Brides of the North: A Medieval Scottish Romance Bundle

by Kathryn Le Veque

  “Come with me, my lady,” he said softly.

  “Sir Burle?” Kristina’s voice called out to him hesitantly. “May we come also?”

  Burle paused and turned to see both Kristina and Julia standing in the doorway, apprehensive expressions on their faces. He held out a halting hand.

  “Stay there,” he told the girls. “Remain until someone returns for you.”

  Kristina wanted to press him further but refrained. The expression on his face told her not to. Puzzled, she and Julia watched Burle escort Lady Carington down the stairs and out of sight. Only then did Kristina close the door as requested. But she stood against it, tears welling, wondering where Burle was taking Carington and wondered if it was some place horrible as a result of the Scot raid. Perhaps he was taking her to punish her. She was, after all, a hostage. The tears finally fell. Julia watched her friend for a moment before returning, quite unemotionally, back to the window.

  But tears were not something that Carington was thinking of at the moment. She was frankly too uneasy at the moment. Burle seemed so grim and that in and of itself scared her to death. She wondered what would make a battle-hardened knight ripe with gloom. When they reached the second floor of the keep and prepared to take the stairs into the inner bailey, Burle finally stopped and turned to her.

  “I want to prepare you before we go any further, my lady,” he said quietly.

  Carington’s composure took a direct hit. “Dear God,” she grasped at her chest, feeling her knees weaken. “Prepare me for what? What has happened?”

  Burle sighed heavily. “We lost Ryton.”

  She stared at him a moment before his words sank in. Then, the tears welled. “What happened?” she breathed painfully.

  It was obvious that Burle was struggling. “Hexham was overrun when we arrived,” he explained quietly. “There were Scots everywhere. The bailey had been breached and they were in the process of compromising the keep. Ryton and Creed charged straight into the melee, killing many men. But we only brought three hundred men with us from Prudhoe and the Scots must have had a thousand. It was a brutal battle from the onset.”

  By this time, Carington was weeping softly, her hands over her mouth and tears coursing down her face. “Is Creed all right?”

  “He was not wounded.”

  That brought more relief than she could comprehend. “Did… did ye recognize the Scots?”

  Burle looked at her; it was clear that he did not want to answer the question. But he had no choice.

  “Aye,” he muttered. “We did.”

  “And?”

  “Elliot, Graham and Kerr tartans.”

  Carington’s eyes bulged and she pressed her hands against her mouth as if to hold back the scream. But it was not enough and she began sobbing loudly. She tried to turn away from Burle but he grabbed her firmly, forcing her to face him.

  “Please, my lady,” he begged softly. “I know this is difficult, but you must get hold of yourself. Creed needs your comfort not your tears.”

  She continued to sob painfully into her hands. “Creed…,” she wept. “Where is he?”

  Burle’s expression took on a distant look as if recalling something of anguish. “He is with his brother. His death has left him devastated.”

  Carington wept a moment longer before struggling to compose herself, wiping furiously at her eyes and swallowing her sobs. She pulled away from Burle.

  “He will not want to see me,” she hissed. “He will hate me for this.”

  Burle shook his head. “You did not lead the attack, my lady. Creed knows this.”

  “But…,” she gasped, struggling to catch her breath. “But my kin did. It may as well have been me.”

  Burle grabbed her by the arm, again forcing her to look at him. “But it was not you,” he insisted quietly. “We will deal with your kin another time. Right now, Creed needs you. You must be strong, if only for him.”

  Her tears faded as she looked at him, suddenly realizing that he was privy to their secret. His tone, his words, told her so. She wiped at her nose, eyeing him closely.

  “He… he told ye?” she asked softly.

  Burle shrugged. “I have known Creed for many years, my lady. We are friends. There is not much I do not know about him.”

  She thought on that a moment, somehow feeling a friendship with Burle, too. It was as if she were suddenly a part of this very tight, very exclusive brotherhood. Creed had many friends who loved and respected him. She began to understand that by virtue of those relationships, they would love and respect her as well. She had Burle’s trust in spite of what happened at Hexham. She could read it in his eyes.

