They continued to sit in silence for a few moments, each to their own thoughts; Kristina of her foreboding cards, Creed of how close he came to losing his wife, Carington of going back to sleep, Anne of how tenderly Creed held his wife, and Richard of how he was going to tell Jory’s father that his son had been killed. No matter that it had been in the course of a brutal crime and clearly Jory deserved what he received, the fact remained that Jory’s father, Baron Hawthorn, was going to take issue with it. Richard wondered on the repercussions.
Richard finally went to the bed, patting his wife on the shoulder. “Leave them to rest,” he instructed quietly. “They have had enough excitement for one day.”
With a final stroke to Carington’s head, Anne rose from the bed and took Kristina in hand as they quit the chamber. Richard followed, his gaze lingering on the horrific state of the room and wondering if any more horrors await them; in the past two days, Prudhoe had seen its fill.
“I will send Burle back up to you,” he told Creed softly. “He will be outside your door should you require anything.”
Creed simply nodded, hearing the door shut softly behind him. When they were finally alone, he fixed on her.
“Tell me the truth,” he murmured. “How badly did he hurt you?”
She sighed faintly. “He beat me around the head and shoulders, but he dinna do any real damage.”
“That is not what I meant.”
She gazed at him, realizing what he meant by the expression on his face, and she fought off a blush. “He dinna do what ye are asking,” she replied in a whisper. “He tried, but he dinna do it.”
“Nothing at all?”
“Nothing, I swear to ye.”
He swallowed hard; she saw it. There was an enormous amount of relief in his manner.
“Will you at least allow me to inspect you for injury?” he asked gently.
She shifted in his arms, moving away from him so that she was in the middle of the bed. She opened up the coverlet, letting it fall. Her soft, thoroughly delicious body was revealed in the weak morning light.
“Look all ye wish,” she told him. “I know you dunna believe me when I say that I will be all right. Look and see that I have no broken bones or bloody wounds.”
His concerned expression was turning lusty as he gazed upon her perfect breasts and narrow waist. True, she looked well enough except for the red welts around her neck and the lump on her head. She also looked extremely enticing.
“Are you sure?”
She pursed her lips at him irritably and he knew, in that gesture, that she was indeed going to be all right. The sass, the spark, was still there.
“How many times are ye going to ask me the same question?”
He smiled at her, reaching out to collect the coverlet and wrap it back around her body. Like a babe in swaddling, he took her gently in his arms and lay down with her on the bed.
His lips were against her forehead as he held her close. He kept reliving over in his mind how close he came to losing her, thanking God that he had been in time to prevent it.
“I am so sorry this happened,” he murmured against her head. “Had I had any idea that Jory would have tried something like this, I would have taken much greater steps to protect you.”
She was exhausted, her lids heavy and sleep beckoning. “’Twas not yer fault, English,” she replied. “Ye would have had to read his mind in order to know what he was thinking.”
“Still,” he muttered, “I should have been here.”
She sighed contentedly against him, snuggling close. “Yer here now.”
“I will always be here, I swear it.”
She fell asleep with a smile on her lips.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Late November 1200 A.D.
Creed was having a very difficult time that morning. He had been privy to hysterics, weeping, fury and pouting. There was a tempest going on around him and nothing he could say would make a difference. Still, he continued trying. All the while, he could hear Carington in their bower, alternately cursing and crying. She was a mess.
“Honey,” he called gently, struggling to be patient. “My dearest, sweetest love, I told you that we would go to town today to visit Rita. Surely she has something lovely and delightful that will fit you.”
Two months ago, they had moved into a small cottage that was built into the inner wall of Prudhoe near the great hall. Richard had ordered the cottage constructed when Creed had made the ecstatic announcement that his wife was pregnant. Until that time, they had remained in the tiny room on the fourth floor of Prudhoe’s keep but with a baby on the way, they would quickly outgrow the space. Anne had been most insistent that Prudhoe’s commander and his wife should have their own home with their growing brood and Richard had agreed.
So the cottage with three rooms was built just for Creed. Carington had been thrilled. But at the moment, in the bedchamber with the big, new bed that had given her so much delight, she was furious because her surcoats had reached the point where they would no longer fit. At nearly seven months pregnant, she was already large with child and growing larger by the day.
But it was the way of things and in spite of Carington’s pregnancy-induced mood swings life was very good these days. Creed had gotten to the point where he simply did not think about the pending trials he was still waiting to face. No information had been exchanged to any regard; of his marriage, Jory’s death, or the queen. Prudhoe had kept to itself and hadn’t let the rest of the world in. Creed’s life was here and now, and he was happy awaiting the birth of his first child. It was all he could focus on. He would deal with everything else when the time came.
As he stood in the main chamber of their cottage, Carington came huffing into the room with her arms full of garments. She dropped them on the table near the hearth.
“I canna fit into any of these,” she raged. “Nothing fits anymore. I have grown as fat as a pig.”
Creed gazed at his wife who, he thought, had never looked more beautiful. Her lovely face was rosy, her delicious body round and ripe with a gently swollen middle section. He adored making love to her this way.
