Guardian of Darkness (51 page)

She was dressed in the delicious yellow lamb’s wool, looking more beautiful than he had remembered. His heart began to do strange things against his ribs and a lump formed in his throat.  He lost his composure altogether and went to her, capturing her roughly against him and listening to her soft sobs in his ear.  It sounded like heaven.

There were tears in his eyes as he whispered against her ear. “Massimo told me that you… the birth….”

Carington held him tightly around the neck, a death grip she never intended to release. “I am fine, English,” she wept softly. “Now that ye are with me, I am fine.”

The tears in his eyes spilled over onto her hair. “Are you sure? Massimo said….”

She could feel the wetness from his tears and hastened to reassure him. “I am sure,” she pulled back to kiss the small amount of flesh that was exposed by his lifted faceplate. “’Tis true that I was sick for a time, but I feel better every day.”

He just looked at her, tears on his face and his lower lip quivering.  She shushed him softly, wiping the moisture off his face with a free hand. She knew there was a dual reason for his tears; one reason he could hardly bring himself to voice and another one he’d not yet managed to express. There was still the unspoken matter of the baby. She would not let him torture himself so over it.

“There will be more bairns for us,” she murmured, strongly endeavoring to compose herself since he was showing such unbridled emotion. “The physic said so. What happened… ‘twas just a tragedy, English. ‘Twas nobody’s fault and there was nothing ye could have done had ye been here. Ye mustn’t blame yerself.”

 He nodded as if he agreed with her but she knew, deep down, that he did not. He would shoulder the undeserved guilt. “I am sorry,” he murmured. “Sorry I was not there for you during that time. I am sorry I was unable to comfort you.”

She shushed him again, gently, kissing him and tasting his tears on her lips. “Her name was Dera de Reyne and Lady Anne buried her in the cathedral in Prudhoe,” she told him. “Someday… someday we will go and visit her.”

He nodded, his tears welling again but he fought them. He held her close once more, simply glad that she was alive. Truthfully, he had no idea what he would find when he had arrived at Prudhoe.  To see his wife wrestling in the bailey with de la Londe had not been among the possibilities in his mind.

“I am simply grateful to God that you are healing,” he said softly. “Your health is the most important thing in the world to me.”

She patted him on the armored shoulder. “I told ye; I am fine,” she repeated bravely, pulling back from him enough to look in his face. “But what about de la Londe? What are ye going to do?”

He took a long, deep breath, his gaze scanning the bailey for Massimo.  The priest was not hard to spot as he emerged from behind some horses and began heading towards him. Galen was a few feet behind him, following.

Beside her husband, Carington was not watching the priest or Galen; she was looking at all of the men Creed had brought with him. It was an awesome sight. She leaned into her husband, pressing herself tight against him as if fearful of the sheer numbers. Rows upon rows of men in tartans and armor. Until this moment, she’d hardly given notice.

“All of these men, English,” she murmured in wonder. “Where did they come from?”

He gave her a gentle squeeze. “The English are from Hexham,” he told her. “The rest… well, you will have to ask your father where they came from. He is the one who raised them.”

She smiled faintly. “I recognize the Scots,” she said. “I see Maxwell and Graham tartan. But where is my Da?”

“He is outside the walls, somewhere.” He focused on the priest as the man drew close and his gentle mood vanished as he addressed him. “Why did you not tell me that the king had punished the knights who had accompanied me to France? De la Londe just told me that the king has wreaked havoc with them in his anger over Isabella’s pregnancy.”

Massimo held his ground. “Because I was attempting to protect you,” he said. “Had I told you the truth, you would have ridden to London and gotten yourself killed.”

Creed’s brow furrowed angrily. “So you withheld the truth? By what right do you make such a decision for me?”

“Because you would have condemned yourself.”

“I will not let my friends take the king’s wrath in my stead.”

Massimo gazed at him a moment before shaking his head. “So now you know. What do you intend to do about it?”

Creed threw out his hands in frustration. “I cannot allow Denys’ wife to be used as a threat.”

“I repeat my question; what do you intend to do?”

”Ride to London and settle this once and for all.”

At his side, Carington came alive. “No, English,” she tugged on him in a panic. “Ye cannot go. The king will kill ye!”

Massimo, too, put a hand on Creed’s arm, his pale face intent. “She is correct; the king only wants to make an example out of you. The man is vile, petulant and evil. You cannot become a martyr. You cannot let him win.”

There was something in the way that the priest said the last sentence that made Creed look strangely at him. There was a good amount of power behind the emphasis on the word.  There was almost anger behind it.

“Win?” he repeated. “This is not a game to be won or lost. What I do, I do to save my friends who have been protecting me for well over a year. It should have never gone this far and I blame myself and my distorted sense of self-preservation. Everyone was trying to hide me or help me flee, but I should have stood my ground and faced the charge like a man. Perhaps I was indeed a coward to run.”

