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 Hawthorn, 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.”
“I know. But we will do our best to be convincing in every aspect.”
“It may not work.”
“It will if you are convincing. How badly do you want your wife back?”
He had a point. As Denys digested the plan and worked it through in his own mind, Massimo, having remained largely silent through the conversation, interrupted.
“Am I to understand you will send a corpse back to the king and tell him that it is Sir Creed?” he demanded.
The men in nodded
to varying degrees. Massimo lifted his eyebrows at the scheming group. “And you are going to disfigure the face of the corpse so the king will not be able to recognize that it is, in fact, not Sir Creed?” he wanted to make sure he understood.
Again, everyone nodded; especially Richard. Massimo frowned fiercely. “I cannot condone the desecration of a body no matter what the reason.”
Before Creed could answer, Carington let go of her husband and moved to the priest. All attention was on her as she put her soft hands on his arm, her emerald eyes glittering. Now, she was composed and prepared to help her husband any way she could. They had a plan; they needed everyone’s cooperation to make it work. Massimo would have to be convinced.
“Let me tell ye what kind of man Jory d’Eneas was and then if ye still wish to protest, I’ll not fight ye,” she glanced over her shoulder at her husband. “Finish yer plans, English. I will have a little talk with the priest on how Jory is doing posthumous penance for the sins he has committed against ye in life. I believe he will see our point of view.”
Creed smiled as he watched her walk away with Massimo, her delicious figure as it swayed beneath the yellow gown. He had never loved her more than he did at that moment, his heart swelling with emotions and gratitude that he could never find the proper words to express.
Not surprisingly, Massimo was eventually agreeable to the plans for Jory’s rotting flesh. Exhumed and sent to London with de La Londe, King John was not entirely convinced that it was Creed but rethought his position when the fifty men at arms that had witnessed most of the battle between de La Londe and de Reyne confirmed the story. No one had seen the death blow, that was true, but they had seen most of the battle. And it had been a brutal one.
Therefore, Jory d’Eneas accomplished something in death that he would have never given consent to in life. He saved the man who killed him.
He saved Creed.
EPILOGUE
1213 A.D.
Throston Castle, Northumbria
Carington’s foot was tapping with impatience; the wedding was two days away and they had to leave now or they would never make it in time. It was November in Northumberland and the weather could be fickle, and Creed was eager to leave while the weather was moderately calm. So she stood at the base of the stairs in the great keep of Throston Castle, ready to explode with annoyance. Arms crossed, she spoke with more patience than she felt.
“Ladies?” she called up the steps. “Yer father is waiting and he’ll not wait much longer. If yer not down here this instant, I’ll send him up to retrieve ye.”
There was a good deal of hissing and conversation going on upstairs; Carington could hear it. She could hear the sounds of running feet. But, so far, she had yet to see any one of her six young daughters who were, even now, sorely testing their father’s patience. Creed was a saint of tolerance when it came to the girls, but they were already an hour late in departing for Prudhoe. His patience was not infinite.
Not that he would be cruel with the girls when angered; he was, in fact, quite the opposite. He was, as Sian Kerr so kindly put it, a rug beneath his daughters’ feet. The tears would come when Carington, far less patient than her husband, would explode and the girls would sob as if she had broken their hearts. Then they would turn to their father to pick up the pieces, which he would calmly and sweetly do. Carington reflected on the innumerable times such explosions had occurred over the past twelve years. And with the girls growing older, the incidents were only gaining in frequency.
Carington sighed again, resisting the urge to run upstairs and begin swatting behinds.
“Emma?” she called to her eldest. “Get the girls moving. I want everyone downstairs this instant.”
She could hear Emma’s voice above the rest, sternly telling her sisters to do as their mother instructed. She could identify the voices who were opposing Emma’s instruction; strong-willed Cora and Gaira, at nine and seven years respectively, would not be pushed around. Annabella, their elder sister at eleven years of age, was calm like her father and tended to stay clear of controversy. Then she heard Moira, the five year old who knew everything, and Rossalyn who, at three years, apparently knew more than all of her sisters combined. Four out of the six were bred in the fiery image of their mother; Creed still laughed over that while Carington was close to pulling her hair out as the girls grew and their strong personalities developed.
“Cora?” Carington yelled up the stairs. “Gaira? Stop arguing with Emma and get down here. If I have to come up there, I’ll take a stick to ye!”
Annabella suddenly appeared, carrying her satchel with her. She was a lovely girl with her father’s dark hair and dusky blue eyes. She had his temperament, too. She smiled at her mother as the only obedient child in the lot. Carington touched her daughter’s cheek affectionately and indicated the open entry.
