Creed had all he could take of delays regardless of the priest’s condition. “Massimo,” he demanded again, though in a gentler tone. “Did you see my wife? Is she all right?”
Massimo turned his pale, frozen face to him. His dark eyes were circled and sunken.
“Sir Creed,” he said through cold, thick lips. “There is much to tell. Get me a chair before I collapse.”
Creed snatched a stool from beside the hearth and practically shoved the priest onto it. The man was so cold that he was having difficulty standing. But he knew that Creed was waiting for an answer; truth was, he was not looking forward to providing him with what he knew. But he had little choice. He fixed Creed in the eye and prayed the man could handle it.
“You are a knight of the realm,” the priest began, a chill quiver in his voice. “You have been trained to control your emotions in all things. You must draw upon that strength now to prepare for what I am to tell you.”
Creed just stared at him. His face suddenly lost all color; both Massimo and Sian could see it. Next thing they realized, Creed had toppled to his knees before the priest, his expression indicative of his struggle. His eyes were wide with horror.
“She is dead,” he breathed.
Massimo shook his head. “Nay, she is not,” he told him. “But much tragedy has befallen her since you last saw her.”
Creed emitted something of a strangled sob. “What, for God’s sake? Why do you not come out and tell me what has happened?”
Massimo reached out and grabbed Creed’s massive biceps as if to hold him fast. “Listen to me and listen well,” he muttered. “We arrived at Prudhoe nearly eight days ago. We lingered in town for a time and spoke with the seamstress your wife is so fond of. We discovered that King John’s men had indeed reached Prudhoe not long after you left. They were still occupying it, interrogating Lord Richard and the knights as to your whereabouts. Somehow, someway, they discovered that you had taken a wife and that she was in residence at Prudhoe.”
Creed grew even paler than he already was. “My dear God; what did they do to her?”
Massimo shook his head. “They did nothing to your wife, I assure you. They understood through Lord Richard that the damage, to her, had already been done. There was no more pain or suffering that anyone could inflict upon her.”
Creed was so tightly coiled that he was light-headed. “I do not understand.”
Massimo’s grip softened. He touched Creed on the side of the face comfortingly. “Three days after we left Prudhoe for Wether Fair, your wife delivered a daughter,” his voice was soft and soothing. “Creed, there is no way to ease the pain of these facts so I must simply tell you; Carington nearly died in the birth. Your daughter, in fact, did not long survive after she was born and I said Mass for her myself. Her young soul is at rest. But your wife… she lingers still between life and death. I was permitted to see her and to give her last rites and when I left, she had not yet passed. I must be honest when I say that the physic is not hopeful.”
Creed shot to his feet before Massimo could finish, pulling the priest off the stool and sending him sprawling. Sian was there, as were some of his burly men, and when they saw their laird grab for Creed they leapt forward to assist. Creed was going mad before their eyes and there was nothing they could do to stop it.
“I must return to Prudhoe,” Creed was heading for the door with a half dozen men hanging on him. “I must get to Carington.”
Massimo scrambled to his feet and put himself in front of Creed. “Listen to me,” he pleaded. “You must control yourself or all will be lost. The king’s men are aware that I know of your location; they were there the night I arrived and they knew I gave last rites to your wife. They are further aware that I have been your advocate since the beginning and they have sent me with a message for you.”
Creed came to a halt, his dusky blue eyes bordering on insanity. His nostrils were flaring as he spoke. “Who sends this message?”
“A knight named de la Londe.”
Creed’s brow furrowed and his teeth barred in a frightening gesture. “I know this knight,” he hissed. “He was one of the knights who accompanied me on my mission to escort Isabella. What message does he send?”
Massimo hoped that Creed would retain enough sense not to throttle him. “That if you do not return to Prudhoe, they are taking your wife back to London to face justice in your stead.”