At his side, Carington was weeping softly again. Galen, Burle, Stanton, Richard and Denys had all heard the exchange. They began to move closer, no longer able to remain bystanders to what Creed’s apparent intentions were.  The man that they had been harboring and protecting for months was now on the verge of disrupting all they had tried to do for him.

“The priest is right, Creed,” Denys insisted weakly. “The king will only make an example out of you.”

Creed swung on him. “You came all the way to Prudhoe and threatened my wife because you wanted to take me back as your prisoner,” he said pointedly. “And now you change your mind when I am set to comply? This makes no sense.”

Denys was unsure how to reply.  He lifted his shoulders wearily. “As I said, I felt I had little choice,” he said quietly. “But perhaps… perhaps I am hoping you will come up with an alternate solution. Truth be told, I do not want to arrest you. But I do not want to see my wife held captive, either. If there was only an option to allow both of us what we wish I would gladly take it.  I have prayed to God since this madness began for the wisdom to end it but I cannot think of anything; the only option, in fact, seems to be to give the king what he wants. He will accept nothing less.”

Creed stared at him, hearing Carington weeping softly and taking a moment to touch her cheek gently to quiet her.  He looked around to the faces surrounding him, men that were ready and willing to die or kill on his behalf.  Men who had always protected him. He had to end this; he knew that. It all started with him and it would end with him. As he wracked his brain for an answer, an idea slowly began to occur.

“The king wants me dead or alive,” he muttered thoughtfully.

De la Londe, Richard and Galen were the closest to him. The earl nodded firmly. “If you go to him alive, he will kill you in the end,” he said quietly, eyeing Carington as he did so. “You know this.”

Creed nodded, thinking of his brother and what Ryton would say to all of this. The man always had an answer. But Ryton was dead at the hands of Jory and there was no answer to be found.…

Or was there?

Creed looked at the earl. “If the king is going to kill me regardless, then perhaps… perhaps he would be satisfied if I was killed in the attempt to capture me. Perhaps he would be satisfied to be presented with my body.”

Richard’s brow furrowed. “Your body?” he repeated. “What are you talking about?”

Creed’s mind was working furiously as he looked at Denys. “If you were to bring a body back and tell the king that it was me, do you think he would be satisfied?”

De la Londe scratched his head. “He knows you on sight. He will want to see the body and he will know right away if it is not you.”

Creed searched for a solution to that issue. “But what if the body was damaged somehow? Perhaps the face was obliterated. It could easily happen in a sword fight, for example, if I were to resist you.”

“Or it could have happened in the battle at Hexham.” They all turned to look at Galen as the man stepped forward. He was following Creed’s train of thought and took it a step further. “We lost many men in that battle, including your brother.”

Creed’s eyes narrowed as he tried to follow Galen’s line of thought. “What are you saying?”

Galen cleared his throat softly, his gaze moving between Creed and the earl. “We have many bodies from that battle,” he said quietly. “Suppose we produce one and send it on to London with de la Londe.  It would be decayed beyond recognition and we would tell the king that it was you.”

Richard was the first to respond to the idea.  “It could work,” he replied hopefully. “Yet we would have to find a man of Creed’s size and hair color. Do we know of any?”

Everyone was busy scratching their head in thought or mulling over a potential subject when Creed’s quiet voice suddenly filled the air.

“Jory,” he muttered.

The earl looked at him as if he could not believe his ears. “D’Eneas?”

Creed sighed faintly and looked at his wife, who was very much interested in the conversation now that it meant her husband was not going to turn himself over to the king. He smiled weakly at her and looked back at the earl.

“Aye; Jory,” he nodded, thinking of the decaying corpse now buried in Prudhoe’s cathedral because Baron Hawthorne, upon learning the circumstances of his son’s death, did not want the body returned to him. “Although I am twice his size, when a man’s body has decomposed over the months, it is difficult to know just how big, or small, he truly was.  But our hair is the same color. If I was killed at Hexham those months ago, then it is possible that Jory’s body could pass for me.”

Richard was interested and doubtful at the same time. “But his face… the king would recognize the features as not yours.”

Creed’s dusky blue eyes fixed on him. “I will take care of that,” he murmured vaguely. “For Ryton’s death, for all of the hurt and anguish he put me through, let him now save me. I will help him right the wrongs he cast against my brother and me.”

Richard sighed heavily and shook his head. “He would not like that in the least.”

De la Londe interrupted. “But what of the men I brought with me?” he wanted to know. “They have seen you, Creed. They will know that you were not killed at Hexham months ago.”

Creed’s gaze moved to the north end of the outer ward where several of the king’s troops were gathered.  They were seasoned men, sworn to the king. He thought a moment before turning back to Denys.

“Unsheathe your sword and be prepared for a mock battle of epic proportions,” he muttered. “By the time you and I are finished, out of their line of sight of course, they will know that you killed me in your attempt to capture me.   The brutally destroyed corpse you present to the king will confirm it.”

De la Londe lifted his eyebrows. “It will be a stretch. The corpse we will present to the king will be months old as opposed to weeks old.”