Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Eighteen

The establishment was one big room with several trestles and benches neatly arranged for visitors. It was warm enough. Peter was satisfied. They'd made it by nightfall. However, he had no appetite. Mort, on the other hand, ate like a horse and was licking his fingertips with a lot of ceremony. Fastidious was the only word to describe him. No. Obnoxious worked, too.

"So?" Peter's voice was flat.

Mort stopped mid-lick and stared back. "So? So what?"

"What did you learn?"

Mort finished his last lick before continuing. "Well, our newly departed dinner companions were happy to chat and assured me that the castle has not been under siege. Recently." His face showed that was something.

Peter did not feel it was much. "And?"

"And…it will still be closed to you."

Peter slammed his fist on the worn table. "Damn me."

No one dare look his way as he was the only knight present. He was probably the only knight for miles. These were the wilds of England. Respect was the very least accorded to him even in this establishment. He couldn't really call it an inn although they'd given him a bed for the night. He had to share it with Mort and two others but it would be dry.

"Did you expect other news?" Mort's question intruded on his thoughts. "It is the same Baron in control now as before we were... sidetracked."

"I'd hoped."

Mort's impertinence was becoming tiring. It worked its way under his skin like a burr. Nearly as bad as—no he would not even mention her name. She was safely delivered. Set in her little cocoon. Closely guarded by all. Her virginity sacrificed on the very altar of their Lord and Savior. So why was he still thinking on her? Why could he not remove her from his mind? Be done with it.

"Based on what?" Mort's stare pierced his. "What is wrong with you?"

"We'll have a fight on our hands after we arrive."

"You're a soldier."

"And?"

"It's what you do," Mort said it emphatically as if that was all there was to it. Of course he was correct. So why did he feel so cross about the whole ordeal?

Peter stood abruptly. He needed to clear his head. "I'm going for a walk."

Mort stood to accompany him but Peter shoved him back down onto the bench. "No. I will go alone."

"But, my lord," Mort glanced at the few men close enough to overhear and lowered his voice to a whisper. "We are not known here. You are a…target."

"Have someone try and capture me for ransom. They'll soon find they have more than they can handle." Now why did that statement bring her upturned face to his memory? Her lips parted invitingly, slightly pink from their first passionate kiss.

"Damn me," he cursed under his breath and headed out the door.

The brisk air was refreshing, but the cold lingered. Winter hung in the mist. The naked trees seemed strange and mystical, silhouetted in the moonlight. An owl voiced its objection to his presence.

"To hell with you, too," Peter answered. The door opened behind him and he stepped into the shadow of the necessary. The scent of excrement drifted to him. A man stumbled across the stone walk and headed toward the main road. In the direction of the Priory.

Must every thought and feeling that he have somehow evolve around her? Is there nothing else down that road except the Priory? He exhaled noisily and rubbed his hands against the dropping temperature. Mort came through the door and sat on the little bench beside it. He took his clay whistle from his bag and began to play a quiet tune. Peter recognized it as the one Brighit had played that first night.

"Must you haunt me as well?"

Mort stopped playing. He put his pipe in his lap and leaned his head against the straw structure. "Is that what's bothering you so?"

Peter shook his head. Mort had no idea.

"You're missing the lass already?"

"Like I'd miss the plague." Peter's voice sounded overly loud and defensive. "Another duty seen to. No more. It's best not to get attached."

He tried to settle his anger but it had taken up residence in the pit of his stomach.

"Maybe," Peter said, his voice quieter now.

"She was certainly a beauty."

"Beauty is fragile. I had a beauty and she wasn't safe with me. My loving killed her. No woman is safe with me. I'm cursed." Pain shot through him like an arrow to the heart. "I never even said those words to her. I never said my goodbyes either."

"Aw. I see. You have regrets."

Mort was quiet and Peter thought perhaps he'd fallen asleep until he spoke again. "The pain of your loss is very deep."

The evenness of his tone was calming. And the calming made Peter start to remember. It made him feel again the excruciating pain of the loss. He had been so happy to be home, so looking forward to being with Jeanette. He shook his head to clear it of the memories.

"Loving someone doesn't always cause pain," Mort said.

"What do you know of love?" Venom coated every word.