Those fateful words sealed Creed’s fury; the temper he kept so controlled and cool was irrevocably unleashed. With a roar, he yanked away from the hands holding him and proceeded to demolish everything in the hall that was within his reach. The benches at the table were smashed and splintered and when he was finished with those, he proceeded to bash and slam the feasting table until the legs came off and the table itself smashed into a hundred little pieces. The ale cups sailed across the room and smashed into the great stone walls and the stool that the priest had been sitting on ended up in tatters.
Sian and his men stood back and watched Creed demolish the hall. It was a terrifying and awesome sight. Massimo tried to stay clear of the flying debris as he followed the man around the room, trying to talk some sense into him. But it was of no avail; Creed was far gone with lunacy, fury and anguish such as he had never experienced bubbling up from his chest and expending itself in his strength. But it was more than that; months of persecution and hurtful accusations were finding their way free. Finally, he was expending his turmoil. When everything was smashed, still, he smashed it more until he pulverized it.
Eventually, his fury began to wane and he came to an unsteady halt, his hands and arms bloodied, sweat covering his body. It was a rage that none of them had ever seen before, this man who seemed to be followed by such bad fortune and darkness.
Sian waited a reasonable amount of time before approaching him. He understood, more than most, that sometimes a man must physically demonstrate his anger in order to gain control of his demons. Creed seemed to have his share of demons. He came upon Creed as the man stood near the hearth, sweating and bloodied and breathing heavily.
“Creed,” he said in a low voice. “She’s me daughter. If any man has the right tae feel pain, it is me. I understand your rage, lad, but charging in tae Prudhoe will only get ye killed. Is that what ye want?”
Creed was unfocused and unsteady, staring into the flames and somewhat numb to what was going on around him. But he heard Sian’s softly uttered question.
“Nay,” he muttered. “’Tis not what I want. But I must go to my wife and I will kill anyone who stands in my way.”
Sian scratched his dark head. “I have been fighting the Sassenach for many years and it never ceases to amaze me how the lot of ye will charge in tae a battle and hope that your strength will overcome. Sometimes it is not yer strength that will win but yer mind. Ye must be smarter than yer enemy.”
Creed turned to look at him, then. “I have been a knight for fourteen years and in all that time, I have never been accused of being foolish.”
Sian shook his head. “Not foolish, lad. Ye simply must think smarter than yer enemy.”
Creed gazed at him with his muddled eyes. “The king is my enemy.”
“I know.”
“You have been fighting the English for many years. What would you suggest?”
Sian cast a long glance at his men, standing around the room, some of them kicking away pieces of the broken table. Now, they were more than allies with Prudhoe; they were family. And family must help family, as Creed had always known. He, in fact, knew the Scots well in that regard.
“This will take more than the support of the Clan,” Sian said after a moment. “From what the priest has told me, ye have many friends willing to defend ye, including Laird Richard. He said that Laird Richard has been protecting ye since this madness with the queen started. And Laird Richard has allies that will come to your aid if he calls them.”
Creed was not thinking straight but he could grasp the general concept of what Sian
was suggesting. “Call upon Prudhoe’s allies?”
Sian nodded as he looked at the priest. “How large is the king’s force that resides at Prudhoe?” he asked him.
Massimo lifted his slender shoulders. “Fifty men perhaps. They brought more of an escort than an army. They have the backing of the king, after all. They did not expect resistance.”
“A king who is hated by his barons,” Creed grumbled. “I can take on fifty men by myself.”
Sian patted his enormous arm. “Indeed ye can,” he humored him. “But yer focus will be on me daughter, not on fighting. Ye must have yer friends hold off the king’s men.”
“And do what?”
Sian’s vibrant blue eyes flashed in that insane expression that Creed was coming to associate with his father-in-law. “Send them back to the king with the message that Creed de Reyne is an innocent man and willna pay for crimes he dinna commit. If the king wants ye then he will have to fight the whole of Northumbria and Scotland to get ye.”
Creed was beginning to calm somewhat but he was still on edge. Odd how these men he had been fighting his entire life were suddenly on his side, men his brothers had died against. It was a very strange realization; he remembered telling Carington when Ryton died that he was all alone. Gazing into Sian’s face, he realized that he was not alone in the least. In many ways, he was richer than he had ever been.
