“That will be enough of that,” de La Londe growled at her before turning to Burle again. “I will repeat my plans; I am taking the lady back with me to London. If you stand in my way, I will kill her.”
Burle was stone-faced. “If you kill her, you will never make it out of Prudhoe alive.”
There was something in Burle’s gaze that made de La Londe dare to glance around him; there was an implied threat in the knight’s voice that went beyond the normal rhetoric. He caught a glimpse of archers on the parapets, their arrows aimed at him. One word from Burle and they would unleash a rain of death. But de La Londe remained cool; he knew he held the larger advantage and he intended to use it.
“Open the gates,” he ordered quietly. “We are leaving.”
Burle continued to meet his gaze. He was preparing to reply when Richard came rushing in from the inner bailey, his dark eyes wide with surprise and anger. He pushed through the cluster of knights and soldiers, putting himself in between Burle and de La Londe. He held up his hands in a quelling gesture.
“Gentlemen, I beg for calm,” he said quickly, looking at Carington in de La Londe’s cruel grasp. “Knight, what are you doing with the lady?”
De La Londe lifted an eyebrow. “I am taking her to London to stand trial for her husband’s crimes. This is the king’s command.”
Richard’s dark eyes morphed into cool, simmering intensity as he put his hands down, slowly. “This lady only gave birth less than a month ago and nearly died in the process. She is still recovering. You cannot risk her over hundreds of miles of open road.”
“I care not for her health, my lord.”
“You are a knight. It is within your code to protect the weak.”
“It is within my code to obey the king above all things.”
Richard cocked his head in disbelief. “Do you want a prisoner so badly that you would portray the actions of a dishonorable knight by savaging a lady? If taking a prisoner is so important, then go find her husband. He is your true target. Capturing a small, unhealthy woman is cowardly.”
Something menacing flickered in de La Londe’s expression but was quickly gone.
“Unlike you, my lord, I follow the king’s orders,” he rumbled. “I do not hide fugitives from the king’s justice.”
Richard lifted an eyebrow. “If I were you, I would watch my tongue. I would be well within my rights to have you punished for slander.”
De La Londe knew his limits and backed down; he would not tangle with an earl. “You would indeed, my lord, but I plan to leave Prudhoe at this moment. My punishment will have to wait.”
It looked like there was no way out for Carington and she was verging on panic. But the sentries on the walls suddenly began shouting, distracting those in the bailey from the increasingly volatile situation. The soldiers near the gatehouse were apparently very excited about something. Burle did not move, nor did Lord Richard, so Stanton and the two young knights raced up to the battlements to see what the commotion was about. All movement in the bailey seemed to cease for a moment as everyone’s attention was diverted to the parapets.
Stanton did not move for quite some time; it was apparent that he was studying whatever had the sentries so excited. Then he began waving his arms at the soldiers at the main gate, who bolted into action and began churning open the great oak panels. The portcullis began wheeling up. When all was in motion, Stanton slid down the ladder to the bailey below, jogging back towards Burle and the others with his mail jingling a crazy tune. He was winded by the time he reached them.
“What is happening?” Lord Richard demanded.
Stanton’s blue eyes looked from his liege, to Burle, and finally to Carington. He was staring at her when he spoke.
“Creed is coming.”
Richard and Burle passed shocked glances. “Are you sure?” Richard asked.
“Sure enough, my lord. I can recognize the man’s armor from a mile away,” Stanton looked at his liege. “It looks as if he has brought an army of Scots with him, but more than that, I saw Hexham banners as well.”
Richard’s eyebrows flew up. “Kerr and Hexham united?”
Stanton couldn’t help the smile of satisfaction that flickered across his lips. “United behind Creed.”
As Richard and the others pondered the amazing scenario, Carington suddenly went mad. She began to fight crazily, jabbing de La Londe’s dagger into her neck enough to cause a small blemish that streamed a tiny river of blood. It was a sheer miracle that she had not impaled herself as she struggled.