"My lord, you have never asked of my situation and I would not burden you now but I do know of love. I have a wife."

Peter turned toward him. "And children?"

Mort's teeth were visible when he smiled. "Aye, hardy boys. She bore them all with no help from me... well except for the making of them. And that I verily enjoyed."

"So many women die giving birth. Were you not afeared it would be so?"

"Yes. I worried about it but I had to obey the King's orders. She knew that. As did your Jeanette."

Peter swallowed hard. Jeanette. The child probably would have had her green eyes. Beguiling all she met just like her mother.

"Not every woman who becomes pregnant dies in childbirth, Peter."

"No. Not all women. I need only know two to know it is not worth the risk."

"Two?"

"My own mother died delivering me. My father never missed a day reminding me of that."

"But surely you know that it was not your fault your mother died."

"That mattered little to my father. He would have chosen her life over mine and told me as much. Repeatedly."

"That is cruel."

"Yes. My father was certainly that."

"So to live your life alone is the course you will take? You, my lord? You? A man of great passion and caring? You would choose a life of what? Of soldiering? Of no one to return home to?" Mort laughed quietly. "No, my lord, that is not the life for you."

"Enough of this prattle." Peter moved into the moonlight once again fully under control. "You're like an old woman."

He jerked the door open, intent on making his way to the little room without talking to anyone. He'd had enough talk for today. A woman with long, black hair had other ideas. She threw herself in front of him, leaning her body against him for emphasis. "Where are you going in such haste, my lord?"

The woman's eyes were hooded and there was no question of her occupation.

"Waiting for me?" Peter asked. He did not need this now.

She let go a throaty laugh and tossed her hair over her shoulder. Peter recognized the little act for what it was but she was only doing her job. He decided to play along then let her down easy. "And where should I be going?"

She twisted toward him, rubbing up the length of him.

The men around them were enjoying the display, murmuring their encouragement. He just wasn't sure if the encouragement was meant for him or her.

"She'd take care of you." One grizzly man smiled a toothless grin, lifting his mug toward them.

"She don't charge much either," a skinny, young man behind him added. He couldn't have been more than fifteen.

Peter looked at the two of them. "And has she taken care of you?"

"Not a few minutes before you and your man came in," Grizzly responded, his laugh more of a gasping chuckle.

The woman smiled provocatively. "It can be as long or as short as you want it."

She moved in closer, her lips hovering near his own, surrounding him with the scent of rotted teeth and barley soup. He wouldn't have touched this woman for all the power in the world.

He pulled back. "Well, I don't doubt you but I've no need of you tonight."

The instant silence in the room was the first clue. Mort had come in quietly and stood by the only exit, no doubt watching the scene unfold.

"You too good for our Cinda?" The gauntlet had been effectively dropped. The grizzly man stood from the bench, hitching his pants up as he swayed.

Skinny beside him was not as drunk. He stood beside the man, his chest puffed out. They presented an intoxicated, unified front. Father and son? Perhaps.

"I'm afraid it's the ‘our Cinda' that I find objectionable." Peter's hand was itching to draw his sword. These two seemed ready for a fight. Let them start something. He knew it wouldn't be a fair fight but that release was much more to his liking. He smiled his apologies at the woman. "I'm sure you understand."

"I'm good enough for the priest but not good enough for you?" She spit in his face. It dribbled down his cheek.

Peter wiped his face. Mort came closer, his sword drawn. "That's no way to treat a representative from the crown."

"King William?" She spit on the ground.

Grizzly and Skinny pushed her behind them, their daggers poised for defense.

Peter turned toward Mort and started to laugh. He couldn't believe the temerity of the wench. When he started to laugh, he realized he couldn't stop. It felt good to laugh. Too good. It felt better than…damn was he hysterical then? Mort had a concerned look on his face. Peter fought to get himself under control and finally coughed his way to silence.

"Shall I see to these two, my lord?" Mort was serious. He could certainly handle them both and the innkeeper, if he felt so inclined as to get involved. Peter wasn't worried about that but something she'd said alarmed him. The priest? His body tensed in response to the sudden threat. Did she mean the one at the Priory?

Peter yanked her toward him by the front of her dress. He pulled her close to his face. Mort held the two men at bay with his blade. "What are you saying? What priest?"