“You are a goddess divine,” he smiled at her.
Her emerald eyes flashed and her lip went into a pout. He could see more tears approaching.
“Will ye take these to Rita and ask her to amend them?” she sniffled.
“I told you I would. Do you want to go?”
She shook her head, wiping at her eyes. “Nay,” she squeaked.
He went to her, putting his hands on her shoulders. “Why not?”
She began to weep again, falling forward against him as he swallowed her up in his massive embrace. He rocked her gently, fighting off a smile. She was an emotional wreck these days as the pregnancy wreaked havoc with her thoughts.
“Because I dunna feel well,” she wept. “Nothing fits me properly and my belly aches.”
“All right, love, do not trouble yourself,” he rubbed her back, her arms gently. “I will go into town and deliver these to the seamstress. Shall I get you some custard cakes while I am there?”
She nodded, wiping at her eyes. “I want a dozen of them. And mind ye dunna forget to go to the merchant with the spice cakes. I would have some of them as well.”
His grin broke through; she ate nothing but sweets these days and then would cry because she was not fitting into any of her clothes. In truth, he was quite enjoying it because she was animated and humorous when she was not raging with the change of the hour. He kissed the top of her head and let her go.
“Then if I am to go into town, I must get my armor together and collect my horse,” he said. “Is there anything else you want?”
“Nay.”
“Are you sure you do not want to go?”
“I am sure.”
“Do you want to accompany me to the armory?”
She nodded moodily and he took her hand, leading her out into the weak November sunshine. It was cool this day but not tremendo
usly so. Carington was clad in a long sleeved woolen shift and surcoat and was quite warm. But she was pouting and miserable and Creed kept kissing her hand as they crossed into the outer bailey to one of the squatty towers that contained the armory. Somewhere in their walk, Stanton emerged from the stables and ran to catch up to them.
“Good morn to you, Lady de Reyne,” he said pleasantly. “It is a fine morning today.”
He was making small talk with her but Carington frowned at him. “’Tis a terrible day, Stanton de Witt, and I’ll thank ye not to be so sweet and pleasant around me.”
Stanton pressed his lips into a flat line, fighting off a grin as Creed cast him a long glance. Now was not the time to laugh at her unless he wanted to end up missing an eye.
Stanton knew that; he’d spent the past nine months with a pregnant woman of his own. “My wife was wondering if you would sit with her today,” he asked. “She is bored to tears lying in bed all day awaiting the birth of our child.”
Carington nodded. “I know,” she lost some of her pout. “Tell her I’ll join her for the nooning meal. I’ll sit with her a while.”
“Thank you,” Stanton replied sincerely. “She will look forward to it.”
Carington stopped him before he could move away. “What of yer son? Will ye need me to tend him while she sleeps?”
He shook his head. “Your offer is most gracious but Lady Julia is tending him today.”
Carington just nodded, watching him stroll off across the compound. She shook her head as they entered the armory tower.
“Stanton’s wife is enormous,” she remarked. “She looks to be birthing a small city any day now.”
Creed did not comment one way or the other; anything he said could be misconstrued as a personal insult or slander, no matter how innocent. As quick to temper as Carington had been before her pregnancy, it was double now and growing worse. So he mounted the spiral stairs in silence, helping her up behind him, until he came to the second floor room that held most of the fine armor. He sat Carington in the corner and began dressing himself. He was about a quarter of the way through when his tall blond squire suddenly joined them.
Carington held her legs up and out of the way as James went to work slapping greaves on his master’s shins. The boy moved quickly and efficiently.
“How did ye know he was here?” she teased him gently. “Ye must have eyes and ears everywhere.”
The lad blushed furiously; he and the lady had gotten to know each other when Creed had taken Ryton’s body back to Throston Castle for burial. Over miles of travel, they had ended up talking to pass the time and genuinely liked one another. While Creed dealt with his aged father’s grief, James had kept company with Lady de Reyne in his lord’s stead and the two had developed a bond.
“I must have eyes and ears everywhere, my lady, or Sir Creed will have my hide,” he replied.
Carington laughed softly, gazing up at her husband. He merely wriggled his eyebrows.
“He’ll not touch ye,” she told the lad firmly. “I would not allow it.”
“Allow it or not, that is my fear nonetheless, Lady de Reyne.”
Carington just shook her head sadly. “Dunna be afraid of him, James,” she told him. “He wouldna lay a hand on ye. But it is right that ye should respect his strength.”
James’ head was lowered as he worked on Creed’s thigh protection. His fingers moved like lightning. Carington watched the lad a moment before returning her attention to her husband.
“English,” she cocked her head as she looked at him. “Do ye not believe it is time for James to become a knight? Young Steven has already been knighted, after all, and he’s not much older than James.”
Creed held on to the breast plate as James fastened straps. “I believe I know my squire’s talents better than you,” he scolded gently. “I will determine when the boy is to become a man.”
She scowled fiercely. “Dunna take that tone with me. ’Twas merely a question.”
