“For what?”
He chewed his lip a moment, his gaze still on the baby. “For Maxim,” he said softly. “Now… well, now with Cole, I suppose I understand what you were trying to tell me all those months ago. I told her that I was sorry.”
Kellington’s features softened and she leaned forward, kissing him tenderly on the jaw. “My sweet pet,” she murmured, kissing him again. “Thank you for that mercy. I am sure it meant a great deal to her.”
He grunted. “It was hard to tell the way she sobbed every time I got close to her.”
“But you tried.”
“Aye, I did, for whatever good it did. I wanted her to know.”
Kellington smiled sadly at him, reaching for the baby when he finally squealed, waking up from his nap. She held him close, comforting him as he awoke fully.
“I am so glad that she and Denedor married,” she sighed, her lips against Cole’s wispy hair. “He is a wise and generous man. He has taken good care of her.”
Jax tossed aside the apple core and reached for his son. “I am glad he married her, too,” he said as he lifted Cole out of his mother’s arms. “But not for the same reason you are.”
“What reason is that?”
Jax kissed his son’s cheek loudly. “I am glad he married her because that means he will not be lingering in the shadows to snatch you away at the very first opportunity.”
Kellington smirked, watching Jax as he smiled at the baby, full of delight when the baby smiled back. She reached out and stroked her husband’s long, dark hair.
“There is no chance of that,” she said softly. “Here I am, and here I shall stay.”
He looked at her, his dual-colored eyes soft with warmth and adoration. “How fortunate for me.”
He kissed her sweetly once, twice, before returning his attention to his son. Kellington leaned against his massive bicep, watching the baby drool on Jax’s wrists. Overhead, birds flew in the trees as the cook and Matilda, several yards away, tried to chase them off with big, flat swatters. Kellington watched the cook nearly fall on her face whilst chasing away some blackbirds that were after the ripening cherries.
“Jax,” she said slowly, snuggling up against him. “May I ask a question?”
He was focused on the baby. “God, I hate it when you say that. It makes me want to run.”
She giggled. “Would you rather I just ask it?”
“I believe I would.”
“Very well. I have been hesitant to ask you this but now that things are settled with de Vesci, I find that I must for my own peace of mind.”
“Go ahead.”
Her left hand came up, stroking his muscular arm as she spoke. “You once told me that you were an ambitious man and that you would not give that up, even for me,” she sat up, looking at him as he made faces at the baby. “Can Cole and I expect you to leave us any time soon to fulfill your ambitions?”
He stopped making faces and looked at her. “Why do you ask?”
She gazed at him, suddenly struggling against tears. “Because… because I have had you with me every day for these past fifteen months and the few weeks separation we just had was almost too difficult to bear. I told you once that I wanted you to stay here, with me. I still want you to stay. I do not want you to leave us.”
He could see how hard she was struggling to maintain her composure and he put his arm around her, pulling her into the curve of his torso. Kellington clung to him, not bothering to fight off the silent tears.
“My love,” he murmured into her hair. “Do not worry so. ’Tis true I have ambitions and always will, but for now, I believe I am satisfied. I have the greatest treasure a man could ever have. I’m not sure more castles or more wealth or more lands could ever compete with you and Cole.”
She looked up at him, tears on her cheeks. “Then you love us enough to stay?”
He frowned gently, kissing away the moisture on her cheeks. “I love you more than life. Why would you ask such a thing? Have I not demonstrated that over and over again?”
She nodded, feeling somewhat foolish with her question. She had been uncertain since the day they married, wondering when he would suddenly announce plans to raid more castles or confiscate more lands. She had wondered what she would say to that, fearful for his life as well as knowing what he was doing was horribly wrong. But he had answered her fears in a few short sentences. It was the answer she had wanted to hear.
“So you will stay with me as a gentleman knight?” she teased gently.
He lifted an eyebrow. “We have eleven more children to go. Remember that I promised you twelve children in as many years.”
She laughed softly. “You promise you will not become bored with us? We are, after all, not as exciting as sieges and blood and terror. We are rather tame.”
He pretended to ponder that. “Well, I cannot say that I will not ever become bored. When the children are grown and we are old and gray, I may decide to strike out again. Who knows? I may take on the Irish.”
She shook her head, reaching out to take her son back from his father. “Good lord; the Irish will be furious if they ever see you on their shores. Perhaps you had better stick to England. Or perhaps you’d better not do anything at all.”
He grinned, wrapping both her and Cole up in his enormous arms. He gazed down at his little family, the wife he adored and the son he doted on. He couldn’t remember ever feeling so complete or fulfilled. Nothing he had ever done in his life, not sieges nor deaths nor treasures had ever given him such satisfaction. He knew, even before his wife asked the question, that he could never leave them. His ambitions were strong, but his love for his family was stronger.
He had known death. He had seen sorrow. He had learned to love and had learned the qualities of mercy. The day he had conquered Pelinom was the day his life had changed forever.
The Dark Lord had finally come home.
