Ryton sat in a sturdy oak chair, still looking as if he’d been on the road for three days without reprieve, and watched his brother force feed their hostage. Not strangely, Creed had a manner about him that would soothe a savage beast, which was exactly what he had on his hands. Creed had always been a gentle giant, more apt to use understanding and communication before force. Carington was responding to him, but not happily. Had it been Ryton, he would have given up long ago. He simply did not have the patience that his brother did.
Halfway through the meal, the lady focused her emerald green eyes on Ryton. He was leaning back in the chair, arms crossed and feeling his exhaustion when she focused in on him. He noticed her intense stare and his guard went up.
“Why are ye here, Sir Ryton?” she half-asked, half-demanded. “Did ye come to make sure yer brother feeds me as he’s been ordered to?”
Ryton gazed back at her steadily. “I came to see how you were faring. You have been a handful for my brother and although the man has patience, he is not invincible.”
Carington seemed to back down, passing a long glance at Creed as he cut away a succulent piece of beef from the bone.
“I am sorry I have been difficult,” she said quietly. “It was never my intention to be burdensome.”
“You have not been.” Creed held the beef up to her on the knife and she shook her head. Patiently, he removed it from the sharp knife and held it out to her with his fingers. She just stared at him until he put the beef almost to her lips; only then did she open her mouth and he popped it in like a mother bird feeding a chick. He turned back to the beef. “You have had a most difficult few days and you would have to be either dead or stupid not to react in kind.”
Ryton scratched his head. “Creed, you are a saint,” he muttered. Then he looked back to the hostage. “Can I assume you are beyond any more escape attempts, then?”
She swallowed the beef in her mouth. “I have nowhere to go, Sir Ryton.”
“That is not an answer. Do you plan to escape again?”
She made a face at him, mockingly. “Nay, I dunna plan to escape again.”
Creed hid a smile at the way she snarled at his brother. He found her to be quite funny at times. But Ryton pursed his lips at her insolence.
“Very well,” he said. “Then I will place you in the wardship of Lady Anne and her majordomo. You will no longer have Creed to torment.”
Creed did not react; he was cutting another piece of beef. But Carington looked startled by the suggestion. “But… but I dunna know them. I dunna want anyone else to watch over me.”
“Creed has other duties to perform,” Ryton replied. “He has completed his task by bringing you unharmed to Prudhoe. Now he must go about his regular duties, of which you are not a part.”
Her reaction was to stare at Ryton a long moment before averting her gaze. She dare not say any more, fearful that whatever she was feeling for Creed might be obvious. Moreover, Creed was not protesting in the least. Perhaps he was glad to be rid of her.
“As ye say,” she hung her head, turning away from Creed when he offered her another bite.
“Eat,” he said softly. When she shook her head, he gently grasped her by the chin and pushed the beef into her mouth.
She chewed slowly, laboriously. Creed stopped cutting beef, wiping his hands on a square of linen. She had already eaten a goodly amount and he would not push further. Ryton watched her lowered head a moment before rising on his weary legs.
“You must understand what is expected of you now, lady,” he said. He was so exhausted that he was weaving unsteadily. “You will obey Lady Anne and her majordomo without question. If you are insolent in any way, punishment will fall to me. Not Creed, but to me. You will also be assigned certain tasks about the household, of which you shall perform without question. Any disobedience in this will be met swiftly. Lastly, you are not to stray beyond the inner bailey. If you are found in the outer bailey or outside the walls, it will be considered a violation of hostage terms and will be dealt with as an escape attempt. Is any of this unclear so far?”
Her head snapped up, the emerald eyes flashing. Creed watched her face, knowing the storm was rising.
“So ye are to treat me like a prisoner,” she hissed. “I am to be confined like a criminal.”
“For now,” Ryton said evenly. “Until you prove yourself trustworthy, we must establish rules. Already you have tried to run, twice I might add, so you have brought this upon yourself.”
There was a soft knock on the door, distracting them from the rising tension. Creed went to the door and opened it; a few servants were on the landing with Carington’s baggage. He motioned them inside the chamber where they deposited it quickly and fled. When they were gone, Creed closed the door quietly.
The brief interruption had allowed Carington’s temper to cool somewhat. Creed continued to stand over by the door, not wanting to be close to Carington and possibly get sucked into her emotional turmoil. He clearly felt for her, and clearly felt something for her, but his brother could not know. For both their sakes, Ryton had to be oblivious to whatever was occurring. Creed did not even understand the all of it and there was no way he could explain it to his brother.
“Do you have any questions, my lady?” Ryton had softened somewhat by the time the servants departed; he was not truly trying to be cruel. “Anything at all?”
Carington shook her head. Ryton watched the dark head, thinking perhaps to say something more, but thought better of it. It had already been a long and trying day. Any words of solace at this point, however minor, would seem trite.
“If you need anything, please do not hesitate to send for either myself or Creed. Even if we are not directly responsible for you, we are nonetheless at your service.”
She just nodded her head, once. Ryton’s gaze lingered on her a moment longer before departing the chamber. He motioned his brother to join him as he did so. Creed did not dare look at Carington as he followed his brother from the room, but he knew for a fact that he would be back.