  “Where is he?” she asked softly. “Please take me to him.”

  With a lingering glance, Burle took her by the arm and led her out into the inner bailey. Lord Richard was there, his back to her as he conversed quietly with a man in priestly robes that Carington did not recognize. Burle took her across the ward and into the outer bailey where three wagons loaded with bodies stood parked against the outer wall. There were soldiers and servants everywhere, running about in a frenzy. It was chaos. Burle continued to lead her towards the front gates where a lone wagon sat parked off to the side of the southwest wall. As the wagon came into focus, Carington realized that she was looking at Creed as he crouched in the wagon bed.

  Galen Burleson was also standing at the rear of the wagon, his sorrowful gaze fixed on whatever Creed was staring at. He looked weary and beaten, as all of the knights did. Burle stopped several feet away, silently encouraging Carington to continue. She wiped her face one last time to remove all traces of tears as she came upon the wagon. She took a moment to drink in the sight of Creed, relieved beyond words that he was alive yet so incredibly distressed for what had happened.

  Creed was still in his armor including his helm. She could only see his profile as he focused emotionlessly on the bed of the wagon. Carington stood against the side of the wagon, gazing into his powerful, handsome face. A soft hand reached up to touch his arm.

  “Creed?” she said softly.

  He did not acknowledge her for a moment. It was as if he were frozen. Just as Carington opened her mouth to speak again, he suddenly turned his head and looked at her.

  The pain in the dusky blue depths reached out to slap her; Carington literally sucked in her breath at the anguish she was witnessing. Her grip on him tightened.

  “I am so sorry,” she murmured. “Burle told me what happened.”

  He just stared at her. Then, both arms shot over the side of the wagon and he lifted her up, pulling her against him. It was a swift, startling movement and Carington grabbed hold of his neck as he settled her into the wagon. His arms, thick and mailed and armored, wrapped around her so tightly that she could barely breathe. Carington did the only thing she could do; she held him tightly.

  “’Tis all right, English,” she murmured. “I am here now. Everything will be all right.”

  He still had not said a word; he continued to hold her so tightly that he was squeezing the life from her. Carington struggled to breathe as she unwound one arm from his neck and began to unlatch his helm.

  “’Tis all right,” she whispered again, releasing the last latch on his helm and pulling it off of his sweaty, mailed head. He had a split scalp somewhere beneath his mail hood and a river of dried blood caked most of the right side of his face. She took the long, trailing sleeve of her new yellow lamb’s wool and gently began to wipe the blood away, kissing his cheek tenderly as she did so.

  He remained unresponsive as she wiped away most of the blood, speaking softly to him as she gently tended him. She peeled back the mail hauberk, revealing his curly wet hair, whispering gentle words that only he could hear. All the while he simply clutched her and stared at his brother’s body, which Carington had yet to see. She caught a glimpse of Ryton’s legs when he had lifted her into the wagon bed but she did not want to look further. Right now, her attention was focused on Creed. It seemed to her tha
t he was a hair’s breadth away from shattering completely.

  “There was nothing I could do,” he suddenly said.

  Carington stopped wiping at the blood and looked at him. “What do ye mean?”

  He blinked as if struggling to process her question. “Precisely that,” his voice was a dull echo of his normal deep tone. “A morning star caught him in the head and it was over in an instant. He was beyond help when I came upon him.”

  Carington tried to keep the horror from her face; she knew now what he was staring at. Swallowing hard, she slowly turned to see what he was seeing. Her gaze fell upon Ryton’s torso, his chest, finally his neck. Then she saw his face, which looked normal enough until she noticed that the entire right side of his helm was caved in. Blood and brain matter gathered on his neck and shoulder, pooling in the wagon bed beneath him.

  With a groan, she covered her mouth and turned away. “Sweet Jesus,” she whispered, putting her other hand down to touch the Ryton’s boot at her feet. “God bless the man to not have suffered.”