“Nay!” she screamed. “Tell him to go! Tell him to turn back! I will go to London in his stead; I am not afraid!”
De La Londe still had her by the hair so there was not much opportunity for her to fight him, but she was making a valiant attempt. He was forced to drop the dirk and put a big arm around her to keep her from flying out of control.
“Still yourself, woman,” he growled.
But Carington ignored him. “Burle!” she was focused on the big Prudhoe knight. “Tell him to turn around! Tell him…!”
De La Londe managed to slap a hand over her mouth. In Carington’s weakened state, it did not take long for her to wind herself. She simply did not have the strength she once did. Tears began to replace the energy so recently expended and she wept softly against de La Londe’s hand. She tried to speak, several times, but her words were muffled against his glove. More than that, de La Londe’s attention was now diverted to the open gates of Prudhoe; everyone’s was.
An odd scene was unfolding before their eyes. Beyond the yawning gates, they could see a vast assortment of men in various stages of battle dress. Hexham colors flew overhead. But the strangest thing of all was that there were indeed a good many Scots intertwined with the English, their dark tartans seen against the white landscape.
As the army came to a halt, a group of mounted men continued down the road towards the main gate; in fact, an entire army that began to spill into the outer bailey and de La Londe instinctively took several steps back, away from the trickle of men in armor.
There was a particular knight in the front of the mass that continued to head in his direction even as the others stopped just inside the gate. De La Londe recognized the size of the knight, knowing Creed de Reyne on sight; the man was a giant whose legendary size only seemed to grow with time. Creed was coming at him like something horrifying and powerful, eventually dismounting his war horse and continuing on foot.
De La Londe continued to watch, feeling his heart beat with a rise of excitement; his prisoner had arrived and with that realization was also a hint of trepidation. As Creed raised his visor, de La Londe suddenly reclaimed the dirk he had once held at Carington’s neck.
“Come no further, de Reyne,” he pointed the tip at her white flesh. “Remove your weapons this instant. You are under arrest.”
Creed’s dusky blue gaze was fixed on a knight he had once considered a friend. Oddly enough, he did not stop. He kept walking. He walked right up to de La Londe and, as fast as lightning, yanked the dirk away from Carington’s neck. Soon, she was trapped between them as Creed simultaneously pulled her from the man’s grip and lashed out a big fist, making contact with de La Londe’s jaw and sending him stumbling back.
“Had you not been holding my wife, I would have killed you where you stood,” Creed rumbled. “The mere act of touching her warrants your death. You would do well to treat her like the Virgin Mary; untouchable by mortals and due your worshipful respect. Is this in any way unclear, Denys?”
De La Londe glared at him. “You are lucky I did not kill her. I could have easily slit her throat as you sought to engage in husbandly heroics. Be thankful I showed mercy.”
Carington was sobbing softly at the sight of her husband but dare not attempt to speak to him. She did not want to distract him. Still, his presence beside her and the power of his hand on her arm was enough to drive her to tears. She could not adequately describe the intensity, the joy, of that moment. Creed shift
ed his grip on her as he pulled her gently behind him.
“I understand it was your intention to return her to London to face the charges levied against me,” he said. “For that extremely cowardly and despicable act, you have incurred my wrath. It was for that reason alone that you find me returned to Prudhoe.”
De La Londe knew he was in a bad way; he could see all of the men that Creed had brought with him and he knew he was easily outnumbered. He and his fifty men had no hope of taking Creed with this mob supporting him. And with that knowledge, anger began to bloom.
“Your threats do not frighten me,” he replied. “Neither does the army you have raised to protect you. If they fear the king’s retribution, then they will stand down and you will go peacefully. Otherwise, I will leave this place and return with an army such as you have never seen. Prudhoe will be laid to waste and you with it.”