* THE END *
GUARDIAN OF DARKNESS
A Medieval Romance
By Kathryn Le Veque
Dedication
A good portion of this book is about brothers;
I only have one,
William Ralph Bouse III
(a.k.a., Billy, Bill, Unco Bee, or just plain Bee)
His spirit and character are embodied in the de Reyne Brothers.
We should all be so lucky to have such brothers.
CHAPTER ONE
Scottish Borders
May 1200 A.D.
The knight walked into a trap.
Whack!
The blow landed on his forehead, sending him to the ground. The torch butt was tossed aside as the attacker ejected herself from the tent. From the moment she struck the man who was coming to see to her comfort, she knew that there was no turning back. She had decided on this course of action earlier in the evening when panic and despair were bedfellows in her fragile mind. She wanted no part of this insane agreement her father called a peace accord. She would not be a hostage for the sake of harmony. She wanted to go home.
Unfortunately, she had not thought beyond the initial escape attempt. Thoughts of collecting her horse were quickly dashed when she realized that she would not have the chance. It did not occur to her, given that her tent was in the middle of the Sassenach encampment, that anyone would notice she was missing. She rather hoped she would have the same consistency of a ghost. Unfortunately, she was not difficult to miss; a tiny woman with long hair the color of a raven’s wing. In a camp full of soldiers, it had been idiotic to imagine that she would not stand out. The moment she fled from the tent, someone saw her and, of course, the game was afoot.
Alarms went out all over the camp. The sentries sounded the cry in the damp, heavy night air; she could hear them. Her heart began to race as she pounded her way across the wet grass that had been mashed by the contingent of soldiers sent from Prudhoe Castle. She would not cooperate with their assignment. She did not want to live in an English castle as a hostage, insurance that her father would b
ehave himself and enforce the peace from Carter Bar to Yetholm.
She honestly thought she could outrun anyone who might attempt to chase her down, at least until she lost herself in the trees. She had always been a fast runner. But what she did not count on were the destriers in pursuit, massive war horses bred for battle. They were enormous beasts and she could hear their thunder approach. The trees were in the distance, a dark indistinguishable line too far for her to reach before the warhorses were upon her. She knew she was about to be caught. But she would not give up without a fight.
A huge mailed hand reached down and grabbed her by the arm. Swinging her little fists, she fought and kicked as the English knight unceremoniously threw her over his lap. Though she struggled valiantly, she was no match against an armored warrior. But that did not stop her from resisting him all the way back to the camp.
When the knight finally let her go, she tumbled to the ground and ended up on her arse. Furious green eyes, the color of emeralds, glared up at the warrior. She shook a fist at him.
“Ye should have let me go,” she bellowed. “I will only run again.”
The knight had his helm on, visor lifted so he could get a good look at her. From what she’d been able to gather, he was the captain of the men who held her captive. He was very tall, with dusky blue eyes and a thin blond mustache. And the look upon his face suggested he would not tolerate her rebellion.
“Lady Carington,” he braced his gloved hand against his thigh and leaned on it. “I thought we were clear on this matter. Your father has offered you to my liege, Lord Richard d’Umfraville of Prudhoe Castle, in exchange for peace between Prudhoe and Clan Kerr. This has come after several years of bitter conflict to which I have personally witnessed. Even if you should make it home, which would be a miracle in itself, your father would simply turn you back over to us. You do not seem to understand that you have no choice.”
The Lady Carington Kerr picked herself off the ground with as much dignity as she could muster. She knew his words were true, but still, she resisted. Yet her actions were borne of fear more than of true rebellion; she was terrified at the prospect of being a hostage. Her father had been unclear with respect to the duration of her captivity. Surrounded by strangers, enemy strangers no less, she was full of the Devil. Perhaps if she seemed nasty enough, unruly enough, they would leave her alone. It was all purely in self-defense.
“Stay away from me, Sassenach,” she growled. “Tell your dogs to leave me be.”
Sir Ryton de Reyne could see that he had his hands full. His lovely little hostage had been relatively quiet until just a few minutes ago when she smacked one of his knights so hard that the man was still seeing stars. Dismounting his Belgian charger, he handed the steed off to the nearest soldier and took a few steps towards her. But he made sure to stay out of arm’s length, just in case.
“I can personally vouch for my men, my lady,” he said, his voice low and quiet. “Like you, we are simply doing as ordered. We are taking you back to Prudhoe. You alone have the power to make this a pleasant journey or an unpleasant one. Rest assured that we can play any game you like, and play it far better than you. So I would ask, for your sake, that you accept the situation for what it is. If I have to tie you up for the rest of the journey back to Prudhoe, have no doubt that I will do it.”
Carington gazed into his dusky blue eyes, having little reservation that he meant what he said. For the first time since her mad dash to freedom, she seemed to show some uncertainty. When she did not reply right away, Ryton took the opportunity to present her to the knights surrounding them.
“If you please, my lady,” he began casually. “I would introduce you to the knights under my command. You will be seeing much of them and proper introductions are in order. Perhaps it will make you feel more comfortable.”
Carington took a step back from him; he had come too close and she was still skittish. Ryton indicated the man immediately to his right. “This is Sir Stanton de Witt. If you do not recognize him, you should – he is the one you tried to behead. Next to him are Burle de Tarquinus and Jory d’Eneas.”