He looked at her as James stood up and began fussing with his shoulders. “I am sorry, love,” he said sincerely, though he did not mean a word of it. “I simply meant that James will be knighted soon enough and I do not know what I will do without him as my squire. He has spoiled me to anyone else.”
James blushed furiously as Carington cooled. She looked thoughtful as she watched the squire finish with her husband’s armor.
“I suppose I will go into town with ye,” she said, unwinding her legs and standing up. “I want to shop for the bairn.”
Creed rolled his eyes and opened his mouth to speak but thought better of it; a strangled grunt came out instead and he quickly pretended to busy himself with his gauntlets as Carington turned a suspicious eye to him.
“Did ye have something to say to that?” she demanded.
He fussed with a glove. “Not really,” he said casually. “But do you not believe the baby has enough things right now? He has more possessions than I do and he is not even born yet.”
Her lips moved into the familiar pout and Creed put up a gloved hand in surrender. “As you wish,” he said quickly. “Wait a moment and I will escort you home so that you can retrieve your cloak.”
She waved him off and began to carefully descend the stairs. “No need. I will meet ye in the bailey.”
He watched her dark hair until it disappeared down the stairwell. With an annoyed purse of the lips, he caught his squire looking at him.
“Mind that you remember that women, in general, are mysterious things.”
“Aye, my lord.”
“Do you plan to marry?”
“Aye, my lord.”
“Make sure she is docile.”
“You did not, my lord.”
Creed eyed him a moment before breaking out into a smirk. “Nay, I did not,” he shook his head. “And my life is richer for it. Forget what I said, then. Make sure she is full of spirit and you will never know a dull moment.”
“I want a Scots wife just like your lady wife, my lord.”
Creed groaned. “God help you, lad.”
James finished dressing him with a grin on his face.
Down in the outer bailey, Carington was strolling across the ward towards the inner bailey. She could see Burle across the bailey, running about a dozen new recruit soldiers through a drill, while Steven, Creed’s former squire, was on sentry duty up on the wall walk. With Ryton and Jory’s deaths, they had quickly promoted the young man and he was proving an excellent asset. All seemed peaceful and bright and Carington was thinking about the fabric she would purchase for the baby when a shout suddenly echoed off the walls.
She looked back to see Steven lifting a hand to Burle, who in turn left his recruits to run to the wall. He disappeared inside the gatehouse only to emerge up on the wall walk. Carington came to a pause, watching curiously.
By this time, Creed and James had emerged from the armory and Carington watched as her husband and his squire jogged across the bailey towards the gatehouse. Following the same path that Burle had taken, they emerged from the tower onto the wall walk above. After a few minutes of discussion, whereupon Carington grew bored and began to resume her path back to her cottage, Creed suddenly emitted a piercing whistle and the bailey came alive.
Soldiers emerged from the barracks against the north wall and began running. Somewhat startled, Carington scurried out of the way, standing near the gate to the inner bailey as she watched the activity. She was so busy watching the soldiers run back and forth that it took her a moment to realize that Creed had come down from the wall and was heading towards her. She watched him cross the ward, his powerful strides and determined stance. Her heart did a little dance, as it always did when she watched him. There was a time once when she thought he sucked up all of the air surrounding him; it was still true, but now in a good way. The man could positively make her heart sing.
He was upon her in a flash. “Go into the keep, honey.”
Fear clutched her at the grim expression on hi
s face. “Why? What is the matter?”
His jaw was ticking as he took her elbow and turned her in the direction of the keep. “Scots,” he said softly. “I must assess the threat and until I do, we will assume they are hostile. Get into the keep and bolt the door.”
She suddenly dug her heels in. “If they are Scots, then I must be present,” she insisted. “They wouldna dare attack Prudhoe with Sian Kerr’s daughter within her walls.”
The ticking in his jaw worsened. “Cari, I do not have time to argue with you. Please do as you are told. Please.”
He said the last word as she opened her mouth to protest. With an expression of extreme reluctance, she gathered her skirt and hurried for the keep. Creed stood there and watched her until she entered and the door shut. Only then did he begin shouting at the soldiers to seal up the inner ward.
He joined his men on the wall walk again, trying to spot the colors of the group in the distance. He knew they were Scots simply by the clothing and armor they wore; tartans and leather and very little pieces of metal or mail. They were still too far away to distinguish colors. The next few minutes would tell them who, exactly, approached as their tartans came more clearly into view.
Stanton eventually joined them in their waiting game. Young Steven had grown several inches in the last few months and was now as tall as Burle. He wore Ryton’s armor, given to him by Creed because he knew Ryton would not have minded. Moreover, armor was expensive and Steven had not yet amassed any fortune to pay for it. He needed something to wear. The young knight hovered over the edge of the parapet, watching the approaching party with his youthful vision. Finally, the young man straightened.
“Kerr tartan,” he said. “That is all I see. And I do not see men riding for battle; it looked like an escort party.”
Creed’s brow furrowed as his eyes strained to see in the distance. “An escort?” he repeated. “That is odd. Did we receive any missive announcing their arrival?”
The knights shook their heads. “None that we are aware of, my lord,” Stanton replied.
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