He saw her start gathering spit again, so he squeezed her gown tighter in his hand. "Don't try it again." His tone was menacing. Her eyes widened in response. "Give me an answer."

"The priest from the Priory. Father Tinsley."

That couldn't be. They were celibate. That would be the only way they could be locked up with all those young women and not be taking advantage—Damn. He shoved her away from him and gave his orders. "She's in danger. Stay here."

Mort moved toward the outraged men, ready to make quick work of them. Peter could not wait and headed out the door. He just hoped he would not be too late.

The sweat dripped down the side of Brighit's face. It was stifling hot in the kitchen with the enormous fire. Heavy, iron pots were arranged both in the ash and hanging from a pole. Keeping the soup from burning despite its closeness to the huge flames was her job.

"Are you sure we couldn't raise the pot a little higher?" Brighit asked for the third time.

Martha smiled. "Just keep to your job, Mary."

The transformation of this woman had been like night and day. As soon as the men were gone, she relaxed into easy conversation with Brighit, content to answer her many questions.

This job seemed to be a sort of test of her obedience. No one else in the room was required to remain so near the heat as her. Perhaps they waited to see if she ignited into flames. She wiped her dampened sleeve across her cheek. The soup should be nearly ready.

"Would you care to taste the soup?"

Martha paused and came nearer to her. "Hot work?"

Brighit fought the urge to roll her eyes. "A bit."

"Then it's not quite done yet."

That observation made no sense but the woman moved away before Brighit could question her further. A door slammed in the distance. The other women in the room jumped at the sound. All except Ruth who continued to chop the root vegetables in front of her. Martha glanced between the two.

"Will you see to her?" Martha wiped her hands on a cloth and directed the question to Ruth. The younger woman glanced up, smiled, and nodded.

Martha led the rest of the women out the door in a single file. They moved as if approaching a death sentence. There were seven women in all at the Priory. Brighit had met them. Martha was the oldest. Ruth was the only one who was with child.

"Was that Father Tinsley we heard come in?"

Ruth rubbed her swollen stomach with long, gentle strokes. "Yes. He has returned."

Brighit stepped away from the fire. She expected to be brought to him as soon as he arrived. The few comments she's heard assured her he was very particular about where the women were and what they were doing.

"Do you think I should meet with him now?"

Ruth looked up, a surprised expression. "Dear Mary," Brighit cringed at the name she'd been given, "he will come and find you when he is ready."

Brighit returned to stirring the soup. It certainly sounded ominous. Fear was making its way into its favorite spot in her stomach. Swallowing became difficult.

"I was surprised he did not make it to vespers."

Ruth's brows darted down. "It's best if you keep to your work and not worry yourself about Father's whereabouts. You won't be able to avoid him if he's searching you out." She changed the direction of the circles she rubbed along her abdomen. "Prayer is always a safe endeavor."

Brighit opened her mouth to ask what she was talking about but the door to the kitchen burst open. A tiny, young woman, Esther, stood in the doorway. She had wide set eyes that made her constantly look as if she were petrified.

"Father Tinsley wants to meet you," Esther said.

Ruth stilled her hand. Her lips took on the shape of an "oh" but she said nothing. No one moved.

"Do I—I just go?" Brighit finally asked.

"I'll help you." Esther reached toward her. "Best not to keep him waiting."

Ruth was quiet but kept her eyes on Brighit.

Brighit followed Esther down the hall that led to the back of the Priory. They turned right at the entrance to the chapel. A huge door at the end of the hall was shut. That was the Great Hall. Small alcoves built into the stone ran along the wall to her right. Heavy curtains that would close off the rooms for warmth at night were all pushed aside now. Each one identical to the next. Trepidation joined fear and her stomach gurgled.

"Why do we go this way? Where will I be meeting Father Tinsley."

Esther did not answer. She turned back at Brighit, those wide eyes sending her heart into a faster pace. They stopped beside the alcove Brighit had been given as her own.

"Here? He will meet me here?"

It was barely big enough for the pallet that lay on the floor. It would be a tight squeeze to have someone else in there with her.

"Yes. You'd best spend your time in prayer as you wait."

"What?" Brighit's heart leapt into her throat until she remembered prayer was what they did here. "Oh, yes."

