Guardian of Darkness (11 page)

“Steven,” he said to the shorter, brown-eyed lad. “Remove my armor. Make sure it is thoroughly cleaned of the sweat and grime; I do not want any rust on the plates.”

As Steven collected the solid pieces of armor, Creed turned to the tall blond lad beside him and held out his arms. “Pull,” he commanded softly.

James took hold of the chain mail hauberk and pulled it over his lord’s head with ease. Considering the boy had been doing it for half of his life, he was adept at the chore. By now, Carington had turned to the activity, watching the squires work around Creed. The boys were silent and efficient, skinny Sassenach lads on the brink of manhood.  When James accidentally met her eye, he blushed furious and lowered his gaze.  He was the first one bolting out of the tent with Steven right behind him.

“Yer squires are young,” she commented softly. “How old are they?”

Creed raked his fingers through his wavy dark hair, glancing up at her as he did so. “Steven has seen sixteen years. James has seen fifteen.”

“The tall blond lad?” she said, surprised. “He is so big. He looks much older than his age.”

Creed nodded, moving towards the vizier to see why it was not warming up as quickly as he would have liked. “He was a tall boy when he came to serve me at seven years of age. His father was Constable of York until his death a few years ago.”

“Oh,” she thought of the quiet, fatherless boy. “A pity. He seems like a good lad.”

“He is.” Creed grunted as he broke up a smoldering piece of peat with the iron bar.

Carington watched him closely, hoping a bit of pleasant conversation might lift both his mood and her spirits.  She found she needed some lifting.  But the way he was breaking up the peat, she wondered if pleasant conversation would do any good with him.

“Ye are a father to him, then,” she stated quietly.

Creed shook his head, slamming the door of the bronze vizier shut. “I am his liege.”

“Do ye have sons of yer own, Sir Creed?”

He did look at her, then. “Nay,” he replied. “And you may call me simply Creed.”

Somehow, Carington felt as if she had accomplished something great by just that simple sentence. She did not understand why it meant something to her, but it did. Her heart began doing the strange leaping thing again, pounding against her ribcage.

“As ye say,” she said quietly, almost shyly. “Ye… ye may call me Cari if ye wish. No one calls me Carington; ‘tis too long. Father says it exhausts him to say my entire name because he runs out of breath before he can get it out of his mouth.”

Her soft sentence had an unexpected result; Creed actually smiled.  Carington’s heart pounded louder at the sight of it; he had a beautiful smile that dramatically changed his face.  If she thought he was handsome before, or rather tried not to think it, then the event of an unanticipated smile confirmed her observations.  She could no longer deny the obvious; the man was stunning.

“’Tis his fault,” he said, rising on his massive legs. “He is the one who named you.”

Carington shook her head. “Nay, my mother did. Her family name was Carington.”

“I see,” his gaze seemed to linger on her overlong. “I like Cari better. It suits you.”

“Why would ye say that?”

He lifted those enormous shoulders, shrugging as he looked around to see if the squires had stocked the tent with something for him to sit on.  “’Tis a sweet name. Petite, like you are.”

A bashful smile crossed her lips and she looked at the ground. “Kind words, Sir Knight,” she said so quietly that he almost did not hear her. “After today, I dinna expect any from ye.”

Not finding anything to sit on, he just stood there, fists on his hips as he gazed down at her. It seemed to be his favorite way to stand. “You certainly do not deserve any.”

Her head shot up, the emerald eyes flashing at him.  “Ah, so now it comes. I knew ye were simply biding yer time until ye were ready to let loose on me.” She stood up, matching his fist-on-hips stance. “Well, out with it, then. Do yer worst. Ye canna make me feel any worse than I already do.”

He just looked at her.  A snort suddenly bubbled up as he struggled to fight off a grin. “You are faster to rise to anger than anyone I have ever seen. Does it not exhaust you expending that much effort?”

His smirk had her unbalanced.  “Do ye taunt me, then?”

He shook his head, still snorting as he turned away from her. “God, no. You would probably gouge my eyes out or rip off my ears if I did.”

Now it was her turn to struggle against a smirk. “Ye’d be lucky if it was all I did to ye.”

He turned to look at her, a full-blown grin on his face. “I have no doubt, Lady Cari. No doubt whatsoever.”

They just grinned at each other, her with a furrowed brow as if she was trying to be stern about it and him with an open expression.   It was the first moment of levity they had experienced between them and it was an agreeable one.

“And it’s just Cari, not Lady Cari,” she told him for good measure. “Lady Cari sounds like a disease and I dunna like it.”

He burst out in laughter, his big body shaking with mirth.  Carington watched him laugh, enchanted by the straight white teeth and deep dimples that carved big ruts down each cheek.  “Christ, you are a spitfire.” He was at the tent flap with the intention on searching for the person or persons bringing their meal, but his gaze lingered on her instead of the encampment beyond.  “Very well, my lady. Just Cari.”

She nodded shortly at him as if she had just won a great argument. The smile was still on her lips as she resumed her stool and he tore his gaze away from her long enough to search for their errant meal. He spied his squires across the camp, hands laden as they headed in his direction.  He lowered the tent flap and turned back to her.

