Brides of the North

by Le Veque, Kathryn

  Carington’s hand was at her mouth, covering it, as she struggled to breathe. “I… I ate him!”

  It all came out as a strangled cry that cut him to the bone. “I know, honey, I know,” Creed’s gloved hand was on her forehead, holding her head against his shoulder in an effort to both support and comfort her. “But I stopped you before you went too far. I am only sorry that I did not prevent the entire circumstance.”

  “You cooked him!”

  “Nay, lass, I did not cook him. I was burning the carcass and the men smelled the meat cooking and thought it was for eating. It was all a horrible mistake.”

  She wept as if her heart was broken. Creed heard footfalls crunching in the grass behind him and looked over his shoulder to see Ryton and Burle standing several feet away. His brother looked sickened while Burle just looked angry.

  “Get her up, Creed,” Ryton said quietly. “Do not let her wallow in this. We must be on our way.”

  “Give her a minute, for Christ’s sake,” Creed snapped softly. “Keep moving. I will catch up to you when she has calmed sufficiently.”

  Ryton’s gaze was fixed on his brother, apparently trying to keep the hysterical hostage from running any further by the grip he had on her. As he watched, the lady heaved again and more stomach contents ended up on the mashed grass. With a heavy sigh, he motioned Burle back to his charger.

  “Do not be too long, then,” he said to his brother. “Lord Richard is expecting us around noon. We cannot delay.”

  Creed gave him a brief nod, feeling the lady’s body convulse under him once again as her stomach struggled to bring up more bile. “It would be wise if you kept Jory out of my sight,” he rumbled. “I cannot guarantee my control if I see him.”

  “I will take care of d’Eneas, have no doubt,” Ryton replied. “You tend the lady. And do not be over long with it.”

  Ryton’s footfalls faded across the grass, leaving Creed and Carington alone in the cluster of trees. Creed returned his focus to the lady, no longer retching but struggling to calm her breathing. The hysteria of tears had faded to a soft weeping and he continued to hold her in silence, feeling tremendously guilty. At some point, he started to rock her gently, as one would an ill child. It was an instinct and nothing more. Carington clung to his big arm with one hand, the other still pressed against her mouth.

  “Ye knew,” she said it so softly that he hardly heard her. “That is why ye took the meat away from me last night. Ye knew and ye didna tell me. Ye knew and said nothing!”

  There was an accusation in the statement. Creed rocked back on his heels, shifting her so that she was sitting on his thighs and off of the cold, dirty grass.

  “You still would not know if I had any say in the matter,” he said frankly. “I did not expect Jory to announce it to you but I suppose I should have. The man is an idiot.”

  “I told ye that I dinna like him,” her voice was a breathy whisper. “He is evil and malicious. Any man who would… who would.…”

  She was beginning to sob anew and he shushed her softly. “No more,” he said. “You are going to make yourself ill. What is done is done. It is over with. You have expelled your grief and we must move beyond it.”

  “I canna move beyond it. Could ye?”

  “I would have to if there were more important things on the horizon, such as meeting the family I am going to live with for the next few years. You do not want them to meet a red-eyed and pale faced woman, do you?”

  “I dunna care what they think!” she spat, regaining some of the fire he was becoming familiar with. “If they think ill of me, I dunna care.”

  He lifted an eyebrow; she was starting to sound like her old self and he stood up, taking her with him. “Aye, you do,” he said evenly. “You are a strong woman. You will show them this.”

  It was a good thing that Creed had a strong grip on her because her knees were very unsteady. Her hands were still on her mouth, tears still in her eyes. She folded over at the waist.

  “Sweet Jesus,” she wept softy. “My sweet Bress.”

  He still held her, one big arm around her torso as she bent over and retched one last time. He found himself pulling her long hair back, out of the way, so it would not become soiled.

  “Cari,” he said softly. “I know you are upset. But you must get hold of yourself. Please, honey. It is important.”