"Repentance for sin will come after he leaves," Esther said then retreated back the way they'd come.

Brighit's sense of foreboding increased three-fold with that cryptic statement. She looked around the tiny area. Too small to even pace in. The single candle that burned in the blackened holder on the wall cast the room in flickering shadows. She smoothed the stiff material of her new clothes. It crinkled beneath her fingers. Her hand paused at the slight bulge of her knife still tucked beneath her robes. The security it gave her was not something she was willing to part with just yet.

A distant clicking sound drifted to her from the direction of the chapel. Its rhythmic tap getting louder as it moved closer. She felt a sudden urge to run. The clicking was nearly to her room. Perhaps it wasn't Father Tinsley. Perhaps it would pass by.

Brighit backed against the wall. She took a deep breath and held it before blowing it out in a whoosh. This was ridiculous. If it was the priest, no doubt he'd come to welcome her and see that she had everything she needed. The heavy curtain was being pulled back. She glanced around for anything to hold on to. There was nothing.

A man with slightly graying black hair stood in the opening, a kind smile on his face.

"Welcome, Sister Mary. How wonderful to finally meet you."

He didn't take the few steps into the room. Brighit forced herself away from the wall and curtsied. "Thank you, Father."

"Come nearer to me." He motioned her closer with spotless hands and neatly trimmed fingernails.

She knew her own were stained with carrots and beet juice and hid them behind her as she stepped in front of him.

"I am Father Tinsley."

Brighit dipped her head. "Father Tinsley."

He placed his hand on her cheek. His hand was like ice. "You are a lovely woman."

She couldn't control the shiver that went through her body.

"Are you cold?" he asked.

"Forgive me, I was—"

"Ah," he interrupted her with the raise of his finger. "Forgiveness actually means something here. It is not to be given lightly."

She flashed him an awkward smile then started again. "It was very warm in the kitchens. I was sweating." She attempted to smile again but it felt like a grimace.

Father Tinsley's eyes closed slightly. "Ah, yes. Soup duty. The other women are working the devil out of you."

"What?"

His eyes widened. "The devil? Have you never heard of him?"

Brighit laughed nervously. "Yes, of course, but I didn't und—"

"Hope you don't know him too well." The priest must have seen her confusion. "The devil. I hope you don't know him too well."

"Oh, no, Father. I do not know the devil well." Brighit didn't know what he wanted her to say. Judging by his expression, she was very near to condemning herself to hell.

"Are you a virgin?"

Brighit gasped. It didn't seem like an appropriate question and she was suddenly very afraid of this man. The clicking started again and she noticed the black stick he held in his hand for the first time. He tapped it up and down.

"Yes." Heat flooded her cheeks and the closeness of the room made it hard to take a deep breath.

"Ah, but you've thought about fornication."

Her cheeks were burning. She shook her head, afraid to speak.

"Yes. It is clearly on your face. In your eyes." He glanced over her gown. "Remove your clothing."

Brighit backed away and he stepped closer. "No."

"You will do as you're told."

"No." She backed against the cold, hard wall. It sucked all the heat from her body. Her palm scraped against the rough stone behind her. Realization hit her like a slap across the face. Even if she could make it past him, she had nowhere to run. "I will not reveal myself to you."

"It is not for me but for all of us who live under God's law here. I will be sure there is no mark of the devil on your flesh. NOW!"

Father Tinsley's face showed no sign of distress. He hadn't looked at her with lust. Perhaps this was the normal procedure.

Brighit reached with trembling fingers to the ties at the side of her robes.

"No." Father Tinsley stilled her hand. His palms were wet now. "Your hair first."

Without pausing, she ripped the wimple from her head. Her hair cascaded around her. His eyes followed her hair, taking in all of her body. The look of appreciation that crossed the priest's face could not be denied. This man was not chaste.

His pupils dilated as he kept his eyes on hers now. As if he could see into her very soul.

"Paul says it is vanity to have hair as glorious as yours. Do you take pride in your hair."

"I do not." Her tone was flat.

Father Tinsley slipped a wayward strand behind her ear. She stiffened. His eyes narrowed and he searched her face.

"I find that hard to believe." His voice was low.

She dare not breathe or she would be sick.