“Then we ride tonight for Hexham,” he said quietly.
“Why Hexham?”
“Because Galen Burleson is there and he is a close friend. Hexham is also Prudhoe’s closest ally. If you want large numbers to stand against the king’s men, we must have Hexham.”
Sian lifted a dark eyebrow. “Ye’ve not yet seen large numbers until ye’ve seen the gathering of the Clans,” he nodded with confidence. “But ye will, lad. Ye will.”
Creed’s expression softened. “This is not for me, you understand,” he murmured. “It is for Cari.”
He heard his father-in-law sigh softly. For the first time since the delivery of the devastating news, his sorrow broke through. “Aye, lad,” he replied quietly. “For Cari.”
Carington was not sure how long she had been awake, but she thought it might have been for quite some time. She could hear soft voices around her, the whistling of the wind and the soft snap of the fire. It seemed to drone on for hours. When she tried to open her eyes, her lids felt like they weighed as much as a small child. She could not seem to raise them. So she drifted off to sleep again only to awaken and feel moderately alert.
Struggling, she finally opened her eyes to a dim room and a roaring fire. Turning slightly, she noticed that someone was sitting next to the bed but she could not see who it was. Turning her head further, or movement of any kind, was simply out of the question. But she apparently moved enough so that it was noticed.
“Carington?” It was Kristina sitting next to her, her pale blue eyes wide. “Cari, are you awake?”
Carington took a deep breath, struggling to keep her eyes open. “I… I suppose ye could call it that,” she murmured with thick lips. “What… what has…?”
“You have been unconscious for days,” Kristina was almost sobbing. “We thought you were dead.”
She did sob then and Carington blinked her eyes, struggling to focus on her young friend. “I’m not-a dead yet,” she whispered. “My bairn…?”
Kristina slapped a hand over her mouth to stifle her weeping but she was not doing a very good job. “I am so sorry,” she wept softly. “She was so beautiful but she was too small to survive. Father Massimo said Mass for her.”
Carington closed her eyes and tears trickled down her temples. She was so weak that she could barely muster the strength to cry; the tears just fell of their own will. “My sweet bairn,” she whispered. “Where is she buried?”
Kristina was a weeping mess. “Lady Anne insisted she be buried in the d’Umfraville crypt in town,” she told her. “I remembered that you had told me once that your mother’s name was Dera, so Lady Anne and I named her Dera Carington de Reyne. I hope that is all right.”
Carington nodded, too overcome to reply. Kristina held her hand and wept with her. It was a painful moment for them both.
“Creed,” Carington finally murmured. “Is he all right?”
Kristina sniffled and wiped her eyes. “Father Massimo says he is safe with your father.”
“Thank God,” Carington whispered. Then her eyes opened and she weakly turned her head in Kristina’s direction. “Is Father Massimo still here?”
Kristina shook her head. “He went back to tell Creed of… of….”
She could not finish as sobs overtook her again. Carington sighed weakly. “I wish he wouldna,” she muttered. “It will only make him miserable that he is not here. There is nothing he could have done but he willna understand that.”
Kristina did not know what to say. She held Carington’s hand tightly. “There is so much more to tell you,” she said. “The king’s men have been here since the night you delivered Dera. They have not left.”
Carington did not remember much of the past few weeks but she did remember the king’s men. They had arrived when she was in labor and one of them, a knight named de La Londe, had been bold enough to try and question her. She had screamed at him. After that, she remembered little other than delivering a blue infant that she never had a chance to hold. But she knew, without anyone telling her at the time, that the baby was dead. Her conversation with Kristina only confirmed it. They had taken the infant away too quickly as the physic and Lady Anne struggled to keep her from bleeding to death. Her life was draining away and along with it, her consciousness.
After that, she remembered nothing until this moment. She felt strangely numb and exceedingly weak. She squeezed Kristina’s hand faintly.