  She remained folded in half, breathing loudly, struggling to catch her wind. But her hands and legs were feeling strangely tingly, strangely light. As Creed continued to hold her, she suddenly went limp and he had to put both arms around her to keep her from tumbling into the grass. Knowing she had passed out from sheer nerves, and rather relieved that she had if only to force calm upon her, he carefully collected her into his arms and went in search of his horse.

  The charger was several yards away, munching on plump green grass. Creed shifted Carington in his arms, a mere featherweight to his strength, and gazed into her pale, lovely face. She’d certainly had a rough time of it already and the day was not even over yet.

  “’Tis all right, honey,” he murmured, though she could not hear him. “You needn’t worry over anything any longer. I’m here.”

  They caught up to the column in little time. Creed saw the bloodied welt on the side of Jory’s face but did not ask where he got it. He had an inkling that he already knew.

  Prudhoe was a truly impressive sight to see. Built on a strategic crossing over the River Tyne, it sat atop a massive motte that was at least one hundred years old. The castle was unique in that there was a good deal of heavy trees around it, almost right up to the massive wall that encircled the castle. When the bastion had suffered through a bad siege from the Scots about thirty years prior, those trees had proven strategically detrimental to the defense of the castle. The Scots climbed them and launched their weapons from their branches. But the great oaks had stood there hundreds of years and they still stood to this day. No one seemed to have the heart to cut down the mighty grove.

  Carington sat behind Creed, her arms wrapped around his trim waist, her eyes drinking in the sight of her new home. Until this very moment, the castle had been a theory, a dream, certainly nothing real. Now that she saw it in all its glory, it was a terrifying and awesome sight. Although she had been calm for a few hours, her nerves began to return again. Stomach twitching at the sight of the mighty bastion, she turned her head away so she would not have to look. She laid her cheek miserably on the plate protection covering Creed’s back.

  The day was going from bad to worse. She did not know what she had expected, but the enormous castle shocked her. It was gloomy and foreboding even in the bright sunlight. She could feel the doom radiating off of the gray stone, a silent testimony to her dismal future. Face still against his back, she watched the giant oak trees pass by as they plodded along the road towards their destination.

  “Sir Creed?” she asked quietly.

  “Just Creed,” he reminded her.

  Since the episode a few hours ago, he had been inordinately considerate with her. It was as if that experience had somehow bonded them together, a new element added to their association. It had brought it to another level, a level of comfort and trust. She was not sure if he still entirely trusted her, but she was coming to trust him. It was an important milestone.

  “Are ye going to be my shadow even at the castle?” she asked.

  He could feel her leaning against him, her slight body weary and drained. “I am my lady’s shadow wherever she goes.”

  “I feel better knowing that,” she said softly. “I dunna know anyone but you.”

  “Untrue,” he said. “You know Sir Ryton and Sir Stanton and Sir Burle. They will be your protectors as well.”

  “I hit Sir Stanton in the face. I dunna believe he has forgiven me for that.”

  Creed thought about the young knight he knew, the one who had too much compassion and pity for his own good. “Aye, he has. You needn’t worry over Stan. He would protect you with his life.�
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  She digested that a moment. “But the big man… what is his name? I wasna very nice to him; I yelled at him. I dunna believe he likes me, either.”

  Creed glanced over his left shoulder, seeing Burle and Stanton several yards behind him and Jory almost to the rear of the column as if exiled there. He turned back around. “Did you see the injury to Jory’s face?”

  When she had awoken from her dead faint, the dark young knight happened to pass into her line of sight. She had seen that the entire right side of his face was bruised. “Aye.”

  “Burle did that.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Jory made you cry. Burle has three daughters, my lady. He is very protective of womenfolk in general.”

  Carington lifted her head long enough to look back at the two knights, now through new eyes. Surprised at their chivalry to the point of being speechless, her thoughts were distracted as they came into the shadow cast by the massive keep of Prudhoe. She glanced up, straining to look around Creed so she could gain a better look. All she saw was more stone and more walls. As anxious as she was, she was also curious about the mysteries the great structure contained.