By this time, Galen Burleson had silently made his way to Creed, gently taking Carington from his grasp. Without even looking to see who had taken her, for Creed knew that it was one of his trusted men, he let her go and marched to de La Londe, his dusky blue eyes intense with fury.
“What has happened to you?” he hissed. “You were once someone I considered a friend. You were part of the escort that brought Isabella back to England and were privy to everything that happened during that time. Why would you come to Prudhoe and threaten my wife against charges you personally know are false?”
De La Londe seemed to lose some of his confidence; he looked strangely at Creed, his jaw working as his emotions got the better of him.
“Someone must stand trial for the queen’s indiscretions,” he said frankly. “You are the most logical choice since she has named you as the man who fathered her child.”
“But you know that is false.”
“I know that you must stand to trial.”
Creed’s brow furrowed slightly, attempting to figure out the true motives behind his former friend’s actions. “What have I ever done to you to make you turn on me like this?”
De La Londe’s composure was slipping by the second. His breathing began to come in harsh, deep draws and he took a step back from Creed, his hands working and his jaw flexing dangerously.
“I am following the king’s orders,” he said, an odd strain to his voice.
Creed moved upon him, drawing closer. He would not let the man back out of this. “Answer my question. Why would you turn on me like this?”
De La Londe unsheathed his sword, drawing a gasp from Carington several feet away. In fact, Galen also unsheathed his sword, followed by dozens of others as they saw Burleson move; he was the only one close enough to actually see what was happening. The deathly sound of metal grating against leather in a sing-song ring filled the cold air of the ward.
Creed threw up a clenched fist, silently ordering his men to stand down. He could hear their weapons being drawn and did not want his men to move; at least, not yet. He wanted an answer to his question which, so far, de La Londe seemed unwilling to provide. His dusky blue eyes pummeled the man with their intensity.
“Answer me, Denys,” he rumbled. “Why are you so determined to see me punished for a crime you know I did not commit?”
De La Londe’s eyes narrowed dangerously even though it was apparent that his control had fractured. He was trying to take a stand and was not doing a very good job.
“Because someone has to take the fall,” he finally replied. “It must be you.”
“Why?”
The sword in his hand twitched. “Because the king is going mad thrashing the men who accompanied Isabella from France,” he finally snapped; it sounded as if he had sharply exhaled the entire sentence. “You have no idea what it has been like, Creed. He has taken our lands and tortured our families. He took my own wife as prisoner and will hold her until I return you to London. Is that explanation enough for you?”
Creed just stared at him; suddenly, a great deal made sense. He understood why it had appeared the man had betrayed him. More than that, he was not shocked by the king’s actions. He was, however, appalled.
“My God,” he breathed. “Is this true?”
De La Londe nodded wearily, as if all of his strength had suddenly left him. “It is,” he replied quietly. “There were six of us who went on that mission; you, me, de Wolfe, de Russe, St. John and Wellesbourne. All of us, to some degree, have been punished by the king for his wife’s pregnancy. Wellesbourne even had his lands confiscated. But we would not condemn you; none of us would. The more the king threatened, the more we stood united.”
“But you have come to arrest me,” Creed pointed out softly.
De La Londe’s pain was evident. “I stood with the rest until the king abducted my wife. Then I had no choice.”
Creed continued to stare at the man, horrified. He suddenly looked to Galen, standing several feet away and still clutching Carington.
“Bring the priest to me immediately.”
The knight let go of Carington and went off in search of Massimo. As he did so, Creed’s gaze suddenly fell on his wife and for the first time since his arrival to Prudhoe, he allowed himself to focus on her. He had been afraid to before; afraid that he would lose control and turn into a raving lunatic. But now, with the situation somewhat in his control, he allowed himself to drink in the sight of her. It was more, and better, than he could have ever hoped for. And with that realization, the dam he was struggling to hold back suddenly burst.
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 sho
ulder. “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?”
The Dark Brotherhood: A Medieval Romance Collection Page 150