CHAPTER SIX
“Sorry to have troubled you with such a burden,” Ryton was into his fourth cup of wine and feeling no pain. “She was a tax on even your steady demeanor, Creed. God help you.”
Burle and Stanton laughed at Creed’s expense. Seated around the well-used table in the common room of the dismal knight’s quarters, the four of them were enjoying some time away from their duties. They oft spent their precious off-duty hours drinking and blowing off tension, just the four of them, as they were close friends that had seen a good deal of life and death together.
“She was not entirely awful once she stopped being belligerent,” Creed’s lips crinkled with a smile. “She was actually quite humorous when all of the fire and fight was out of her.”
“Humorous, did you say?” Ryton repeated. “Then it must have been a momentary lapse in sanity. Surely there is nothing humorous about that firebrand.”
Burle and Stanton laughed again, the ever-ready audience for the comedy team of the de Reyne brothers. Creed just shook his head and took a long drink of wine; it was his fifth cup that evening. He had hoped it would help settle his confusion over their earlier kiss when, in fact, it had only increased it. More than that, he realized that he actually missed her. That thought made him drink more.
“She is a firebrand, no doubt,” he replied evenly, wanting off the subject because he was afraid the wine would loosen his tongue. “Now that our task is over and she is here, what now, O Great Brother of mine? We are to have alleged peace with Clan Kerr and their allies. Dare we believe it?”
Ryton’s eyebrows wriggled. “I do not know. I would hope so. After losing Lenox against the Clans, I would hope all of this would be finally ended.” His good humor faded as he stared into his cup. “But the cost was too high. I would rather have my youngest brother back than all of the peace in the world.”
Creed’s thoughts drifted to their baby brother, killed in a vicious battle at Kielderhe
ad Moor five years ago. He had fallen on the battlefield and they had not found him until hours later. By then, he was dead. The best they could deduce was that he had survived the initial injury only to be killed by the Scots after the battle had ended when he had lain crippled, unable to defend himself.
He could still see Lenox de Reyne on the last day of his life, newly-knighted and ready to kill Scots. His light brown hair and dusky blue eyes were ingrained into their memories. Where Ryton could be emotional and Creed was so calm that he was oft accused of being dead, Lenox had been the excitement of the family. He laughed easily, played pranks, and was generally a thorn in their side. Many a time Creed had captured his mischievous brother while Ryton punished him by good–naturedly beating him. But it had all been in fun and they both missed him tremendously; much more than they would admit when they weren’t drunk. It seemed that something was missing now, a hole in their lives. Though death was part of their profession, losing a gifted brother that had only seen twenty three years had been a true tragedy.
But Ryton did not want to linger on the past. It always made him feel horrendously guilty; he had been in command that day and it was a guilt he still lived with.
“So you ask what is next,” he shifted the subject as he poured himself more wine. “I am told that Lord Richard has plans to meet with his allies regarding the hostage situation. It should comfort everyone to know that the Kerrs, for the moment, have consented to peace. But more than that, I do not know. I would hope we will know some quiet along the borders for some time to come.”
“That may be, but I doubt we will have any peace here at Prudhoe.”
The blurted statement came from Jory, entering the room from the bailey with his saddlebags slung over his shoulder. He let the heavy bags plummet to the floor just inside the door. Only Ryton was looking at the knight; everyone else was focused on their drink.
“Why do you say that?” Ryton asked, though he did not really care what the man had to say.
Jory snorted, making his way over the table where the alcohol was. He had a smug expression on his face; but, then again, he always seemed to have some manner of exaggerated swagger. It was one of the characteristics that made him truly unlikable. The question hung in the air as Jory reached for a cup.
“If we do not have trouble with the Scots, we could have it with the king,” Jory made sure he was standing next to Creed as he poured his wine. “We have some traveling merchants staying here for the night.”
Ryton lifted an eyebrow. “So? What does that have to do with the king?”
Jory took a long, satisfying swallow, making sure to draw out the answer. “I heard some gossip from the travelers,” he said, taking another drink. “Most interesting news.”
Ryton’s patience was at an end. “What in the hell did you hear?”
Jory was enjoying the moment. He gazed at the wine in his cup, casually, swirling the dregs. “Rumor has it that Queen Isabella is pregnant,” he said, hoping the statement had as much impact as he thought it would. “Six months pregnant, that is. Of course, she and the king were only married a few months ago, so she conceived this child well before they were wed. On the trip from France, in fact, as rumor would have it.”
Creed did not react but Burle slammed his cup to the table and bolted to his feet. “Do you want another beating, d’Eneas?” he jabbed a finger at the shorter, smaller knight. “I would be happy to shut your mouth permanently.”
Ryton held up a hand to calm the knight, watching as he angrily sank back into his chair. He gazed steadily at Jory.
“Did you really hear that?” he asked slowly. “Or are we again privy to your lies and assumptions?”
Jory grinned, a hatefully confident gesture. “It could be only gossip, but the merchant’s guards were quite free with the information. It seems that all of London is in an uproar because if it and I would suspect the king is not entirely happy, either.”
