Page 41

Castle Questing

Even from the stables, Patrick could hear the screaming and it made him grin, for he knew exactly what was going on. He’d been hearing it, daily, for the past week. Nine days, to be exact. He’d been watching Brighton play with the de Wolfe grandchildren, and in particular, with Penelope.

The youngest and insanely spoiled de Wolfe child had found a best friend in Brighton de Favereux, so much so that she’d taken to crawling out of her own bed at night and seeking out Brighton. She would then climb into Brighton’s bed and sleep soundly until morning. Then she would follow Brighton around most of the day. Brighton had shown an inordinate amount of patience and sweetness with Penelope, playing with the child but also reciting stories to her and generally entertaining her. As the days passed and the routine continued, something wonderful unfolded.

There was an innocence about Brighton that was apparent from her years of living at the priory. She hadn’t been tainted by fostering in other households, learning to gossip, perhaps learning to be petty or vain. She was the most beautiful woman Patrick had ever seen, both inside and out, and she wasn’t even aware of it. Her beauty was in her actions, every day. And every, day Patrick watched her, more and more enamored with her to the point where he actually held her hand in public once, in front of his family, who had been wide-eyed about it but said nothing. None of them could blame him, after all, if he’d fallen in love with the girl.

They’d fallen in love with her a little bit, too.

Therefore, Patrick grinned as he listened to the screaming and finished cleaning the hooves of his war horse, a duty he had to attend to personally because the horse wouldn’t let anyone else around him. Penelope and her nieces and nephews, many of them older than she was, were playing a game of chase in the kitchen yard with Brighton. One of them had a rock which, according to what he’d been hearing, was really a valuable ruby and must be kept safe. Hence, the chasing going on. Everyone wanted the ruby. He could hear giggling along with the screaming.

“There ye are.”

Patrick was distracted from his thoughts as Jordan entered the stables, her hair wound upon her head and wrapped in that faded yellow shawl she always bound herself up in. It was an old shawl and something William teased her about, telling her they would probably bury her in it because she loved it so well, but Patrick saw the shawl as something innately his mother. It reminded him very much of her. He stood up from his task, smiling at her as she came in.

“Aye, here I am,” he said. “Were you looking for me?”

Jordan nodded, distracted by the screaming going on. She shook her head reproachfully. “God bless Bridey for keeping the children occupied as she has,” she said. “I dunna know what I did before she came. The lass has the patience of Job.”

Patrick’s grin broadened. “They are my kin and I do not even have such patience for them,” he said. “But she seems to love being with them and they love her in return, so I believe everyone is happy with the arrangement.”

Jordan nodded. “I suppose,” she said. “I will miss her when she is… well, I willna speak of it, not now. I came tae ask ye a favor.”

Patrick nodded. “Of course. What is it?”

Jordan pulled out a couple of spools of thread, one a faded white color and the other a deep blue. There wasn’t much left of the thread. She held the spools out to her son.

“I need ye tae go tae Wooler,” she said. “The town is south along the road, about ten miles away, but there is a merchant there who has all manner of fabric and threads. His stall is near the town’s well and there is a sign above it with a spinning wheel etched upon it. I need these spools. Will ye go for me?”

Patrick nodded, eyeing the spools just the same. “Since when do you purchase thread?” he asked. “I have seen you and Aunt Jemma spin for hours and hours.”

Jordan cocked a well-shaped brow. “’Tis true, but I canna seem tae dye me thread that exact shade of blue,” she replied. “And the other thread is a linen thread that is difficult tae come by. I canna make it. I need at least two spools of each. In fact, while ye’re there, ye can pick up other colors as well– brown, red, yellow. Make the trip worth it.”

Patrick shrugged and took the spools from her, tucking them into the pocket of his tunic. “Is there anything else you need?”

Jordan cocked her head thoughtfully but more screaming caught her attention. “Aye,” she said, pointing to the kitchen yard. “Take Bridey with ye. That poor woman deserves some peace away from those screaming children. Take her with ye and buy her something pretty, Atty. Tell her it is a gift from all of us for tending the bairns as she has. I think she would like that.”

