The tunic came off followed by the mail coat, a padded under tunic and another tunic beneath that. When Patrick was finally stripped to the waist, left only in his breeches and boots, William went over to where the weapons and shields were laid out and selected a weapon for his son. Then he picked up a shield and carried it over to him.
“Since you are going to be in close quarters fighting, your broadsword will do you no good,” he said. “This sword is well-made and the style of the pommel will provide some protection for your hand. If you do not like this sword, you may choose another. There are a few others they have brought forth.”
With his broad chest and muscled arms gleaming beneath the mid-summer sun, Patrick took hold of the sword, getting a feel for the weight of it. It was fairly lightweight and not anything like his enormous broadsword, but he would be able to move faster with it and strike faster with it.
“The craftsmanship is excellent,” he said, inspecting it. “You have chosen wisely, Da.”
William smiled weakly as he handed him the shield. “Remember what I told you,” he said. “Let your opponent exhaust himself and then strike when he is too weak to fight back. Brains over brawn, Atty.”
Patrick looked over his shoulder at Elof, who was huffing and puffing, working himself up into a sweat. “I doubt he will exhaust himself,” he said casually, turning back to give his sword one last look-over. “He looks as if he eats small children for breakfast.”
The humor was still there. That was good; it showed that Patrick wasn’t feeling any real fear. Concern, perhaps, but not fear. It was time to begin.
“May God be with you,” William muttered. “I will see you at the end.”
Patrick looked at his father and, for the second time that day, felt inordinately sentimental towards the man. He knew his father was frightened for him and commended the man for not showing it. In the same situation, Patrick was quite sure he wouldn’t have been so calm. Leaning forward, he kissed him on the forehead.
“Not to worry, Da,” he said. “We will be roasting a Norse beast by sup tonight. But remember your promise to me.”
“What was that?”
Patrick’s humor left him and, for a split second, a flash of fear was in his eyes. But not for him; it was for his wife.
“You promised me that you will not let them take Bridey,” he murmured. “If anything happens to me, you must hold true to that promise. If you do not, I will never forgive you.”
With that, he turned and headed over to the riverbank where Magnus himself was overseeing the start of the battle. As William, Paris, and Kieran watched Patrick take position against his opponent, Kieran leaned in to William.
“You will not stand by while your son is killed, will you?” he asked quietly.
William, his eyes riveted on Patrick, shook his head. “Never,” he murmured. “If it looks as if it is coming to that, I will intervene and I will kill anyone who gets in my way.”
Kieran breathed a sigh of relief. “I was hoping you would say that,” he said. “I will return to the castle and tell Bridey what is happening. It is her right to know.”
“While you are at it, arm the knights and tell them to be ready. If I must intervene, I have a feeling the Norse will not take it well.”
“We will be ready.”
“Good.”
As Kieran headed back to the castle, William found himself praying that this day wouldn’t bring any death to him or to his family. Scared to death, he struggled not to show it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“I-I will not let this happen!” Brighton was in tears. “Why did he agree to this? Why did you allow it?”
Kieran was trying very hard to keep the woman calm but he wasn’t doing a good job of it. In fact, no one in the castle was calm about what was transpiring with Patrick, including Hector and Alec, who had converged on Kieran when the man had come back up from the Water Tower.
Kieran had been forced to tell them what was happening and that turned them into mad men, sending soldiers to call the knights away from their posts, bringing Scott and Troy on the run when they were told that Patrick was in a fight to the death against the man that Magnus had chosen to marry his daughter. The de Wolfe twins were in a fury over it, understanding it one minute and lamenting it the next.
But the worst reaction was yet to come. Brighton, informed that her husband was in the fight for his life, had no intention of remaining in the keep. Worse still, Katheryn and Evelyne agreed with her. The two sisters were weeping over Patrick’s situation while Brighton, a usually congenial and sweet woman, had turned into a tempest. The trouble was, no one blamed her, least of all Kieran.
