Border Brides

by Kathryn Le Veque

  “Ah,” she murmured. “The Lovers. And it is right next to your card, too.”

  Carington looked more closely at the bright cards. “What does that mean?”

  Kristina’s eyes twinkled. “It means that you shall find love soon. Is there anyone special you left behind in Scotland, my lady? Someone who has your heart?”

  Carington shook her head, unwilling to divulge any information. She prayed her expression would not give her away. “Nay,” she replied, still eyeing the card. “No one in Scotland.”

  “This is a very powerful card. It means eternal love and devotion.”

  Carington simply shrugged as if she had nothing more to say to that. Kristina, suspecting there was more to what Carington was telling her simply by her evasive stance, held out the deck of cards.

  “One last card, my lady,” she said. “I need five to tell your fortune.”

  Carington pulled out the last card and handed it to Kristina. The young lady put it neatly next to The Tower. As she did so, the pleasant expression faded from her face.

  “Death,” she muttered. “It sits next to The Tower.”

  Carington already did not like the sound of that. “What does it mean?”

  “It means precisely what she said,” Julia piped up from across the room. “It means there is Death in your future.”

  Before Carington could work herself into a snappish reply, Kristina was shuffling them around and putting them back with the deck. She lifted her gaze to Carington’s curious face.

  “’Tis a silly game,” she insisted softly. “Any fortune I have ever told has never come true. Do not take great stock in it.”

  Carington gazed into her eyes, reading the disquiet, but did not press her. Instead, she forced a smile.

  “Of course,” she murmured. “Only a game.”

  Kristina shuffled the cards around furiously, trying to move on from the lingering Death card. “Let us tell someone else’s fortune,” she said. “Whose should we tell?”

  “How about Sir Creed?” Julia stabbed at her embroidery. “Perhaps we can divine his future. Perhaps we can see if a wife is in order.”

  Carington’s head snapped to the girl, attempting to discern if she was mouthing off because she was in possession of secretive knowledge or if she was simply being her usual malicious self. Her statement could have been interpreted both ways. Carington remembered what Ryton had told her of Julia, that she wanted Creed for herself. If Julia had been even the slightest bit kind, Carington might have felt sorry for her. But at the moment, all she felt was venom.

  Kristina, thankfully, was oblivious to Carington’s mental turmoil. She simply shook her head at Julia.

  “We have told his future too many times,” she reminded her. “It never comes out the way you wish. I would think that you would give up and look elsewhere for a husband. Marrying Creed simply is not in your cards.”

  Carington could not even comment on that statement; she turned away, biting off a smile as she returned her attention to the lancet window. It was mid-afternoon now with evening only an hour or so away. She gazed up at the blue sky with its puffy dusting of clouds.

  “How far is Hexham Castle?” she asked.

  Kristina was shuffling her cards again. “No more than two hours. It is a short and lovely ride.”

  Carington digested the information, thinking that, in fact, the army had been gone quite some time for so short a distance. But she recollected the days when her father had ridden to battle; he would be gone for weeks at a time. She knew that war was a waiting game for those left behind. Almost as strong as her anxiety for Creed’s safety was her desire to know who had instigated the raid. She had told Creed that it could not have been her father; truth be told, she could not be sure. His treaty was with Prudhoe, not Hexham. If allied clans called for Sian Kerr’s aide for arms against an English enemy, she knew that her father would not refuse.

  So she sat back on the bed and played Kristina’s card game. They read fortunes for Burle, Stanton, Lady Anne and Gilbert. By the time they got around to reading a fortune for Edward, an odd sound from the bailey caught their attention. It was a strange grinding noise with echoes of thunder to it. Carington and Kristina looked at each other with some confusion, then apprehension, before they bolted to the window and peered outside.

  The great gates of Prudhoe were slowly opening and in the green fields beyond, they could see a smattering of the returning army, hidden in part by the trees. They could hear the rumble of the footfalls and wagon wheels even from this distance. Carington flew off the bed and raced to the door.

  “Where are you going?” Kristina demanded.

  “To meet the army,” she said as if the girl was an idiot. “We must welcome them home.”