  “Will ye tell me something of the people who live here?” she asked.

  His dusky blue eyes moved appreciatively up the massive stone walls, lit by the bright spring sun. Rays of light filtered in through the oaks that lined the road and he was glad to be home again.

  “There are Lord Richard and his wife, the Lady Anne,” he said. “They are kind and decent people. You must remember that. They have two sons, Edward, who is six years, and Gilbert, who is eight. You must mind the boys; they have a fondness for fighting and spitting and are quite spoiled. There are also two foster girls, the Lady Julia and the Lady Kristina. They are approximately sixteen or seventeen years, I think. You might find companionship with them.”

  She snorted. “I am older than they are.”

  “Is that so?”

  “It ’tis. I have seen nineteen years.”

  He fought off a smile at the haughtiness of her voice. “Then you can be an older, wiser friend.”

  She snorted again, this time making a face. “Pasty-faced Sassenach lasses. I dunna know if I want to be a friend.”

  He cocked an eyebrow, turning his neck slightly to make eye contact with her. “None of that. You will behave yourself.”

  She matched his cocked eyebrow, ending when she backed down and returned her gaze to the looming castle. “What if they are mean to me?”

  “Then you will tell me. I will deal with them.”

  “So I canna even defend myself?”

  He shook his head with faint regret at her combative attitude. “Cari, they’re not going to attack you. Show them how kind and intelligent a Scot really is. You are representing your people, honey. You are here as an emissary of peace. That is a very honorable and important task.”

  She was still torn between reluctance and acceptance. “But what if…?” she suddenly blinked, looking up at the side of his helmed head. “What did ye call me?”

  He lifted his eyebrows thoughtfully, wrestling with the horse when it threw its head. “Cari?”

  “Nay.”

  “What?”

  “Ye called me… honey. Ye’ve called me that before.”

  The horse tossed its head again and he cuffed it on the top of the head. “Have I? Forgive me for my forwardness, then. I did not mean to offend.”

  She eyed him. “Ye did not,” she said. She lowered her head and looked back to the trees. “Ye may call me that if ye wish.”

  A grin spread across his lips. “I wish.”

  Her cheeks flushed furiously and she hid her smile by pretending to look down at herself, fussing with the dust on her scarlet surcoat. She was a mess but almost did not care. Creed’s pet name had her caring about little else.

  The escort passed through an enormous gate built into the perimeter wall, spilling them out into a massive bailey. The equally massive keep was on the motte to her right, soaring a hundred feet into the blue English sky. It was bigger than anything she had ever seen. Carington was staring at it when Creed brought his horse to a halt and dismounted. He held his arms up to her.

  “Come along,” he said. “They are waiting to meet you.”

  She looked at him and he saw the fear, but she obediently slipped into his arms. He lowered her to the ground, his hands loitering on her waist perhaps a bit longer than necessary. Their eyes lingered on one another, appraisingly, until she offered a weak smile.

  “Better to get this over with,” she said with forced bravery.

  He smiled in return, collecting some items off his saddle before taking her hand and tucking it into the crook of his elbow.

  “If my lady will follow me,” he said.

  She would indeed follow him. She had already decided that. It no longer made any difference that Creed was a hated Sassenach; he was a kind man and quite handsome. Having experienced all that she had with him over the past two days, there was a definite attachment beginning and she no longer possessed the will to fight it.

  They followed Ryton and Burle across the outer bailey with Stanton bringing up the rear. Jory was under orders to disband the escort and they could hear his high-pitched shouts above the roar of the ward. Gripping Creed’s elbow with her left hand, she brushed at her surcoat with the right. There was dust everywhere and she noticed grass stains from when she had fallen in the grass. She lamented the stains as they crossed into the inner bailey.

  “My coat is so dirty,” she brushed at the green streaks. “These Sassenachs are going to think I am a filthy little pig.”