The thought of spending time alone with Brighton did not displease him. In fact, he liked the idea very much. The past several days had seen him spend very little time alone with a woman he was growing quite fond of and he tried not to sound too eager.

“I will,” he said. “Make sure you tell Da that I have gone so he knows.”

“I will.”

Jordan stood back as he reached onto the half-wall of the stall and collected his saddle blanket, shaking it out. There was something more on her mind other than spools of thread but she was careful how she approached it.

As he swung the blanket onto his horse’s back, Jordan’s thoughts turned to Brighton and Patrick as a whole. There was much swirling around them, much that the family could see, but nothing that anyone would mention. Patrick was clearly attracted to the woman and she to him, but no one would say anything for fear of breaking the spell.

They were all quite aware that Patrick was due to leave for London at the end of the coming week and there was still much unresolved about Brighton. As much as Jordan was hoping that Patrick would simply forget about London and return to Berwick with Brighton as his wife, she knew that was more than likely not going to happen. William had told her to remain silent about it but, being Patrick’s mother, she simply couldn’t.

She had to know.

“Have ye heard nothing from Coldingham, then?” she asked as her son settled his saddle on the horse’s back. “I’ve not heard if a message was received. Yer father hasna said anything.”

Patrick shook his head. “Nothing has come from them,” he said. “I find that strange, actually. I would have thought they would be very quick to respond considering Bridey was abducted from the priory. I would think, at the very least, they would send word of their joy at her safety.”

Jordan watched him strap on the saddle, a piece of equipment that more than likely weighed as much as she did. “As would I,” she said. She paused a moment before continuing. “Ye’re soon tae leave us for London, are ye not? Yer da said it ’twas at the end of the month.”

Patrick’s movements slowed somewhat, lethargy in his actions. Perhaps even some reluctance. “Aye,” he said. “I am to depart in six days. At least, that was the plan.”

“Has the plan changed?”

Patrick stopped completely, looking at his mother over the top of the saddle. “I do not know,” he said honestly. “I cannot leave with Bridey’s future in limbo. I cannot simply leave her here at Questing and allow you to assume her problems. That would not be fair.”

Jordan pulled the shawl more tightly around her shoulders. “Will Henry wait for ye, then?”

Patrick shrugged and resumed tightening the saddle. “I do not know,” he said. “That has never come up. There was no reason to ask him to wait for me until….”

He trailed off. Jordan helpfully supplied the end of the sentence. “Until Bridey came about?” she said softly.

“Aye.”

“I told ye that ye could marry the lass and take her with ye, but ye’d have tae get permission from Coldingham, I would imagine.”

Patrick put up a hand to stop his mother from saying anything further about marriage when Brighton suddenly dashed into the stable and pressed herself against the wall right next to the door. It was clear that she was hiding from someone.

As Jordan and Patrick looked at her with some surprise and amusement, Penelope came charging through the stable door. Brighton grabbed the girl from behind in a sneak attack. Penelope screamed in both delight and frustration as Brighton squeezed her hard and gave her a big kiss on the cheek.

“No kisses!” Penelope screamed. “No kisses! I don’t want any kisses!”

Jordan, grinning, came up to her trapped daughter and began kissing her little face. “Just for that, I will kiss every bit of ye” she said as Penelope howled. “How can ye not want kisses, lass? Ye’re a cruel and terrible child, ye are.”

Laughing softly, Brighton set Penelope to her feet. The girl ran off, back into the kitchen yard. Brighton moved to follow but Jordan stopped her.

“Wait,” she said. “I’ll tend tae the children. Ye’ve earned a few hours of peace from that mob. I need tae send ye and Patrick on an errand.”

Surprised, Brighton watched Jordan head out into the kitchen yard, herding the children together to take them back inside. Puzzled, she looked at Patrick.

“W-where are we going?” she asked.

With a smile, Patrick dug into his pocket and pulled out the two spools. “Shopping,” he said, holding the thread up for her to see. “There is a town a few miles south and a merchant there has what she needs.”

Brighton fought off a smile. “A-am I to escort you while you shop or is it the other way around?”

“I believe it may be the other way around. My mother wants thread and I know nothing about it.”

“I-I do.”