  Kristina shook her head. “We are not allowed to,” she insisted. “We must always stay to our chamber until one of the men release us.”

  Carington’s brow furrowed. “Release us?” she repeated. “We are not prisoners. Why must we be released?”

  “Because we will only be in the way if we go down stairs,” Julia looked at Carington with veiled contempt. “It is the rule of the House; we must stay to our chamber when the army returns until Sir Ryton or Sir Creed or another knight releases us. We are not allowed to be underfoot and must stay to our chamber as good, obedient women.”

  Carington remembered Creeds words to her; do not leave that room for any reason; not until I return. It never occurred to her that he meant literally. She did not want to disobey him, no matter how excited she was to see him. So she took her hand off the latch and paced back over to the bed, climbing up so she could look through the window again. By this time, the army was pouring in through the gates and a shocking scene was unfolding.

  From her vantage point at the window, she could see that two of the wagons they had brought with them were filled with bodies. She could not tell if they were alive or dead, for they were stacked together like cordwood. As she watched in mounting horror, Julia casually rose from her seat and moved to the other lancet window that faced to the north; it did, however, have a narrow view of the front gates. Together, the three of them watched the influx of weary and beaten men and animals.

  Carington was not as concerned for the men in the wagons as she was for the knights. So far, she had not seen one of them and her panic was beginning to rise. The army was now filling the bailey in waves; like water crashing upon the shore, wave after wave of men piled into the outer bailey. Eventually, they moved into the inner bailey and that was where she caught her first glimpse of one of the five Prudhoe knights.

  It was Jory, waving his arm at the exhausted men, bellowing something she could not hear. Stanton suddenly barreled in to the inner bailey as well, riding without his helm. It was a curious sight. But he turned his head slightly to relay orders and they all noticed a massive bandage that covered one side of his head. Kristina gasped when Stanton turned his head to show them his bloody bindings.

  Carington looked at her with concern, keeping her own horror only slightly at bay. She, too, was ready to gasp at the sights she was witnessing. Only by God’s good grace was she holding tight as trepidation welled in her chest until she thought she might explode. Eventually, Burle passed into her line of sight as he made his way towards the keep. He was on foot.

  “I can see Sir Ryton’s charger,” Julia suddenly spoke from her vantage point at the other window. “The charger is tethered to a wagon just now entering the main gates.”

  Carington and Kristina looked over at her. “Do you see Sir Ryton?” Kristina asked; she sounded as if she was about to cry.

  Julia shook her head. “The horse is riderless and appears wounded.”

  Carington was about to jump from her skin. Kristina asked the question that Carington could not bring herself to voice.

  “What of Sir Creed?” Kristina went over to Julia’s window and tried to gain a better look at the main gates. “Has he returned?”

  Julia did not say anything for a
moment; both she and Kristina were straining to gain a better look at the incoming army. Suddenly, Kristina gasped.

  “I see his charger,” she breathed, her hand flying to her mouth. “I see Sir Creed’s charger. It is tethered to the last wagon.”

  That was all Carington could take. She bolted up from the bed and flew to the door before Kristina or Julia could stop her. She threw the door open with the intention of charging down to the bailey but was stopped by Burle’s massive form standing in the hall outside. Carington did not see him until it was too late and she plowed right into him.

  Burle grunted as she bashed into him, reaching out to steady her as she lost her balance. Carington rubbed her nose where she had smashed it into his mail, gazing up with surprise into his pale, dirty face.

  “Sir Burle,” she did not realize that she was clutching at him. “What happened? We saw so many wounded and….”

  Burle’s face was solemn; he could read her panic and he knew why. Since their trip into the town of Prudhoe that day, he had realized what Ryton had; there was something special between Lady Carington and Creed. And, of course, he was informed of the situation when Creed could not keep his excitement to himself as they rode to Hexham.

  Burle had never seen the man so happy. It was a trust they had in each other in that the knowledge would go no further; they were old friends that way. That was why Burle had made it his duty upon returning to Prudhoe to seek out Lady Carington; he wanted to get to her before anyone else did. He put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her towards the stairs.

  “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 murmu
red. “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 that 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.”