“It was his choice, Bridey,” Kieran said, understanding a thing or two about agitated women because he had married one. “Those longships were, indeed, Magnus, your father, who had come to Berwick because he had received a missive from the mother prioress at Coldingham that his daughter – you – were in danger. He came here in good faith to save you, lass. What he did not expect was a happy daughter who was already married. He brought a husband he has chosen for you and, given the situation, Patrick chose to fight for you. He chose to prove to Magnus that he is the best husband for you.”
Brighton was beside herself. It was too much confusing and terrifying information, leaving her struggling to process it all. The more she built it up in her mind, the more frightened she became.
“B-but I do not understand,” she pleaded. “Mother Prioress sent a missive to my father? Why would she do such a thing?”
Kieran shook his head. “This we cannot know, lass. We have been trying to find an answer for the very same question.”
Not only was Brighton alarmed, now she was baffled. Nothing about this situation made any sense to her. “A-and now Patrick must fight to keep me? This is madness!”
“Madness or not, it is his choice.”
“B-but… fight for me? I am already his!”
Kieran sighed faintly, seeing that she didn’t fully understand the situation. “And he intends to keep it that way,” he said patiently. “You must understand something about men, Bridey. When something they love is threatened – a home, a wife, a king – they are compelled to protect it. To fight for it. This is no different from doing battle against Richard Gordon because the man wants to kill you. In this case, another man wishes to marry you. And Patrick will not permit that to happen.”
Brighton was trying to understand; she truly was. But this manner of thinking was incredibly foreign to her. All she could see was that she was already Patrick’s wife and for him to risk his life fighting off another man was lunacy.
She hated it.
“N-nay,” she finally said, shaking her head. “I cannot allow this to happen!”
She started running for the keep entry but Kieran grabbed her before she could get away. “You cannot stop it,” he insisted quietly, forcing her to stand still and listen. “It has already begun. If you go running down to the riverbank, you will distract Patrick and get him killed. Do you understand me? Seeing you or hearing your voice will distract him from defending his life in battle and that distraction will be deadly. Do you want to kill him?”
Brighton was looking at him fearfully, tears swimming in her big eyes now. “N-nay. Of course not.”
“Then do not distract him. If you want to watch what is happening, I will not stop you. But keep silent.” He paused, looking around him at the knights, the sisters, of Patrick. They were all in turmoil. “That goes for all of you. Watch if you will but if you utter a sound, you will kill him. Patrick cannot hear a sound from any of you.”
While Katheryn and Evelyn were gazing at Kieran much as Brighton was, with tears in their eyes, the knights were far more somber. They understood exactly what Kieran was saying; they understood that distraction was deadly when it came to a battle. As the seriousness of Patrick’s situation settled, Hector turned to his wife.
“You can watch from the keep if you have a notion to,” he told h
er quietly. “You will be able to see from the top level. But I do not want the children to watch. They are too young to understand it.”
Alec heard Hector and he, too, turned to his wife. “The boys are not to watch,” he said. “In fact, I would prefer you remain with them. I will come to you when it is over.”
Katheryn didn’t like the sound of that at all. She clapped a hand over her mouth to keep from sobbing openly. “Please do not let anything happen to my brother,” she whispered between her fingers. “Please, Alec.”
Alec nodded solemnly, kissing her on the head and gently shooing her back up the stairs, back up to the sleeping chambers where the children were. Evelyn followed and, together, the pair made their way up the stairs, disappearing into the upper levels.
Hector and Alec stood at the bottom of the steps, watching until the women were gone. Then, they made their way over to Kieran and Brighton.
“I am going down to the Water Tower to watch,” Hector said, his jaw ticking. “I will be fully armed. If it seems as if Patrick is in trouble, I will not hesitate to assist him, Uncle Kieran. I want to make sure we are clear on that.”
Kieran nodded. “I know,” he said. “William feels the same way. He asked me to tell the knights to arm themselves and await his command. He is not about to watch his son fight to his death, so we must be ready to help him.”