“Go to yer father,” she instructed. “Yer brothers and the nurses are already in the carriage.”
“Can I hold Ramsey, Mama?” Annabella wanted to know. “Emma always gets to hold him and I want to hold him for a while. Please?”
Ramsey Ryton de Reyne was three months old, a fair haired son that was beginning to look a good deal like his long-dead name sake. Carington nodded shortly, trying to hasten her daughter out the door.
“Aye, of course,” she said hurriedly. “Now scoot.”
Annabella disappeared out the entry as Carington turned back towards the stairs; one daughter down and five to go. She could hear her youngest daughter’s saucy voice, a child who she had personally dressed an hour ago. She had been ready to go then and Carington was at a loss to understand the delay. She hollered up the stairs again.
“Rossalyn de Reyne!” she snapped. “Ye come down here this instant. If I have to go up and get ye, ye’ll be sorry!”
Little Rossalyn appeared on the stairs as if by magic. The spitting image of her dark haired, green-eyed mother, she looked like a little porcelain doll. Her father was especially attached to her. . Rossalyn took the stairs timidly and Carington reached up to lift her off the last several steps. She gently set the child down.
“What are yer sisters doing up there?” she asked.
Rossalyn was as sassy as a jaybird. She lifted her shoulders disinterestedly. “I do not know,” she fidgeted. “Mama, can I have some cake?”
“Not-a now,” Carington took the child’s hand and forced her to stand next to her. “Stand here with me and be a good lass.”
As Carington and her squirming daughter waited for the next wave of girls to descend the stairs, a scream suddenly caught their attention. Carington looked to the keep entry in time to see her eighteen month old son Cormac burst through the door with his father hot on his heels. Creed grabbed the boy before he could run any further, swinging him up in the air and listening to him squeal. As he kissed the boy’s red cheeks and the baby shoved at him, trying to break free, Creed’s gaze fell on his wife and youngest daughter.
“He got away from me,” he explained as Cormac tried to twist his way out of his father’s iron grip. “Where are the rest of the girls? Annabella is the only one in the carriage.”
Carington nodded with limited patience. “I have been attempting to get them downstairs.” She raised her voice so that those upstairs would hear her. “I am about to go up there and blister backsides.”
Creed knew she meant it. He handed Cormac over to his mother. “Let me see if I can impress upon them the importance of getting themselves down to the carriage before their mother lets loose.”
Carington repressed a grin as Creed took the steps. “Dunna coddle them, Creed,” she said sternly. “They’ll only argue with ye.”
Creed waved a patient hand at her as he maneuvered his enormous shoulders through the narrow stairwell. The first face he came into contact with was Emma; gorgeous, blond and blue eyed Emma was the image of her father, Stanton. But those years ago when Carrington had tended the newborn had seen the two irrevocably bonded. Stanton allowed Carington to take his inf
ant daughter and raise her as her own, something Creed was not displeased with. She was such a sweet, delightful girl that Creed could not have loved her more had she been his own flesh. He smiled at her as she went to him for an affectionate hug.
“Where are your sisters, Em?” he kissed her on the top of the head. “Your mother is about to have fits.”
As if on cue, Cora, Gaira and Moira emerged from their large, shared chamber with their arms full of bags and blankets. They began thrusting the items at their father, who held out his enormous arms to accommodate the clutter. They piled it on.
“Dada, I want to wear Cora’s green traveling cloak but she will not let me,” Gaira complained. “Tell her that she must let me use it, please?”
Creed shook his head. “If she does not want you to wear it then that is her choice,” he said evenly. “You have many other cloaks to choose from.”
Gaira’s lip stuck out in a pout, much as her mother’s did in times of displeasure. She did, in fact, look a good deal like her fine-featured mother and Creed kissed the little girl on the forehead. “Your blue cloak is lovely, honey. Please wear that one; it would make me happy.”
Gaira brightened, though only slightly. “Very well,” she said, turning for the chamber. She happened to pass Cora on the way in and she stuck her tongue out at her. “Selfish.”
Cora stuck her tongue out in return but did not pause on her way out of the chamber. She went straight to her father. “Dada, how long are we staying at Prudhoe?”
“For a few days,” he replied. “Until Gilbert’s wedding is complete. Are you ready to leave? We must hurry.”
Cora was another fair-haired child in a family that was dominated by black hair. But she had brown eyes when no one else in the family did and was already quite the doe-eyed beauty. Fussing with the traveling cloak that her sister had so wanted to wear, she indicated to her father to help her secure it. He obeyed and fastened the ties.
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