She was panting, holding her rounded belly. “A… pain,” she gasped. “’Tis nothing… I will be all right.”
Creed was seized with terror. “What is wrong?”
She shook her head; mostly to ease his mind but also because she did not really know. “A pain,” she said bravely. “It will pass. I’ve had a few lately but they go away.”
“A few?” he repeated, aghast. “And you did not tell me?”
“There wasna much to tell.”
He swept her into his arms, torn between fury and terror. “I am taking you to bed,” he told her. “The strain has been too much for you.”
Carington was in a good deal of agony as bolts of pain shot through her belly and groin. “Creed,” she was struggling to calm herself, realizing that it was now her husband who was on the edge of panic. “I will be all right but I must know that ye are safe. Ye must leave; please. I am begging ye.”
He did not reply. A couple of servants were hovering hear the entry door and he sent one of them running for the physic tending Lady Vivian while the other tossed Carington’s cloak over her to shield her from the snow outside. Creed was in such a state of horror that he did not realize that it was Massimo who opened the entry door for him and helped them out into the snow. The priest kept Carington’s cloak from blowing off as they trudged through the fresh powder snow and into the cottage. Once inside, Massimo removed the cloak as Creed took Carington on into the bedroom.
He laid her gently on their massive bed, gazing into her face with a stricken look. “The physic is coming, honey,” he murmured. “What more can I do for you?”
She lay back on the pillows, her hands pressed to her swollen belly. “Ye can go,” she whispered. “Please, Creed; I cannot stomach the thought of ye at the mercy of the king. If ye have ever loved me, if ye have ever truly wanted to please me, then ye will flee to Wether Fair and remain there until I send for ye.”
He tossed off his frozen helm and removed his gloves, kneeling beside the bed. “I am not leaving you.”
She groaned as another pain struck and turned her head away from him so he could not see her fear and anguish. When she spoke again, she was weeping.
“Please,” she whispered, extending a hand to him. “Oh, please do as I ask.”
Creed realized that tears were very close to the surface for him as well. He took her hand, kissing it reverently, never more terrified in his life. He squeezed his eyes shut, his mouth against her hand.
“My selfishness has brought you to this,” he hissed. “I have caused your pain with all of this strife and worry that seems to follow me about like a plague.”
“Nay, love, ye have not,” she assured him. “But the most important thing right now to me is yer safety. Can ye not understand? Ye are the most important thing in the world to me. I love ye more than my own life. I want ye to save yerself so that ye can see yer son grow up. That is not cowardly.”
There were tears on his cheeks as he continued to hold her hand against his face. The dusky blue eyes were in turmoil.
“All right,” he murmured. “If that is your wish, then I will do it. But I cannot leave you at this moment.”
She nodded firmly. “Aye, ye can and ye will. What becomes of me and the babe will not change if you are here or not and I will feel much more at peace knowing ye are safe.”
He gazed at her, his lips trembling. “Please do not make me go.”
She reached out and pulled him to her, her arms around his neck as she held him close. “I am not making ye go, English,” she murmured against his ear. “I am begging ye to. Please. So ye may live to see yer son grow up.”
He sobbed against her neck, a short burst as he struggled to keep his emotions at bay. Suddenly, he was the vulnerable one and she was his strength. The pain of separation was more than he could bear. His massive hands were on her face, her hair, his lips kissing her tenderly as he whispered of his love for her. When she groaned softly with another pain, he gazed at her with sorrow and anxiety.
“My God,” he breathed. “I cannot go, not now.”
She grabbed hold of his hand and squeezed tightly, her nails digging into him. “Ye promised.”
He nodded swiftly, not wanting to upset her further. “All right, all right,” he said quickly. “Can I at least wait until the physic has examined you?”
She seemed to calm somewhat. “Aye,” she whispered, touching his face to memorize it for the separation ahead. “Everything will be all right, English. Ye must have faith.”
He kissed her hand, her cheek, struggling not to fall apart. “I do,” he closed his eyes, his forehead against hers. “I love you, Cari. Greater than any man has ever loved a woman, I love you. I will return from this madness and we will know peace and happiness again.”
She did not say anything; she continued to clutch him until the physic came and separated them out of necessity. Although it was not the truth, he told Creed that she was simply overwrought. It was a lie that Carington had made him relay because she knew Creed would not have left her otherwise. And it was imperative that he go.
So Creed left into the snowy dusk with Massimo at his side, moving from the outer bailey of Prudhoe and out into the white-encrusted countryside beyond. His destination was Wether Fair in the midst of the Scots border, a place that even the king would not dare breach.