Scott and Troy were standing behind Kieran and heard his command. Truth be told, they hadn’t even formally met Brighton yet but now was not the time. There would be plenty of opportunity to get to know Patrick’s wife later, but now, they were on a mission. They immediately headed to the armory to arm themselves even more than they already were, sending word to Colm and Damien, Anson and Apollo of what was transpiring. They were assembling a force for Patrick, a needed force to step in and save the man if necessary. Brighton watched the speed with which they were moving, impressing to her just how serious the situation was and the fact that they were as concerned about it as she was.
Understanding that there were men to intervene in Patrick’s fight, Brighton was far calmer than she had been only seconds earlier. As long as men were willing to help her husband, then she was willing to believe that Patrick would make it out of this alive. But she had to go to him; she had to see what was happening. Even if she kept silent and he didn’t know she was there, perhaps he would feel her spirit around him.
Her love.
She refused to believe that God had given her a taste of such happiness only to take it away.
“W-will you take me to watch?” she asked Kieran. “I swear to you that I will be silent.”
Kieran was reluctant but, as he’d told William, he felt it was Brighton’s right to know what was happening to her husband and to witness it. This was for her, after all. He had to admit that he felt terribly sorry for her. Gently, he took her hand.
“Come along, then,” he said softly. “I will take you.”
Brighton followed Kieran out into the sunlight; a glorious day revealed behind the lifting of the fog. He took her over to the gated portal that led out to the stairs down to the jetty. The Water Tower was at the end of those stairs and the moment she began to descend, she could see the longships and a large gathering of men on the riverbank. She could also hear the distinct sounds of a fight, steel against steel and men grunting with exertion.
Patrick fighting for his life.
Halfway down the steps, the sounds of a battle were having an effect upon her. She began to tremble, her stomach in knots because she knew the sounds were of Patrick trying not to be killed. Having been raised at a priory, praying was all Brighton knew. God listened, she was certain of it, but she prayed that He would never listened more so than right now. As she reached the bottom of the steps and began to head to the edge of the Water Tower to view the spectacle below, she found herself repeating a prayer for Patrick’s protection over and over.
O My God, I adore Thee and I love Thee with all my heart. I thank Thee for having created me and for having watched over me this day. Pardon me for the evil I have done this day; and if I have done any good, deign to accept it. God, watch over my husband and deliver him from danger. May Thy grace be always with him and Your strength be within his sword. Protect him, O God, and let him live.
Amen.
‡
With the first blow from Elof’s sword across his wooden shield, Patrick knew he had met his match.
It wasn’t just any blow; it was as if he’d been kicked by a horse. He thought that he’d been prepared for such a blow but the truth was that no amount of preparation could have prepared him for that. Elof went on the offensive first and the blow to Patrick’s shield sent the man staggering backwards. And with that blow, the fight began in earnest.
It was evident early on that Elof had a tremendous amount of strength and Patrick was starting to hope that what his father said might actually be true; let the man tire himself. Considering the ferocity of Elof’s attack, Patrick could see that the man was going full-force in the first few moments of the battle. Surely he couldn’t keep it up forever. Perhaps Elof would, indeed, tire himself out, after all.
It was a hope Patrick clung to.
The first round was vicious because Patrick, unable to simply stand back and let a man beat on him, came back with equal force and hammered Elof so steadily that not only did his shield break, but Elof fell back into the crowd of Northman watching the fight. Victorious in the first bout, Patrick tried not to become arrogant about it. He made his way back to his corner of the battle area and stood there, shield and sword in hand, as Elof righted himself, tossed aside the broken shield, and picked up a second shield. When Elof was fully armed, he and Patrick charged at each other again.
