Aunt Jemma had told him of, but he was more concerned with purchasing something other than leather.
Perhaps something pretty or even something that smelled good. He’d rushed Brighton into marriage and now he was about to dump a load of gifts upon her. He found that he wanted to, very much. She had spent her entire life with absolutely nothing by way of possessions and that was going to change. He was going to make sure of it. As the wife of Patrick de Wolfe, she would be well-dressed, well-respected, and adored.
Definitely adored.
“De Wolfe!”
Patrick heard the shout behind him, turning to see Kerk as the man rushed up. Kerk was filthy from having been rolling about in the field all afternoon, smudges of dirt on his face. But Patrick didn’t stop to talk to the man; he just kept walking as Kerk pulled up beside him.
“Where did you go today?” Kerk asked. “I could have used your help in the wrestling matches.”
Patrick smiled thinly. “Why?” he asked. “I would have only humiliated you. Has history taught you nothing, my friend?”
Kerk laughed softly. “Mayhap you are right,” he said. Then, he seemed to look around, as if he had lost something. “Where is your lady?”
Patri
ck has his eyes focused ahead because he thought he saw a merchant with women’s items posted outside of it. “Back at the inn,” he told him. “And she is my wife.”
Kerk looked at him curiously. “But you told me she wasn’t.”
“As of a half-hour ago, she is.”
Kerk’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “I see,” he said, peering strangely at Patrick. “That seemed rather… sudden. Was the marriage planned, then?”
“Nay.”
Kerk sensed that either Patrick was being defensive or he really had nothing more to say on the matter. It was odd. But Kerk, a man of great communication and curiosity, wasn’t satisfied with the answers he was receiving. He wanted clarification.
“Patrick, wait,” he said, pulling the man to a stop in the middle of the street. “I suppose congratulations are in order but you do not seem happy about this. Why not?”
Patrick paused, looking at his friend and thinking that, perhaps, he was coming across as a bit hard and cold. He and Kerk had a long history of trust, having fought together over the past decade in what history would call the Second Barons Wars. They both fought at Evesham when Simon de Montfort was killed as well as the later and more decisive battle at Chesterfield. Therefore, he knew the man. He trusted him. He struggled to ease his harsh stance.
“I am extremely happy,” he said after a moment. “But… if you must know, the lady is a ward of Coldingham Priory. I do not have their permission to marry her and I have a feeling my father is going to explode when I tell him. Strange what love does to a man, Kerk. All I know is that I had to marry her. Something in my soul required it.”
Kerk sobered dramatically when he realized the seriousness of Patrick’s situation. “I see,” he said. “That is a bit of a quandary, my friend. Mayhap you should stay away from Questing for the time being and simply send your father a missive announcing the marriage.”
Patrick resumed his walk at a much slower pace. “It is not a bad idea but that would be the cowardly way to do it,” he said. “Nay, I must face my father with what I have done. I will worry about everything else when it is necessary.”
Kerk didn’t press him after that. He sensed that enough had been said, at least enough so that Kerk understood the situation. But one thing he said was correct; love had a strange effect on a man. Kerk had lived long enough to see too many instances of that and, therefore, had pledged never to fall in love if he could help it. But often there were circumstances beyond one’s control and he understood that. Still, to see the great Nighthawk having put himself in a precarious position over love underscored to Kerk that all love was risky.
And foolish.
“Well,” he said quietly as they approached a merchant who had all manner of pre-sewn garments hanging outside of his stall, “since you are happy with this marriage, I will congratulate you. But if you need to take the lady someplace safe, away from your father’s wrath and away from Coldingham, bring her to Chillingham. No one would think to look for her there and I will tell Lord Grey that she is my cousin. We can hide her there if you need to.”
They paused outside of the stall as Patrick turned to him, his expression softened. “Thank you,” he said sincerely. “If the worst happens and I must send her away, then I will consider your offer. I am grateful.”
Kerk forced a smile, hoping it didn’t come to that. In spite of Patrick’s demeanor, he could see fear in the man’s eyes, something he’d never seen before. Patrick de Wolfe was invincible, a powerful knight the likes of which few men had seen, so to see genuine fear in the man’s eyes was astonishing as well as depressing.
But he didn’t want to point out that fear or expand on it. Instead, he caught sight of the hanging dresses and he grasped the one next to him. It was best to simply change the subject.
“So,” he said, “you are here to buy your new wife a few things, are you? Ask me what I think of them. I am very good at giving advice on women’s clothing. I know what I like.”
Patrick was grateful for the shift of focus. He lifted a dark eyebrow at his friend. “So do I,” he said, yanking the garment out of Kerk’s hand to inspect it. He shook his head. “Too rough. The woman has spent her life as a postulate at Coldingham and has worn enough rough woolen clothing for a lifetime. Everything I get her must be terribly soft against her skin.”