“I am thirsty,” she whispered.
Kristina jumped out of her chair, wiping the remaining tears on her cheeks. She opened the chamber door into the main room beyond. “Lady Carington is awake,” she announced. “She is thirsty!”
Kristina said it as if it was the most amazing event in the world. Suddenly, bodies filled the small bedchamber and Lady Anne came into view. Her handsome face was weary but she smiled sweetly at Carington, running a gentle hand over her forehead.
“Greetings, my lady,” she said softly. “Welcome back.”
Carington was very comforted by the woman’s presence. The physic from Newcastle was standing beside her, his expression critical. He was a little man with a balding head.
“How do you feel, my lady?” he asked.
Carington sighed faintly. “Weak,” she said honestly. “But I think I am hungry.”
Lady Anne murmured a silent prayer of thanks and moved to get Carington some nourishment as the physic sat down beside the bed. He felt her pulse, put his hand on her head to determine her temperature, and a few other diagnostics. He pulled back the coverlet and gently pushed on her belly. As he did so, the milk from her swollen breasts stained her gown. Her body did not know there was no baby to feed. After several moments of analyzing his results, he covered her back up and fixed her in the eye.
“I was not sure you would awaken,” he said frankly.
Carington’s eyelids were growing heavy again, as if she had expended all of her energy from simply being awake. “We Scots are stronger than ye know,” she told him, her emerald eyes fixing on him. “But my daughter… was there nothing to be done?”
He shook his head. “She could not breathe, my lady. There was nothing to be done for her. She was born too early.”
The tears were returning but she fought them. “And me?” she whispered. “Will there be more bairns for my husband and I? He did so want a boy.”
The physic patted her arm. “I do not see any reason why there cannot be more children. Your bleeding was caused when the sack that attaches the infant to the womb tore. I had to work to get it out of you before you bled to death.”
She nodded, not particularly wanting to hear t
he details of the birth. The tears over her daughter’s fate fell softly again. “Then I thank ye for yer skill,” she whispered.
The physic watched her a moment, scratching his head wearily. He seemed lost in thought. Then he rose stiffly and quit the room just as Lady Anne entered with a bowl of beef broth. As Kristina stoked the blaze in the hearth to a ridiculous level, Lady Anne fed Carington nearly the entire bowl. Feeling warm and nourished, Carington realized that she was feeling a little better, a little stronger. As Lady Anne handed the bowl over to Kristina, the physic suddenly returned with a bundle in his arms.
Carington and Lady Anne looked at him curiously as the physic unwrapped the snow-dusted swaddling.
“This child has no mother,” he said, pulling away the blanket from the little face. “You are producing milk, my lady. It will do both you and the child well if you were to nurse her. I believe it will help heal your womb.”
Carington was shocked as she recognized the blond-headed child of Lady Vivian. Her heart sank. “Good lord,” she murmured. “Did Vivian not survive after all?”
Lady Anne, too, was momentarily shocked by the suggestion but quickly grew to support it. “She did not,” she touched Carington’s shoulder. “Stanton is beside himself with grief and the wetnurse has all she can handle with young Henry. Take the baby, Cari; take her and make her strong.”
Carington was saddened by Vivian’s death and by Stanton’s ensuing grief. He had been quite proud of his wife and family. The thought of nursing Stanton’s daughter did not distress her; in fact, it made her feel a little less devastated. Now, she had a purpose, small as that purpose was. After a moment’s hesitation, she pulled back the coverlet and extended her arms.
“Give her to me,” she whispered.
The physic laid the baby beside her and Carington found herself gazing into big blue eyes; they were Stanton’s eyes. Her grief softened just a little more as she pulled back the neck of her shift, exposing a fully engorged left breast. As Lady Anne and the physic hovered over her to see if their little experiment would work, Carington offered her swollen nipple to the baby and was rewarded when the child quickly latched on to her. She latched on a little strongly, in fact, and Carington winced as the child suckled hungrily.
The Dark Brotherhood: A Medieval Romance Collection Page 148