"Take off the gown." He used a commanding tone now and looked a bit rattled.

Brighit noticed the change in his breathing. He scratched at his crotch. "I prefer to have another woman present."

"This is not a matter for the others. If you have any sign that the devil has touched you, I will need to take care of it. They will not be able to help you." He pierced her through with his look. "I am the only one who can cleanse you from Satan."

There was not a chance in hell.

"Do as I say!" He slapped her across the face with a stiff hand.

She gasped, holding her hand to her face.

"Now!"

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 with Cinda. 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.

"Did he rip your clothing, too?"

"He insisted he needed to check for the mark of the devil on me. He ordered me to remove my gown. Then he—he jerked me closer and ripped it." She covered her eyes as if to block out the memory. "The look on his face. He was about to force himself on me."

Peter took her into his arms. Stiff at first, she finally relaxed and began to sob in earnest. He tried to reassure her, caressing her hair, and led her into the hall.

"Is he finally dead?" Ruth asked from the doorway of the chapel. Her voice emotionless.

Brighit jerked away from Peter and moved toward the other woman. "I didn't mean to."

She sounded close to hysteria but Ruth quickly gathered her into her arms in a most maternal way and led her into the next chamber, sitting her gently on a wooden stool. It occurred to Peter that although the child was not yet born, it would be well cared for by this woman. If she survived.

"Shh, now. Hush. It's over now." With tears shimmering on her own lashes, she stroked Brighit's hair where her head rested lightly against her. "Did he touch you?"

The words fell like an axe at a beheading and the silence that was left was deafening. Brighit shook her head, slowly at first, then with more determination. Peter exhaled the breath he didn't realize he was holding. The overwhelming relief made him lightheaded. He stroked Brighit's hair and she turned her face into his palm before looking up at him.

"Then it is truly finished," Ruth spoke with great solemnity.

"I didn't mean to do it." Brighit's repeated words were muffled.

"You do not need to defend yourself to me. You need to repent."

Brighit went rigid before his eyes.

"He's like no other priest I've ever met." Ruth didn't seem to notice. She rubbed at her belly. "I was a virgin when I came here."

Peter's irritation with this woman was great but this shocking revelation knocked the air right out of him. He paused to gather his wits. "Are you telling us that is his child growing inside of you?"

The woman gave him a sad smile. "Yes. He forced himself on me... on all of us. Used us for his own pleasure."

"And yet you believe Brighit has sinned and needs to repent because she protected herself?"

"Murder is always a sin. That doesn't mean God will not forgive her." She turned back to Brighit. "Thank you for ridding us all of the curse of that man. I first came here expecting to find the Prioress. I never expected my life given to Christ would be so violated. It was certainly not God's will."

Brighit sniffled then swallowed, struggling to regain her composure. "Did you know the Prioress?"

"No. I just heard stories of her great faith. I'd hoped to learn from her. When I got here, she had already passed. I stayed because I didn't know where else to go."

"Nor do I."

Peter's heart squeezed tight.

"Is there someone else who can take over?" Peter's question sounded like a demand.

"Oh, yes. Martha was the Prioress's helper. She could become Prioress once the Bishop confirms her. That was what she was doing before Father Tinsley moved in. There had been no advanced edict that she knew of for his arrival."

When Ruth turned to him, the encouraging smile she'd had for Brighit vanished. It was replaced by a frown almost as if she sensed his deepest desire—to remove Brighit from this place immediately. She stood abruptly.

"Let me get you something to change into... and some warm water."

After Ruth left, Peter hunkered down beside Brighit, pushing her hair away from her face. "She is right. You did not have to submit yourself to this man. If he demanded that you do, you have every right to stop him... however you needed to."

Brighit took a shaky breath then exhaled one slow, steady whoosh of air. "Are you certain he is dead?"

Her upset was speaking now. Peter spent a lot of time with men in battle that fought most bravely and then refused to accept the death of those around them. When he took her hands, they were cold as snow.

"Yes. He is dead. He cannot hurt you again."

The bright, red welt on her hand had doubled in size. She inspected it. "My own father never used a cane on me." She pushed against the skin and wiggled her fingers. "It hurts."

Ruth returned with a basin of water and a sack hanging from her arm. She stood tall and faced Peter. "You must leave now."