Kerk eagerly plunged into the merchant’s stall, seeing a pile of fabric on a table and lifting it up, sifting through it to see that they were loosely basted surcoats that had not been hung on pegs for all to see. He began holding some of them up for Patrick’s approval.
“Look at this,” he said. “Linen. It is quite soft. What do you think?”
Patrick really didn’t want the man’s help while shopping for Brighton but he couldn’t be cruel and send him away, either. He very much wanted to do this alone, as it was a personal mission for him, but Kerk was trying to be helpful and polite, so he let him. Kerk found many garments, most of which Patrick rejected, but a few of which he liked. A white silk with yellow panels, a dark blue brocade, and an orange brocade that was truly beautiful.
The merchant eventually emerged from his hut in the back of the shop and, seeing two big knights leafing through his goods, came forth to assist. When Patrick told him that he was essentially purchasing a trousseau for his wife, the merchant raced back into the shop and emerged a short time later with his wife and another older woman, all of them bearing things for Brighton. They were prepared for a very big sale.
Between Kerk, the merchant, his wife, and the old woman who was evidently a grandmother, Patrick found himself bombarded by many items that were brought forth for his approval. Very quickly, he became overwhelmed and sought to break up the onslaught. He told the merchant’s women that his wife required things like soaps and combs, and as they flew into a frenzy gathering such things, Patrick sighed with relief that he had at least eliminated half of the offensive. They were off on a mission and he was left with just Kerk and the merchant to deal with.
It was less chaotic now. The merchant presented Patrick with more surcoats, shifts, and other undergarments than he had ever seen so he simply began pointing to things, which were then set aside. A large pile of clothing was soon reduced by half when he went through it again. All items that he wanted to purchase, but he had no satchel or capcase to carry any of it so the merchant brought forth two big trunks, dusty from having been in storage, with pretty painted panels.
Being that the merchant had nothing else to put the merchandise in, Patrick agreed to purchase the two trunks and they were very quickly stuffed with a myriad of items – surcoats, shifts, scarves, soaps and oils, combs, and even a tiny bejeweled dagger, everything a proper young woman would need. The only thing they didn’t have were sturdy shoes although the merchant’s wife had embroidered slippers imported from Italy and Patrick purchased a pair, just because they were so pretty. After paying the merchant handsomely for the haul, he and Kerk lifted the trunks and carried them back to the inn.
The sun was setting now, ribbons of pink and purple clouds strewn across the sky. Patrick tried not to think of how worried his mother would be when they didn’t return from town. He was certain his father wouldn’t be worried, trusting that Patrick would have a good reason for not returning home that night, but he knew his mother would fret. He was very sorry that he would have to upset the woman but he knew she would understand when she discovered why they had stayed the night in Wooler. At least, he hoped she would.
The inn was crowded now that the sun was setting and people were seeking shelter for the night. Patrick and Kerk came through the door, pushing men aside in order to enter the smoky, smelly room. It reeked of a poorly-functioning hearth and meat that was being boiled in the kitchens. Men and women were eating and drinking, some of them singing, others simply huddled at their tables, ignoring what was going on around them. Patrick pushed into the room, heading for the stairs that led to the upper floor, but he came to a halt just shy of the staircase and turned to Kerk.<
br />
“This is where you leave me,” he said, a twinkle in his eye. “I do not need or want your presence for what I am to do tonight.”
Kerk grinned and slung the trunk off his big shoulder, setting it down next to Patrick so the man could get a grip on it. “Understood,” he said. “I can find my entertainment elsewhere.”
“I am sure you can.”
Kerk laughed softly before sobering, his gaze on Patrick. The mood between them was warm now that farewells were to be said. “It was good to see you today, old friend,” he said. “If you ever need me, you know where I am.”
“Chillingham.”
“Aye.”
“And if you ever need me, send word to Berwick. I can bring two thousand men to your doorstep in less than two days.”
“I appreciate it very much.” Kerk reached out a hand, which Patrick took. Bonds and friendships were reaffirmed. “God speed you, Patrick.”
“And you, Kerk.”
Kerk gave his hand a squeeze and dropped it, turning to find an empty chair in the crowded inn. Patrick, meanwhile, took hold of the second trunk and hauled both of them up the stairs and down the small walkway to his rented chamber at the far end. He used his booted foot to knock on the door, which was swiftly opened.
Brighton stood in the doorway, her face alight when she saw who it was. Patrick frowned. “You should never open a door until you know who is doing the knocking,” he said as he came into the room. “What if I had been a murderer or a thief?”
Brighton stood back as he made his way in with the trunks. “Then I would either be dead or robbed by now.”
Nunnery Brides: A Medieval Romance Collection Page 47