“I hope you are hungry,” he said. “It looks as if my squires are bringing quite a feast.”

“I am,” she said, suddenly quite famished. “I could eat a horse.”

James and Steven entered the tent carrying trays of steaming food; hunks of meat, bread, and a large slab of white cheese.  Creed had the boys set the trays on the bedroll, next to Carington, and they did so with quiet efficiency.  As they quit the tent, Carington took a large piece of meat for herself and bit into it with gusto.

Creed lowered his big body down on the bedroll, reaching for another large slab of meat.  It was steamy, almost undercooked, but he did not care. He was starving.  But the moment he took a bite and sampled the tough, gamey flavor, his chewing came to a halt. He stared at the meat. Carington noticed his puzzled expression.

“What’s wrong?” she asked. “Is it not to yer liking?”

He did not say a word, but a flicker of something very disturbing ignited deep in his mind.  He put his hand on her wrist, lowering the meat from her mouth.

“Do not eat that,” he said quietly. “Eat the bread and cheese. I shall return.”

Confusion swept her as she looked down at the meat. “It seems all right,” she suddenly looked stricken. “Do ye think someone has poisoned it?”

He shook his head, rising on his big legs and making his way to the tent flap. “Eat the bread,” he repeated.

“What on earth is the matter?” she licked her fingers of the meat’s grease. “The meat tastes fine.  ‘Tis Venison, is it not?” She licked her fingers again, a puzzled look crossing her fine features. “But it does not have such a strong flavor. And it ’tis a bit tough.  What kind of meat is it?”

He paused at the tent flap, unable to say what he was thinking. I could eat a horse. Her words echoed horribly in his head. Across the compound, the distant pyre of Bress was burning and he could see, even at a distance, what had happened.  His stomach rolled.

Fresh meat was cooking. The soldiers saw no reason to hunt or cook anything else.  Horsemeat was tough, but it was not inedible.  They would not let Bress go to waste.  They were soldiers, hard and bred, and knew when to take advantage of a feast.  Then his eyes narrowed, for walking across the encampment was Jory with a massive wooden trencher of meat in his hand.  He saw Creed, several yards away, and his black eyes lit up. He grinned, popped a piece of meat in his mouth, and continued along his way.

Creed’s jaw began to tick; had he possessed any less control, he would have throttled the man there and now. But to do so would more than likely let the lady in on the dark secret.  For now, he had to let it go, but the veins in his temples throbbed something fierce.  It suddenly occurred to him that he knew who butchered the burning horse and it further occurred to him that his brother probably had not known.  Ryton would have never allowed it.  But now it was too late to do anything about it.

Though he could not bring himself to tell her, by his expression, she knew something was wrong.  Creed went to collect the plates with the meat on them, taking them outside the tent.  Carington could hear soft conversation as he spoke to his men outside, perhaps his squires. She did not know. All she knew was that he had looked rather disgusted about something.

They finished their bread and cheese in silence.

***

Later that night, Carington lay on her bedroll staring at the tent wall.  She knew that Creed was behind her, sitting propped against a post, his moody gaze fixated on the glowing vizier just as it had been for the past hour. He just sat and stared as if deep in thought.  She was convinced she had said something to upset him. 

It was too bad. The situation had been so pleasant until their meal had been served. Then he became sullen and quiet.  She wanted to ask him what the matter was but she did not have the nerve. She did not know the man; it was frankly none of her business.

The vizier was not doing a very good job of warding off the chill and she only had her tartan for warmth.  A chill ran through her as she lay there, staring at the faint light flicker off the tent wall.

“Sir Creed?” she rolled over onto her back, looking at him across the vizier. “Do ye suppose there are any blankets or furs about?  I’m a wee bit cold.”

His moody gaze turned to her. “It is just Creed.”

He was on his feet and moving for the tent opening. Outside, there were four sentries and he sent one of them scrounging for covers.  He stood there, waiting for the man to return, as Carington tried to huddle down for warmth. The night was growing colder and unless she wanted to sit on the vizier, the little furnace did not have the power to stave off the chill.  Just as she actually dozed off, the sentry returned with a riding cloak, the only cover he could find. 

It was rough and dirty, but there was warmth to it.  Creed took it from the man and closed the tent flap, trying to seal up the gap so that he could keep whatever warmth there was inside the tent.  When he had fussed with it enough so that there was some barrier, he went over to Carington.

She lay still with her eyes closed. The top of her dark head and her eyes were all he could see above the faded tartan.  He stood there a moment, gazing down at her dark head, wondering why he was feeling so much angst and confusion.  It seemed to all center around her; fury at Jory for his imagined vendetta against her, puzzlement because in spite of everything, he felt a certain interest in the petite little lady.  As calm as he was, she was equally firey.  As big as he was, she was equally small.  He told her not to do something, so she would therefore do it anyway.  But she had proven herself humorous and, at times, most amiable.  Christ, he could not believe he was entertaining such dangerous thoughts.