Carington looked at the knight with the huge red mark on his forehead; he was young, pale featured, with big eyes and an angular face. He nodded politely at her and she suddenly felt guilty for striking him. Next to him, Sir Burle was a very large man, older, with receding blond hair and round cheeks. He was very nearly as wide as he was tall, but she could see that with age he had mostly gone to fat. His mail jiggled when he moved. The final knight indicated was a short man with nondescript brown eyes and a head of wavy brown hair. But there was something about his eyes that unnerved her. It was like gazing into a bottomless pit.
At this point, however, everything unnerved her. As she continued to gaze warily at the collection, the sound of hooves approached from behind and she started. Thundering down upon them was another knight, a figure that cut a massive path through the grass. He was, in fact, a massive man; Carington had seen quite a few large men in her time, being Scots, and was accustomed to big men with loud voices. But this knight was different; he seemed to take up all of the air around him, sucking it dry as he reined his fire-breathing charger to a halt and dismounted. When he flipped up his three-point visor, focusing on the group of knights and one small lady, she swore she saw lightning bolts shooting from his eyes. That was her first impression of the man. She resisted the urge to flinch and step away.
“The perimeter guards have been calmed,” the man’s voice was so deep that it was like listening to the sound of distant thunder. His gaze barely lingered on the lady before turning back to the knight in charge. “I see you have captured the escapee.”
Ryton nodded, still looking at the lady even as he gestured towards the enormous knight. “My lady, this is Sir Creed de Reyne,” he said. “I would suggest you make no move against him. He doesn’t like women in general and you would be taking your life in your hands. If he gives you a directive, I would strongly advise that you follow it without hesitation. In fact, that goes for any of my knights. What we do, we do for your safety and not out of some misguided sense of punishment. We are not here to harm you, but to protect you as we have been ordered to. Is that clear?”
Carington gazed at the host of faces surrounding her. It was clear but she did not like it in the least. For the moment, however, she had no choice. She looked pointedly at the knight in command.
“What is yer name Sir Knight?” she asked in her heavy, yet deliciously sweet, Scots burr. It would have been quite delightful had the tone not been so menacing. “Ye’ve introduced me to everyone but ye.”
“I am Sir Ryton de Reyne, commander of Prudhoe’s army.”
“De Reyne,” she rolled her “r” heavily, looking between Ryton and the enormous knight standing next to him. “Ye both have the same name. Are ye brothers, then?”
Ryton nodded. “We are.”
Carington’s gaze lingered between the men, noting a slight family resemblance. They both had the same square jaw, like a block of stone, set and hard. But the aura that radiated from Sir Ryton’s brother was a thousand times more intimidating. Carington did not like the feel, or the look, of him. There was something dark and bitter there.
With nothing more to say and escape plans thwarted for the moment, the lady remained silent as Ryton motioned to Sir Burle to take her back to her tent. Ryton’s gaze lingered on her a moment, watching her lowered head as his men took her back to her temporary residence. Next to him, Creed had already mounted and was directing his fussing charger back to camp. Ryton vaulted onto his steed and reined his horse near his brother.
The night was dark and foggy as they crossed the open area towards the cluster of smoking fires. There was heavy dampness in the air, coating their armor with a thin layer of water. It would need to be cleaned and dried before it rusted, keeping the squires up most of the night.
“What do you think of her?” Ryton asked after a few moments of pensive silence.
Creed’s
dark eyes, a dusky blue color that appeared nearly black with the lack of moonlight, tracked the three knights and the one tiny lady in the distance.
“It does not matter what I think,” he said. “We are doing as we are told. We are returning her to Prudhoe.”
Ryton’s gaze moved from the lady to his brother; younger by thirteen months, the two of them had served most of their lives together with the exception of the past three. Creed had been commandeered by King John, having seen the man in action in d’Umfraville’s ranks and demanding his service. Creed had been honored by the king’s request and had served flawlessly up until an escort mission to France to accompany the king’s future bride, twelve-year-old Isabella of Angoulệme, back to England. That had been over six months ago. And that was when the trouble had started.
Ryton knew his brother did not want anything to do with another escort mission. He’d known it from the start. But his brother was back in the service of d’Umfraville and they had their orders.
“You are not going to like what I have to say,” Ryton said quietly.
Creed would not look at his brother. “Then do not say it.”
“I must,” he said. “You are the only one capable of handling this girl until we reach Prudhoe. You are the calmest of my men and by far the most astute. You are the only one.…”
“Do not even think it,” Creed rumbled threateningly, his gaze moving over the camp, the distant trees, anywhere but to his brother who was also his commander. “I do not want anything to do with her.”
“You are the only one I can trust with this,” Ryton spoke louder so his brother would understand that he did not have a choice. “She has already attacked Stanton; he is young and strong, but I fear he may be swayed by her tears. Burle is not fast enough to corral her should she escape him, and I would not trust Jory with the task simply because I would not trust him with an unescorted, or unprotected, female. He has got a foul streak in him, Creed. You know this.”
The Dark Brotherhood: A Medieval Romance Collection Page 119