The second clash of titans wasn’t a simple thing. Elof pounded on Patrick’s shield and then Patrick would return the favor. Patrick was coming to see that Elof really didn’t have any tactics in a fight; he simply rushed him and tried to beat his brains out by smashing Patrick’s shield repeatedly with his sword. For Patrick, that meant Elof wasn’t thinking beyond the initial battle. So at that point, Patrick began to throw in some tactics of his own.
As William had said, wits would win the war.
After a particularly tough barrage from Elof, one that cracked Patrick’s shield but didn’t break it, Patrick charged Elof with a vengeance, forcing the man backwards. Patrick was close enough that he was able to get a foot in behind Elof and trip the man. Elof went down on his back, hard, and Patrick swiped the corner of his shield into Elof’s face, clipping his nose. He then proceeded to use his feet on Elof, kicking the man brutally, but Elof was somehow able to roll to his knees and lurch to his feet. Bleeding from the nose and mouth, Elof attacked Patrick in a fury and ended up breaking his own shield.
Now, Elof was down to his last shield while Patrick still had his original shield in his hand. It was cracked but not broken. As the Northmen, and William and Paris, stood in a wide ring around the combatants, Elof once again went after Patrick, who dodged the man and tripped him once again. Elof went down, on his face this time, and Patrick threw aside his shield and sword and jumped on Elof’s back, pinning him to the riverbank and putting both hands on back of the man’s head, pushing his face into the dirt in an attempt to smother him.
Elof may not have been a particularly smart fighter, but he knew how to survive. As soon as he realized that Patrick was trying to suffocate him, he took a handful of sand and tossed it back into Patrick’s face, getting it into Patrick’s eyes. It was enough to stun Patrick so he loosened his grip and Elof was able to turn slightly and throw a big elbow into Patrick’s belly. With sand in his eyes and the wind knocked out of him, Patrick staggered to his feet as Elof launched an offensive.
Blinded by the sand, Patrick didn’t see Elof throw himself at him, but he certainly felt it. Elof hit him so hard that both men flew through the air, with Patrick landing on his backside and Elof landing on top of him. Then, the punches started to fly and, blinded by
sand or not, Patrick wasn’t going to let this beast get the upper hand. He grabbed his own handful of dirt and tossed it into Elof’s face, causing the same type of reaction that Elof had caused in him. It was enough of a distraction for Patrick to throw a devastating blow into Elof’s already-damaged nose. Elof toppled off of him and into the dirt. After that, it was an all-out brawl.
Patrick was perfectly at home using his fists and feet instead of a sword. Unfortunately, so was Elof. The punches flew furiously, each man landing some fairly seriously blows on the other. Patrick had been hit, hard, in the eye and in the jaw, and his lips were bleeding where his teeth had been forced into his lips. Elof, too, was bleeding fairly seriously from the nose and mouth and, soon enough, blood began to splatter the more they punched. It was turning into a bloodbath as red droplets sprayed on the spectators.
On and on it went, blow after blow, and soon Patrick had to admit that he was growing weary. The punch to his jaw had almost knocked him out so his ears were ringing badly and his balance was off. But he wasn’t going to surrender, not in the least, and at one point, he threw his arms round Elof’s neck, enough to force the man to the ground and nearly cause him to lose consciousness. Elof, however, threw a thumb into Patrick’s eye and Patrick was forced to retreat.
Unfortunately for Patrick, being blinded in one eye caused him to miss a devastating left-handed blow from Elof that sent him right to the ground. The darkness of unconsciousness beckoned him but he fought it. He simply wasn’t going to permit that to happen. If he did, he knew he’d be dead.
And then… he saw it.
The short sword he’d tossed away was just a few inches from his hand. He could see a way to end this confrontation, once and for all, because he didn’t honestly think he could stand much more of the brutal pummeling. One of Elof’s blows was like being kicked in the head by a horse. Any more of those and he wouldn’t be able to fight off the unconsciousness. Therefore, he had to take his chance now to end this fight for good. Elof wasn’t going to win.
Nunnery Brides: A Medieval Romance Collection Page 63