Carington delivered a premature daughter three days later in a complicated birth that nearly claimed her life. The babe did not survive.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
January 1201 A.D.
“Ye pace enough tae wear holes in me floor,” Sian sat in the great hall of Wether Fair, watching his massive son-in-law walk around the room. “Ye’re exhausting me, man. Sit down and enjoy yer drink.”
Creed lifted an eyebrow at him; they had entertained this conversation many times over the past three weeks, since Creed first arrived at the desolate fortress of Wether Fair.
“I would think you would show more concern than you do,” he fired back softly. “It is, after all, your grandson that your daughter is giving birth to.”
Sian made a good show at being unconcerned although inside, he was a mess. He lifted his shoulders lazily. “Worrying will not help,” he said. “She is in the hands o’God.”
Creed stopped his pacing, put his hands on his hips and chewed his lip in a nervous gesture. “Are you really so casual about this?”
Sian’s vibrant blue eyes flared at him before turning back to his drink. “Nay,” he said. “But I willna worry about something I canna control. I sent one of me men with yer priest tae Prudhoe more than a week ago; they should be returning with some news soon. So sit yerself down and drink before I take a stick tae ye. Ye’re makin’ me daft!”
The corner of Creed’s mouth twitched but he did as he was told. “I should have never left her,” he lamented for the thousandth time. “I should not have let her talk me into running.”
Sian’s expression widened. “And if ye say that again, I am going tae run ye through,” he jabbed a finger at Creed. “Ye did what ye had tae. Had ye stayed, the king would have ye now and ye would never see yer son. Is that what ye wanted?”
Creed sighed heavily, gazing into the blazing fire; the hearth was not particularly well made and smoke billowed out to the ceiling. But he drew some comfort being where his wife was born and where she was raised. He could see her traversing the narrow stairs and walking the great hall. He even slept in her old bed just to feel close to her.
“Nay,” he muttered. “That is not what I wanted.”
“Then stop yer fretting. We will know her fate soon enough.”
Creed sighed heavily again, this time with the displeasure of the waiting game, and reclaimed his cup. He and Sian spent nearly every day here, drinking and talking, when they weren’t out riding Sian’s lands when the weather was better. But this had been a particularly brutal winter and those days were few and far between. Still, it had afforded them much time to get to know one another and Creed wa
s not surprised to realize that he liked his father-in-law. More than that, Sian had formed a strong attachment to Creed. Now, as they sat and entertained one another, it was as friends.
“She is fine,” Creed said as if to convince himself. “I am sure that everything is fine.”
Sian’s vibrant blue gaze lingered on him. “Aye, lad. She is fine.”
So it was another day of the waiting game. The New Year came and went two days ago, but to Creed, it felt as if he had been away from his wife more than just a few weeks. It felt like forever. Massimo had stayed with him for a few days until Sian sent the priest, along with a few Scots, back to Prudhoe to see what had transpired. Sian and Creed were still waiting, waiting until Creed thought he would surely go mad. Every day they sat, drank, talked and waited. It was becoming so monotonous that Creed was ready to climb the walls. As the snow blew in through the small, square windows that dotted the keep, all he could think of was Prudhoe and his wife. That made him fairly useless for anything else.
As the afternoon rolled on, Sian tried to interest Creed in a game of dice. Soon they were playing for the assortment of daggers Creed had brought with him against Sian’s collection of a fermented barley drink. As they played through the afternoon, Creed ended up with not only all of his weapons, but most of Sian’s liquor. The angrier Sian became, the more humored Creed grew. He was, in fact, actually enjoying himself when the door to the great hall suddenly creaked open.
Snow blew in from Wether Fair’s bleak bailey as several bodies made their way inside. Creed was not particularly concerned, as there were always Scotsmen walking in and out of Sian’s keep, until he recognized one of the men that had escorted Massimo back to Prudhoe. With a start, he rose to his full, considerable height. His jaw began ticking as the men filtered into the hall and began removing their wet winter clothing.
Massimo was the last man in. Creed did not wait; he went right for him.
“Well?” he demanded. “Did you see her? How is she?”
Massimo was fairly close to being frozen. He was having difficulty removing his warm outer clothing and Creed eventually went to his aid. He pulled off the woolen travel cloak, the layers of wraps and scarves, eventually shoving the man close to the fire. The priest just stood there and shivered as Sian stoked the blaze. All of his men were very nearly frozen, indicative of the brutal weather they had endured.
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.”
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