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 o
ut of you before you bled to death.”
She nodded, not particularly wanting to hear the 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.
Lady Anne smiled gently at her, putting her soft hand against Carington’s forehead in a motherly gesture. “Stanton will be so happy,” she said softly. “He has worried greatly for his daughter since Vivian’s passing.”
Carington cradled the baby close, watching the little mouth work furiously. She touched the downy-blond head, imagining that it was her own daughter that she held. Somehow, it helped ease her heartache.
“What is her name?” she asked Lady Anne, still standing over her. “Vivian had not yet decided last I heard.”
Lady Anne’s gaze was soft on the blond haired infant. “As I recall, she liked Emma and Stanton wanted Mary,” she said. “I do not know what they decided.”
Carington looked back at the baby, now gazing up at her with her bottomless blue eyes. She stroked the blond head. “I like Emma,” she said, lifting a dark eyebrow at Lady Anne. “Tell Stanton that Vivian and I have named his daughter. If he has issue with that, then he can discuss it with me. But warn him that he’ll not like my response.”
Lady Anne laughed softly, watching the infant tug at Carington’s breast. “I doubt he will, my lady,” she said. “In fact, I am sure he will unquestionably agree with you.”
With a faint smile, Carington continued to nurse Emma until she fell asleep against her breast. When Lady Anne checked on the pair later that day, she found both Carington and the baby snuggled close in slumber.
The childless mother and the motherless child had found each other.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Five days after Carington’s return from the dead, the skies cleared and all of the Northumberland was a brilliant winter wonderland. As far as the eye could see, a vibrant white blanket covered the landscape and the sky above was a magnificent shade of blue. It was cold and crisp and delightful.
Little Henry de Witt ran around the outer bailey and threw snow balls at his father and at Kristina, who had been hit a couple of times in the head. Henry had surprisingly good aim. But Kristina laughed it off, playing with the child who had so recently lost his mother. Stanton was still struggling with his grief but he was making a good effort at tending his son.
Inside the de Reyne cottage, Burle and his wife, a grossly rotund woman with a round head and frizzy red hair, helped Carington with baby Emma. Lady Anne had duties with her own boys who had been sorely neglected while women gave birth and babies died within the walls of Prudhoe. So Burle and Lady Frieda, having three grown daughters, lent a hand with Lady Carington who was only just now able to get out of bed. Frieda would fuss at her but Burle would encourage her. Then they would start bickering and Carington would find herself breaking up the fight. Like protective parents, they wanted to take care of her and she found it touching.
Business went on as usual now that things were settling somewhat. John’s men were still at Prudhoe, still housed in a corner of the outer bailey away from the rest of the life at the fortress. The knight in command, Denys de La Londe, stayed well clear of anyone at Prudhoe except for Burle and Lord Richard. He did not deal with the rabble. And his impatience in Creed de Reyne’s return was increasing.
In Creed’s absence, Burle had been placed in charge. Since they only had two seasoned knights and one new knight for the whole of Prudhoe’s five hundred man army, Burle had knighted Creed’s squire, James, and now the tall blond lad had sentry duty along with his counterpart, Steven. They made a young and vigilant pair upon the battlements.
It was close to the nooning meal when there was a soft knock at Carington’s door. Burle had long since left her to go see how his two newest knights were progressing so it was just Carington and Lady Frieda in the warm little cottage. As Carington sat near the hearth and fed Emma, Frieda went to the door and irritably opened it; she had expected to see her husband. But a strange knight was standing there, his blue eyes piercing.
“I have been informed that Lady de Reyne is in better health,” he said. “I have come to speak with her.”
With Emma suckling hungrily at her breast, Carington could see de La Londe standing in her doorway. He, too, had caught a glimpse of her so there was no use in denying that she was well enough for visitors. With her luscious dark hair freshly washed and pulled away from her face and clad in the yellow lamb’s wool surcoat, she looked pale but healthy enough. Frieda was about to throw the knight out on his ear but Carington stopped her.
“Let him in, Frieda,” she instructed evenly, grasping the end of the infant’s blanket and discreetly covering her bosom. “I will speak with him.”
De La Londe was a big man. He entered the cottage, his blue eyes inspecting every shadow, every stone. Such were the senses of a trained knight and Carington remembered that her husband did exactly the same thing when entering new surroundings. Their movements bordered on suspicion as if waiting for a sword to come flying out at them. Carington ignored the wary stance and indicated the stool across from her for the knight to sit.
“How can I help ye, Sir Knight?” she asked politely.
De La Londe gazed down at her; he had no intention of sitting and he had no intention of engaging in idle chatter. He moved straight to the point. “We must discuss your husband, my lady.”
“What of him?”
“You are well aware that he is supposed to return to Prudhoe,” de La Londe lifted an eyebrow. “I sent the priest who has been protecting him with a message.”
Carington remained cool even though she did not like what the man seemed to be hinting at. “You did? I was not aware.”
“I know. You have been ill since my arrival.”
There was a strange rebuke in that statement but she ignored it. “What message did
ye send?”
De La Londe did not mince words and he had no sympathy for the fact that the lady had delivered a dead infant three weeks earlier; he was only interested in finding de Reyne. The longer he was forced to wait, the more impatient he was becoming.
“Your husband is a fugitive, my lady,” he replied. “My message to him is simple; if he does not return to Prudhoe immediately, I will take you to London to stand trial in his stead.”
Carington’s heart began to pound and her pleasant mood evaporated. “How dare ye enter my home and threaten me,” she hissed. “Get out before I kick ye out.”
De La Londe was not moved in the least. “My lady, it is very simple,” he was matter-of-fact. “Your husband committed a crime. He must stand trial for that crime. Since he chose to flee like a coward, I plan to put you on trial in his stead. If he does not want this to happen, then he must return to Prudhoe and surrender.”
Carington just stared at him. Then, she silently stood with the baby still attached to her breast and disappeared into the bedchamber. De La Londe watched her go, listening to her rustling about in the chamber as she cooed gently to the infant. Impatiently, he shifted on his legs, eyeing the round woman with the frizzy red hair who was gazing at him harshly. His gaze moved around the room, growing more irritated with each passing moment, when the door to the chamber suddenly flew open and a fire poker came flying at his head.
He saw it in his peripheral vision but was not fast enough to duck it entirely; Lady de Reyne caught a portion of his helm and sent him reeling into the wall. Before he had a chance to gain his balance, she swung it again and clobbered him on the shoulder.
“Get out!” she screamed, wielding the poker in front of her. “Get out before I beat ye within an inch of yer life. How dare ye come into my home and slander my husband. I’ll kill ye the next time ye say such things about him!”
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