Peter stood.

"I'm not leaving her." He crossed his arms about his chest. If he'd followed his own inclinations earlier and not left here, Brighit would not have been subjected to this.

A slight smile softened her face. "Just stand outside so that I can assist her with changing and properly washing her."

Brighit's color was beginning to return but her eyes were still wide with fear. Peter was not convinced he should obey this woman. "Do you want me to leave?"

"It's just for a moment," Ruth said.

Brighit looked from one then the other. "Yes."

Ruth smiled as if she had won the keys to the King's store rooms. Peter returned to Brighit's room to drag the body out and away from the chapel. He would need to bury the man but there was no reason any type of inquest needed to be done. Ruth said the man used the girls. Good riddance. He would be respectful but not overly so.

"I have something wonderful for you to wear."

Ruth chattered on as she worked but Brighit paid her little attention, removing herself from the ministrations. She needed a chance to settle herself. Inside. She'd never come so close to being violated. Not even with Ivan and his men. They talked of things—inappropriate things—but no one ever touched her. Ivan slapping her bottom at the inn was the only time he'd actually laid hands on her. That priest had been a vile man.

The gown dropping over her head brought Brighit back to reality. Ruth bent to urge it over her legs and shook it out around her.

"What? No. I can't wear this." It was the beautiful dress from the market. "I'm to be a nun."

Ruth stood before her, a smile so big she had a dimple on each cheek. "I think you were not meant to be a nun."

"You are wrong."

"Martha and I discussed it. We believe you were intended for marriage and children and love."

Brighit nibbled at her finger then removed it. "How do you know that?"

The other woman looked at her as if she could see right into her heart. "A woman knows these things."

Brighit was afraid to ask. Then she couldn't stop herself. "What things?"

"You are a woman in love."

Her gasp couldn't be contained.

"Is there aught amiss, ladies?" Peter's muffled voice came to them from the hall.

Brighit covered her mouth.

"No. We're fine," Ruth said.

"How can you know such a thing?" Brighit lowered her voice this time.

"The way your face lights up every time he looks at you."

Peter's smile did make her feel warm inside.

"And your wistful expression whenever he's near you."

She clasped her hands together. It was true that his touch gave flight to the butterflies in her stomach. And in his arms, she'd felt... alive.

"See! I can tell you're thinking of him. Also," Ruth's voice dropped, "you became so sad after he left."

It had felt as if her heart had been ripped right out through her throat when he was gone. She kept wanting to tell him things but he wasn't there.

"But my life has been decided by others. That is not what my life is to be."

"Who says such a thing? That to be truly loved and cherished is not to be your life."

Thoughts and feelings jumbled up inside her so she couldn't form a sentence in response. Finally saying the truth from her heart, "How I feel matters little."

"Oh, no!" Ruth shook her head as if Brighit had been caught in a lie. "How you feel matters the most."

"Are you about changed?" Peter asked.

Both women turned toward the door.

"One more moment, please," Ruth said. "Now gather your wits about you and keep this between us. You will see that I know of what I speak."

She jerked the door open, smiled up at Peter, and continued back toward the chapel.

Peter searched Brighit's face. "Have you stopped your tears? Dare I suspect you may even have been smiling?"

She dipped her head to her chest so he couldn't see her joyful expression.

Keep this between us.

Hiding her emotions, she faced him. "Yes, Sir Peter. I will be fine."

He offered her a reassuring smile along with his arm. She hesitated but a moment before placing her hand there. Her butterflies took flight.

"Let us go offer our repentance to the Lord together," he said.

"What do you have to repent for?"

"I was ready to split the priest in two when I realized what he did here. Does it not say in the Holy words that evil thoughts are the same as evil acts?"

Peter's brown eyes rounded in anticipation, a light growth of hair on his chin giving him an unkempt look. His soft touch on her hand sent ripples of pleasure through her. He was a handsome man and his undivided attention was on her. Surely there would be no harm in appreciating that for these few moments. To stand alongside him in the chapel as if her destiny had been shifted from a solitary life to one filled with marriage and family.

Brighit turned aside, hiding her face and the smile threatening to erupt at any moment. She pressed her lips together before answering him. "Yes, let us go to the chapel together."