Ryton looked at his brother for the first time to see how he was reacting. “Lies, all of it,” he looked away from Creed’s emotionless face and back to his cup. “Who is to say the king is not the father? There is no proof otherwise.”
“No proof except for the gossip that the queen had a knightly lover in France. Rumor has it that the Church is now getting involved. We certainly cannot have a bastard heir to England’s throne, can we? I am told the Church is starting an investigation.”
“Then that is the king’s fault for marrying a whore.”
No one had much to say to that. Jory took another long drink of his wine. “No one would know that better than Creed. He was one of her escorts from France, after all. I would imagine he would be one of the first people the Church will interview.”
Burle tensed again but a glance from Ryton stopped him. He wondered just how far Jory was going to go before Burle snapped and there would be no stopping him. Or, worse still, if Creed snapped. His brother was so powerful that he could break Jory’s neck and not even raise a sweat. He had never seen Creed lose his control, but there was always a first time for everything, especially when dealing with so sensitive an issue.
“I suggest you drop the subject, d’Eneas,” Ryton said quietly. “No one cares about your foolish prattle. If you want to gossip, go congregate with the serving women. They are the only ones who would care what you say.”
Jory drained his cup and poured another. He made sure to walk away from the table before he spoke again. “I did not mean to imply that Creed would have first-hand knowledge of the queen’s activities. Of course he’s innocent. Creed is a fine, upstanding and chivalrous knight. But since he was charged with our lovely hostage, the truth will be known about his knightly character if she turns up pregnant, too.”
It was the wrong thing to say. Burle and Stanton were up, charging at Jory. Cups went flying and chairs were toppled. But Creed shot to his feet, grabbing Burle before the man could get past him. Burle, in turn, grabbed Stanton before the man could get too far. Only Ryton was not holding on to someone or, in turn, being held by someone. But he was on his feet and he was focused on Jory. He moved past his brother, his dusky blue eyes riveted on his knight. The mood of the room was no longer relaxed; it was deeply brittle as Ryton faced off against his subordinate.
“I will say this one time, d’Eneas, so make sure you understand me clearly,” his voice was low, controlled. “You will not repeat what you heard from the merchant’s guards and you will never again say what you did about my brother. Should any rumors or other slander get started around here, you will be the first one I come for and I can promise that you will not like my reaction. Do you comprehend me?”
Some of Jory’s smugness faded as he gazed into Ryton’s tense face; he could see serious implications in the glare. After a moment, he shrugged weakly. “I do,” he said. “I meant nothing by it. I was simply… thinking aloud. Just the thoughts of a tired man.”
By this time, Creed had let go of Burle and was heading from the room. Ryton watched his brother quit the common room and disappear into the darkness of the bailey beyond. Had he not been Jory’s commander, he would have throttled the man. Instead, he followed his brother out into the black night without another word in Jory’s direction. He was more concerned for his brother at the moment than an idiot knight.
Stanton and Burle were slower to disband; Stanton moved back to the table, glaring daggers at Jory, while Burle still stood where Creed had stopped him. Jory gazed into the knight’s fat face, his smile fading completely. Of all the knights, he knew that Burle was the one that would mostly likely move against him. His head was still swollen from the beating he had received earlier.
“What?” he said to Burle’s menacing stare. “I apologized. What more do you want?”
Burle did not say anything; he started to turn away but thought better of it. Stanton heard a loud smack followed by a heavy grunt. Something hit the floor hard. Burle joined the table and reclaimed his cup as if nothing in the world was amiss and Stanton did not turn around
to see the source of the loud grunt; he knew for a fact that Jory was lying on the floor behind him in a muddled state of unconsciousness.
Outside, Ryton caught up to Creed just as the man was mounting the wooden steps that led into the keep. He put his big hand on his brother’s arm, stopping the man before he could get away from him.
“Creed,” he said quietly. “Do not let d’Eneas’ ramblings get to you. He is a bitter little man with a bitter little mind. I would not believe everything he says.”
Creed’s face was emotionless. The ghostly moon’s glow gave him a stark, phantom-like appearance as he loomed on the steps above his brother. “He is still angry with me for preventing him from taking advantage of our hostage,” he snorted softly. “I should have strangled him and left his body for the wolves. It would have saved us much grief.”
Ryton nodded in agreement; there was no disputing that bit of wisdom. “Nonetheless, I intend to talk to Richard about him now. I will no longer tolerate his disruptive presence in my ranks.”
Creed lifted an eyebrow. “He is a baron’s son.”
“A baron’s bastard son.”
“Even so, you have been asked to treat him differently from the rest of us because of his father’s relationship with Lord Richard.”
Ryton cast his brother a resolute look. “That may be, but I will not allow him to continue to antagonize you like this. He seems to have a special interest in goading you and that is not healthy for any of us. He only succeeds in provoking Burle and I fear the day when he actually incites you beyond reason. It would be like trying to stop a mad bull.”
Creed simply lifted his massive shoulders, his gaze moving across the quieting bailey. “He will tire of the game eventually as long as I do not react to him.”
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