Brighit bent forward and grabbed the hem of her dress. Tears slipped up her face, onto the floor. They were tears of pain and humiliation. She refused to watch him as she dragged the material up her legs, exposing her thin chemise. Perhaps he would be satisfied with seeing her thus. That was quite bad enough. She crunched the stiff material in her hands and pulled it over her head. It scratched against her cheek.
The sounds of his appreciation filled the space. She refused to look at him but she knew what she would see. He was not seeing her as a nun but as a woman. She kept the gown in her hand, tucked close to her waist. Bile rose in her throat. She was going to throw up.
Peter dropped from his horse before approaching the high, wooden fence surrounding the Priory. The moon was just about to disappear behind the stone tower, giving him an opportunity to get his bearings if he needed to. He did not. From the moment he’d helped Brighit off the horse, he’d been studying the place as if a battle were about to ensue. The need to protect her had wrapped itself around his heart. He realized he was not able to let it go. Doing so would surely cause his own heart to stop beating. Her safety had become tantamount to his own survival.
When the path to the door fell into shadow, Peter eased up to the fence. There were no guards he had to contend with so he made little work of forcing the door. Crossing the bailey, he used his knife on the leather supporting the door then reached in to lift the wooden bar holding it in place. The sound of it falling to the ground was loud. He held his breath. Waited. No movement within. No doubt all were asleep at this hour.
Was Father Tinsley within even now? Peter cursed himself for barreling to Brighit’s rescue rather than ascertain the exact time the priest had been there withCinda. Perhaps that’s where he’d been earlier. If he’d had a chance to see the man, could he have sensed his lecherous nature? No doubt he used his position here to his full advantage. Brighit’s beauty would be difficult for any man to overlook. She’d lose her virginity in no time, especially with no one to see to her protection.
He made his way inside. A footfall in the distance and he flattened against the wall to the right of the door. A dim light flickered at the far end of the hall. Someone was awake. He waited but it didn’t get any closer. All he wanted was to find Brighit and get her out of here.
He continued down the hall, his sword drawn, toward the faint glow. The fresh rushes beneath his feet crackled with each step. The scent of sage and lilacs drifted to him. He turned to the left. The chapel doors were wide open. A single candle sputtered from the altar a few feet inside. It seemed strange to have an empty room with a candle burning in it. Too late, he realized it was not empty.
The pregnant woman from earlier kneeled near a bench in the darkness, her head bowed in prayer. Sister Ruth.
“If you hurry you may be of some assistance.” She did not look up.
“I’ve come for Brighit.”
“I know.” Picking her head up, she crossed herself then stood, grabbing at the altar for assistance. “Go quickly. Hers is the second room on the right. Hurry.”
The woman’s voice held not the slightest surprise or hint of concern or warning.
“Did you know I would come?” Peter said.
“I knew you would realize she was in danger.”
Peter backed out of the room despite wanting to question her cryptic message. Brighit was his first concern. He hurried toward the second alcove. The sound of a struggle carried to him.
“Brighit.” Peter knew better than to give warning of his presence but the need to hear her voice overran his better judgment.
There was no response. His legs trembled beneath him as he covered the last few feet. As if moving in a dream, the sight of a prone body filled his senses. The mud on the bottom of the calf-skinned boots, the smell of urine and excrement, the blood pooling on the ground. He swept his eyes along the darkly-robed body up to Brighit’s face as pale as the moon. One hand clasped against breast, fisting the top of her chemise to hold it in place. Her other hand covered in blood, the small knife falling to the cold, stone floor with a loud clatter. Her wail of terror shoved him forward. He stumbled over the body on the floor, took her in his arms.
“My sweet Brighit. What did he do to you?”
Her mouth worked but no decipherable sounds came out.
“Did he touch you?”
“NO!” Brighit’s voice echoed in the small room. “I would not let him touch me.”
Her emphatic tone touched his heart. Her bravery surpassed many men he’d fought beside. A red welt showed on her hand where she clutched her chemise to hold it up. A black stick lay on the ground.
He lightly touched her hand. “Did he strike you?”
He tried to keep his voice calm but she seemed to sense his alarm and clutched him tighter. “He hit me and hit me. He insisted I obey him. That I bare my body to him.”
Peter glanced to the ground, the pilfered knife from the inn lay on the floor. “I suppose that knife was big enough then.”
She covered her mouth, smothering the laugh. She pulled away, her eyes widened. “Oh, Peter, that is not.... I killed a man.”
“You defended yourself.”
By the blood spreading from beneath the body, soaking across to the mattress, Peter knew he was indeed dead. He shoved him over with the toe of his shoe. The slice of the blade between the ribs was very small but deep. She must have cut right into his heart.
“Is this Father Tinsley?”
The man was indeed dead. Peter closed the unseeing eyes and retrieved the knife. She trembled beside him and eventually nodded.