  Creed’s response was to hold her tighter. “First Lenox, now Ryton,” he muttered. “I have lost my brothers in foolish border skirmishes. Now I am alone.”

  The tears were returning with a vengeance and Carington was struggling not to cry.

  “Nay, English, ye are not alone,” she whispered fiercely. “Ye have me. Ye will always have me.”

  He was transfixed on his brother’s corpse. Carington did not like the edgy blankness in his eyes that seemed to be growing worse by the second. She shifted so that her breasts were at his eye level, blocking his view of his brother. Taking his head in both of her small hands, she forced him to look up at her.

  “Listen to me,” she whispered fervently. “Ye’re brother was a good and noble man. He was fair even during times when he could have easily been harsh, for I experienced his benevolence myself. ’Tis a call for help he answered and paid for that nobility with his life. Ye must not remember him as he is right now; ye must remember him as a powerful knight who followed the path of so many others. He will be remembered well.”

  He stared up at her, the dusky blue eyes muddled with pain. After a moment, he simply closed his eyes and shoved his face deep into her breasts. Carington held him tightly against the swell of her bosom, her cheek against the top of his head. She did not know what else to say so perhaps it was best if she say nothing. Holding him, at the moment, was enough.

  By this time, Burle and Galen were standing at the rear of the wagon, watching the emotional scene. It was heart-wrenching for all of them. Carington was rocking Creed gently, whispering soft words that the knights could not hear. Burle watched them from a distance, surprised at the tenderness the fiery little Scots was exhibiting. He was more than stunned with Creed’s reaction to her; he’d never known the man to be anything other than calm, stoic and composed. Moreover, he’d never even seen him truly excited about a woman. But at the moment, he looked like he was clinging to her as if she could save him. The bond of tenderness between Lady Carington and the English knight was truly something powerful to behold.

  Burle was abruptly jolted from his thoughts when Stanton suddenly appeared at the side of the wagon.

  “Lord Richard is coming along with that priest,” the young knight told them, eyeing Carington as she cradled Creed. “We should perhaps… well, you know….”

  He gestured at Carington. Understanding the implication, Burle leapt onto the wagon bed and hovered over the pair.

  “Creed,” he muttered. “Lord Richard approaches. He must not see Lady Carington in your embrace.”

  Creed’s response was to hold on tighter. Carington put her hands on his head; his face was still buried in the valley between her breasts. She was trying to pry his head away from her bosom but was not doing a very good job; he held fast.

  “English,” she tried to sound firm but gentle. “Let me go. I willna go far, I promise.”

  After a split second delay, Creed came to his senses and released Carington. Burle lifted her over the side of the wagon and into Stanton’s waiting arms. The pale young knight took her by the elbow and led her a respectable distance away from the wagon; it would do no good to remove her completely for Lord Richard caught sight of her as he entered the outer ward. He was marching purposefully with the papal legate by his side. Stanton merely took her off to the side, hoping Lord Richard would not demand to know why she was there.

  Unfortunately, Lord Richard moved right for her. He seemed completely oblivious to the sorrow happening in the wagon. His handsome face was lined with grief and anger as he focused on Carington.

  “You,” he jabbed a finger at her. “Your father was a part of this… this murder raid. What do you know about it?”

  He was practically yelling at her. His tone caused Creed’s head to snap up, his dusky blue eyes narrowing when he saw his liege moving for Carington in a threatening manner. Suddenly, he was vaulting over the side of the wagon, but Burle and Galen physically restrained him from going any further.

  “Nay,” Burle hissed in his ear. “Hold fast, Creed. The lady can handle herself.”

  Creed was an enormous man; they had all been privy to the damage he could do at one time or another when threatened or provoked. He had done a tremendous amount of damage in the battle at Hexham. It took both Galen and Burle to keep him at bay.

  Creed’s face was tight with emotion. “I will not permit him to blame her for this.”