“I was hoping you did.”

“B-but I have never been to shop. Not once. Anything we needed at Coldingham, we made or purchased from travelers.”

He put the spools back into his pocket, his eyes glimmering at her. “Then let us not delay,” he said. “There is much to do and we are wasting daylight.”

Brighton was more than ready. Her day had taken an unexpected twist but she was thrilled with the turn of events. It was difficult to play with children and try to watch Patrick at the same time. She’d been doing it for nine days now, endearing herself to the youngsters at Questing simply to give herself something to do while all the time trying to keep track of Patrick and his comings and goings. She thought she’d been fairly clever about it but something told her that Patrick was well aware of what she’d been doing.

Staying close to him while pretending not to.

She watched him finish putting tack on his horse, thinking that the past nine days with him and his family had been the best days of her life. The love and affection she’d seen with the families the first time she’d been around them wasn’t a rarity; it was constant and delightful, as if they’d all known and loved one another in countless lives and in countless forms. There was something that went beyond normal camaraderie with this group, something inherent and deep. More than ever, she wanted to be part of it. It was a rarity she admired greatly.

But she admired none more greatly than Patrick himself. He was the biggest man in the room and with that size came innate intimidation. But Patrick had such an easy rapport with his family that the intimidation factor was nonexistent. He adored his parents, and his sisters and brother. One night, he and Alec and Hector had gotten in to a wrestling match that had seen men rolling all over the floor of the great hall, onto the tables, and back down again as their fathers shouted encouragement. The children, unable to contain themselves, eventually ran into the fray and jumped onto the men who were wrestling.

Once the children got involved, the match was over and Patrick had lain on the ground, laughing, as his nephews sat on top of him and were convinced they’d brought him down. At that moment, Brighton knew that she was in love with the man even though she’d never been in love before. Still, for what she was feeling towards him, it could only be love– something bright and clear and true, feelings that set her head to swimming and her heart to lurching. Surely only love came with such delightful giddiness like that. It was the most wonderful feeling in the world.

It was a giddiness she felt as she watched him lead his horse out of the stall, a scarred war horse he had muzzled for safety. The man was as big as a mountain. Instead of his size frightening her as it first had, now she found immense beauty in the enormity of the man that was difficult to describe. All she knew was that she wanted to be close to him, all of the time, in every way.

“I must collect my weapons and armor,” he told her as he led the horse out into the stable yard. There was a gentle breeze, warm with summer air. “I would suggest you bring a cloak in case the weather turns cool upon our return. Did my sisters give you a cloak back at Berwick?”

“N-nay,” she said, shaking her head, “but your mother loaned me one the other evening when I was cold. I have since given it back to her.”

He tipped his head in the direction of the keep as he tied the horse to the post. “Go and ask to borrow it from her,” he said. “I will meet you back here. Be quick, now.”

Brighton nodded, dashing for the keep on the hunt for Jordan, who was last seen herding her gaggle of grandchildren back into the keep. Brighton went to the great hall first, thinking she might find them all there, but the hall was empty with the exception of a few servants.

She did, however, run into Jemma, When she told the woman what she needed, Jemma was more than happy to loan her a very nice blue cloak with rabbit lining. It was the loveliest thing Brighton had ever seen and she tried to give it back, twice, fearful that she would damage it, but Jemma insisted. Wrapped in the rabbit fur on a day too warm for such a thing, Brighton headed back out to the stables.

Patrick was waiting. He was bringing the horse out from the stable yard when Brighton emerged from the keep, bundled up in the heavy cloak. Right after her came Jemma, the little Scotswoman walking briskly. Patrick waited patiently as both Brighton and Jemma reached him. He pointed to Brighton when he noticed the furs.

“That cloak is made for freezing temperatures,” he said. “Are you sure you will not be too warm in it?”

Brighton wasn’t sure what to say to him. “Y-your aunt has been gracious enough to loan this to me,” she said, making it sound as if Patrick should be very grateful, too. “I think it will be just fine for the journey.”

Patrick’s gaze lingered on her as she nodded her head at him, encouragingly. Before he could reply, Jemma spoke.

“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’s 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 Patrick 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.”