“I would say she loved him in her way but it was hard to know, truly know, what she was thinking.”
“I suppose it matters not what she thought but whathefelt is more to the point. What do we do to comfort him?”
John was moved by the concern his wife had for his closest friend. “I do not believe there is anything that can be done. He must heal from this pain on his own.”
She did not seem convinced. Standing beside her, a short distance from where Peter stood stiffly beside the newly dug grave, John was unconvinced as well. Perhaps his friend never would get over this loss. The loss not only for one he loved most dearly but for the one he’d never know, his child. John felt the sting of tears at the memory of his sweet, little girl born early as a result of the abuse his wife had suffered. He pulled Rowena closer against him as if to ward off any more hurt. She had been through enough. He wished for nothing more than to be able to protect her from any more sadness. Even if the sadness came in the form of concern for a dear friend.
“I believe it will take time. But perhaps we will see him smile yet again at some far off time.”
Peter returned to kneel on the cold ground beside his dead lover’s grave.
“We need to leave him like this then?”
“I’m afraid we must. The King has called for him. William will know best how to assuage his pain.”
Rowena made a face of disbelief. The King had shown a definite lack of consideration when it suited him, as was the case with her people, the Saxons. He could also have great compassion for his own.
“He will keep Peter busy which may help him bear up under the burden of this loss.”
“I pray you are right.”
John gently guided her to where her horse stood waiting.
“Should we not say anything to him?”
John shook his head. It seemed cruel to Rowena but Peter was a proud man. He would not want to be seen in this weakened state, not even by them. He was a warrior. Warriors did not break. Warriors did not falter. Warriors fought on. John sent a prayer to heaven that it would be so.
Chapter Three
Brighit took in the surrounding green hills and cloudless sky, the moist smell of earth from the morning dew, and fought back tears. It was a beautiful day. Instead of being allowed to enjoy it, she stood stiffly beside her escort, Uncle Ronan. He and her brother worked out the details of her departure. She mattered very little.
She’d met her uncle when she was young but he had never left much of a shadow on her life. His barrel chest and muscled legs were those of a warrior. His speech and manner were gruff. He was an islander. Danish from her grandfather’s side, her uncle had blond hair. Her mother had the darker hair of Brighit’s grandmother, who had been a Celtic Princess. Brighit took after her mother.
The small man at Uncle Ronan’s side leered at Brighit. Covered from head to toe with a dark cloak, he seemed to grow up out of the earth. She was properly covered as one becoming a nun. Ner a strand of her dark brown hair was visible, no indication that beneath this rough sack of a kirtle there was a woman’s body and yet Ivan, her uncle’s man, seemed to see right through her disguise. His crooked smile showed black teeth and a fat tongue that darted out between plump lips. Through narrowed slits, he perused her up and down as if imagining having his way with her. Panic seized her. She moved closer to her imposing brother who would rip Ivan’s face off if he ever dare touch her.
“Tadhg.” The sudden need to be shielded from this man erupted in her mind. Certainly her brother would not allow her to be placed in such close proximity to this lecher. She needed him to notice, so she yanked his arm. “Is Sean coming for farewells?”
She tipped her head as much as she dared to indicate the little man but Tadhg merely appeared perplexed.
“He sends his regrets at being unable to see you off. He wishes you well, Brighit. You are like a sister…” She nodded her head the slightest bit to indicate where she wanted him to see, “…but he has…” She tried again to no avail, “…much to do at this time of year.”
Tadhg stopped talking and frowned in irritation. “What is amiss?”
Smiling tightly, Brighit turned back to her uncle, but was surprised to see his lackey merely standing at attention at her uncle’s side. Her shock must have shown on her face.
“Niece?” Uncle Ronan prompted her.
Her eyes flashed at the little man before she smiled at her uncle. “Forgive me, Uncle, I am under much stress in my preparation for this sudden journey. I fear I am not myself.”
Uncle Ronan laughed at this, a loud, boisterous laugh which caused his body to shake. “Well, my dear niece, you’ve nothing to fear. We will see you safely to the Priory, just as we did your mother before you.”
“Ah, yes, you were the one who brought her to Tanshelf,” Tadhg said.
“It was none other. Your sweet mother looked to Elizabeth—beg your pardon—the Prioress now, as her protector as you should as well, Brighit. She’ll let nothing evil befall you. I can grant you that.”
Tadhg frowned and glanced toward Brighit before voicing his concern. “Then how did she come to be wed to our father? I mean after taking vows?”
The sudden silence was deafening. Uncle Ronan puckered his lips in a contemplative gesture that caused his chin to wrinkle. After a long moment, he nodded slowly.