  Burle shushed him as the scene before them began to unfold. “Wait,” he muttered. “Just wait and see what happens.”

  As Richard yelled at her, Carington looked over his shoulder to see Creed literally fly out of the wagon. Burle and Galen were there to stop him, but it was clear that he was unsteady. It would not do for Creed to snap and strangle his liege, so she struggled to remain calm so that he, in turn, would stay calm.

  “I am sure I know nothing about it, m’lord,” she replied evenly. “My father never did divulge his battle plans to me. I am as surprised and horrified as ye are and I would sincerely apologize for this havoc.”

  Richard was furious; that much was clear. He scowled at her. “Your father pledged you as a hostage against his good behavior,” he snarled. “You have only been with us for a few days and already he breaks his word. Do you realize what that means? It means that I can do with you as I wish. I can throw you to the dogs if it pleases me.”

  In the grip of Burle and Galen, Creed flinched and it took every ounce of strength the two knights possessed to hold him still. It was like trying to pin down a raging bull. But Carington, when faced with a very angry English lord, remained quite calm. Given her fiery nature, her cool demeanor was astonishing.

  “Ye may indeed, m’lord,” she agreed. “But to do so would not only bring the wrath of my father, but of every other Scotsman from Carter’s Bar to Edinburgh. Would ye risk complete destruction to punish me for something ye know I had nothing to do with?”

  By the time she was finished, her hands were on her hips and she was scolding him. Richard glared back at her, his mouth working angrily, but knowing in the midst of his fury that she was right. Still, Ryton’s death was a blow and he felt the need to blame someone. She happened to be a convenient target who, in fact, was not going to take his abuse.

  With a growl, Richard turned away from her and moved to the wagon. He noticed that Burle and Galen were holding on to Creed but assumed it was because of his grief. He went to the knight and put his hands on his enormous shoulders.

  “Creed,” he sounded strangely calm for a man who had been enraged not moments before. “I am so sorry for your loss. I cannot express what Ryton meant to me, to all of us. My heart aches for him as it would for a brother.”

  Creed was still unsteady, still in the grip of Burle and Galen. But he forced himself to calm, shrugging off the hands that held him.

  “I must take him home,” he said quietly. “My father will expect him to be buried at Throston Castle.”

  �
��Of course,” Richard nodded, peering in the wagon and spying a very unsavory sight. His features twisted with disgust before turning back to Creed. “Go whenever you wish and take whatever resources you need. But hurry back; as callous as this may sound, you are now the commander of my army and I will require your services back at Prudhoe as soon as possible.”

  Creed just stared at him, a thousand different responses rolling through his head. At the moment, he could not comprehend taking over for his brother although he knew he was the logical choice. Still, it was the furthest thing from his mind. He only had two prevalent thoughts; the death of his brother and Carington. He could not think beyond that.

  A small figure in brown robes suddenly passed into his line of sight, moving to the edge of the wagon. Creed recognized Massimo as the priest observed the dead knight and proceeded to make the sign of the cross over Ryton’s body. Then he began praying in Latin. Creed suddenly fell to his knees, Burle and Galen with him, as they bowed their heads in prayer. Richard followed shortly, as did Stanton and Carington. They all went to their knees as the papal legate began reciting prayers for the dead.

  It was a dismal group that listened to Massimo’s prayers. Carington had no idea how long they were on their knees, praying for Ryton’s soul, when Creed suddenly stood up and walked in her direction. She barely had time to look up before he was pulling her to her feet and making his way back to Richard.

  Carington was actually afraid as Creed practically dragged her across the dirt. She’d never known the man to be anything but gentle with her and his forceful manner was terrifying. But Creed was resolute as he faced his liege with Carington in hand.

  “Since Laird Kerr saw fit to attack Hexham and I lost my brother as a result, I am laying claim to Kerr’s daughter,” he said. “I will not accept anything less.”

  He said it in a tone that no one had ever heard from him before, especially Richard; the man’s eyes widened as he looked between an anxious Carington and a deeply serious Creed.