  Creed glanced down at her surcoat, his gaze inevitably falling on her delicious figure. The slender torso and full, succulent breasts caught his attention but when she looked up at him, she only noticed that he was looking her in the eye.

  “You have been traveling,” he said. “They understand that there is some wear that goes along with that.”

  “Do I have time to change?” she asked. “A few minutes are all it would take. And I would feel so much better.”

  Creed did not see anything unreasonable with that request. He turned to his brother, up ahead of him. “Ryton,” he caught the man’s attention. “The lady wishes to change her coat. It will not take long. Would you inform Lord Richard and Lady Anne that the lady will greet them once she has cleaned up from her journey?”

  Ryton’s gaze moved over the lady’s clothes; she was dusty and there were grass stains on her garment, but even so, she was still the loveliest thing he had ever seen. Besides that, they were already late and he hated not being punctual.

  “No need,” he replied. “She is presentable.”

  “It would be the polite thing to do.”

  Ryton eyed his brother, a mixture of impatience and intolerance. “Nay, Creed,” he motioned towards the great hall dead ahead. “Get her inside. They have been waiting overlong for her arrival.”

  Creed did not look at her; he was busy glaring at his brother for denying a polite request. They closed in on the wide open door of Prudhoe’s great hall, a massively long structure that was built on the ground floor of the bailey. It was separate from the keep, unusual for an English bastion. Most great halls were part of the keep and well away from the open bailey.

  Carington observed the carved doorway as they were swallowed up by the dark innards, descending into a place that smelled of must and rushes and smoke. It was eerie and unfamiliar, and Carington’s eyes widened at the sight.

  Creed felt her hesitate. He looked down at her frightened expression, noticing that she had slowed considerably to the point of stopping. He patted the hand on his elbow.

  “’Tis all right,” he assured her quietly. “These are kind people. You have nothing to fear.”

  She gazed up at him, the emerald eyes full of anxiety. “Ye willna leave me?”

  He shook his head, his gaze serious. “Nay. I will be with you the entire time.”

 
She smiled gratefully and he felt his heart skip a beat. Odd; he’d never experienced anything like that before and had no idea what to make of it. He gave her a wink and gently urged her forward.

  The dark and musty foyer abruptly opened into a grand and warmly-lit hall. The ceilings were thirty feet high and a gallery spanned the upper circumference of the room. Tapestries hung on the north and south sides with a massive hearth along the western wall. Fresh rushes littered the floor and, amazingly, there were no dogs about. Carington had never seen anything so enormous and struggled not to gape like an idiot. Her eyes darted about nervously, trying to keep her wits, as several people came into focus at the great long dining table beyond.

  The party at the table rose as the knights and one small lady approached. Carington’s eyes fell on an older, well-dressed man, a slender well-dressed older woman, and several children. But she was not particularly interested in the children; she was focused on the adults. The man and woman drew closer to her and she could see they held non-hostile expressions. Not knowing what to think, she tried to maintain a neutral facade.

  The man extended his hand. “Creed,” he did not take his eyes off of Carington as he spoke. “Will you introduce us to your charge?”

  Creed took her hand off his elbow and placed it in the man’s outstretched palm. “Lord Richard d’Umfraville, meet the Lady Carington Kerr. Lady Carington, this is your liege.”

  Richard was gallant without being extravagant. He placed his lips gently on her hand in a gesture of respect and, still holding her hand, turned to the lady beside him. “Lady Carington, my wife, the Lady Anne.”

  Anne d’Umfraville was a dark-haired, dark-eyed lady with a handsome face. She smiled warmly at Carington and took her hand from her husband’s grip. “My lady,” she had a deep, husky voice. “Welcome to Prudhoe. We are happy to have you as our guest for a time.”

  Even though Creed had told her they were kind people, still, she did not expect it. Off-guard, she dipped a brief curtsey for the lady. “My lady,” she looked at Richard. “My lord, I am pleased to be here. Thank ye for yer kind welcome.”