Guardian of Darkness (23 page)

Shouts up on the wall distracted him from his thoughts. Glancing up, he could see that the soldiers on the parapet were attempting to gain his attention.  He took her hand gently off his elbow, turning in the same motion to Burle several paces behind them.

“Burle,” he made sure to put her hand into the big knight’s outstretched palm. “Take the lady, if you please. And do not let her out of your sight, for any reason. I shall be right back.”

Both Burle and Carington watched him jog across the bailey and mount one of the many wooden ladders up to the wall.   Burle watched Creed until he mounted the parapets before turning to the lady.

“Would you like to return to your chamber now, my lady?” he asked politely.

Carington tore her gaze away from Creed’s distant form to focus on the big blond man. “Nay,” she said after a moment. “I would like to see this place that would be my home for awhile. Will ye show me?”

Burle nodded and began walking slowly with her on his arm. “What would you like to see, my lady?”

She shrugged. “Everything. I’ve never seen a fortress this size before.”

He just started walking, pointing out things like the stables, the buttery, the tanner’s shack.  The outer ward was wide and long and there was much to see.   The kitchens were separate from both the hall and the keep, a stone structure that had holes near the roof line to allow the smoke to escape. They must have been baking because she could smell the bread and she was hungry.  Burle took her inside the very warm, very smoky structure and procured a newly baked loaf from the red-faced cook.  Happy, she pulled the bread apart and tore into it like a common soldier.  Crust and crumbs flew all over the place.

Burle watched her with a grin on his face.  She stuffed bread in her mouth and asked about the kitchen in general, including the big copper pots used to make ale. The cook was also the ale wife and produced most of Prudhoe’s liquor.  As she ate, Carington engaged the woman in a conversation about her ale process.  Burle stood by the door in silence, listening to Lady Carington discuss the various methods of brewing at her home of Wether Fair. It was apparent that she knew a great deal about it.

Before Burle realized it, Carington and the cook had grasped one of the big copper tubs and were obviously preparing to utilize it.  They moved it to the enormous hearth, big enough to cook several people in, and set it upon an extended iron hook that hung from a chain secured into the stone of the chimney.

A conversation with a servant was becoming manual labor.  The women could barely move the pot between them but somehow managed as Burle stood there, dumbfounded. He was not sure if he should stop her or not; she seemed very determined and very knowledgeable.   He knew it never did him any good to try and stop his own wife from doing something once her mind was set, so he was hesitant to interfere. 

“Sir Burle,” Carington jolted him from his thoughts, waving him over. “We require yer strength, if ye please.”

He moved from his post by the door, eyeing her. “What is your wish, my lady?”

Carington wiped at a stray lock of hair with the back of her hand, gesturing to the pile of massive sacks lined up neatly near the hearth.

“The barley,” she said. “Please open a sack.”

“And then what, my lady?”

”Dump it into this vat. We are going to cook it.”

 “Cook it?”

She looked at him then, annoyance on her face. He read her expression and immediately went to the sack without further delay.  It was very heavy, but he was very strong; bringing it over to the women, he held it while Carington ripped the stitching in the top.  When a small opening was created, he flipped it over and dumped the entire thing into the pot.  Dust from the grain billowed up and Carington sneezed several times.

“Do I dare ask what is going on in here?”

The trio of ale cooks looked up at the enormous man standing in the doorway. Creed’s shoulders were so wide that they went from one side of the frame to the other, filling the entire opening. More than that, he was sucking all of the air out of the room again. Carington could feel it from where she stood, only it did not intimidate her like it use to. She welcomed it.  Creed’s expression was curious as he moved into the heated room, his gaze moving between Burle and the little lady.

Carington answered. “I am going to show yer cook how to make a honeyed fruited ale.”

Creed’s eyebrows slowly lifted, his eyes studying her intently. “You are going to make ale?”

She nodded, completely oblivious to the distain in his tone. “A recipe that has been in my family for generations. It is quite delicious.”

He shifted on his thick legs, crossing his arms as he continued to look at her. “You are going to make ale?”

Now she was catching his tone. She cocked her head curiously. “Aye; what is the matter?”

He could not believe she did not see anything wrong with domestic work.  But, then again, things were quite different at her home. He knew her father was quite frugal, as she had told him.  And he had also seen Wether Fair, a rather desolate keep with a big, dirty army and little else. It began to occur to him that perhaps she was well acquainted with domestic chores. The thought saddened him; such a lovely, intelligent lady was destined for finer things.   He never wanted her to lift a finger again.

But he had to be careful with his words. He did not want to insult her when she clearly saw nothing wrong with what she was doing.  He took a few steps towards the group until he stood next to Burle, but his eyes never left Carington.

“Nothing is the matter except that I have been asked to take you to town to purchase material for new clothing,” he said. “I thought you would want to go now. It is a fine day for travel.”

She blinked at him in surprise. “New clothing? Why do I need new clothing?”

“You do not need it, but Lady Anne thought you would like to have some new garments made.”

“Why?”

He was on two very touchy subjects and being very careful not to tip the balance against him. First the ale, now the clothing.   As he had observed since the day they had taken her from Wether Fair, she obviously did not own any fine clothing. Even the dress she wore now, as much as it clung to her delicious figure, was faded and outdated. Either she did not care how she looked, which he could not imagine was the case, or she did not own anything finer. Lady Anne had noticed it this morning also and had mentioned it to him as he had passed her on his way to the chapel.   He was under orders to finely dress her without offending her at the same time.  It was a difficult task.

He held out a hand to her. “A word, my lady.”

Without hesitation, she placed her hand in his and allowed him to lead her away from Burle and the cook.  He took her outside, to a corner of the building where the kitchen met with the outer wall.  It was quiet and out of the way, and he faced her in the shadows.

“First, lady, you are a guest of Lord Richard d’Umfraville and to refuse a gift of new clothing would be insulting to your host,” he said in a low voice. “Second, finely bred young ladies do not work in the kitchens. Although it is quite generous for you to share your recipe with the cook, I do believe that simply telling her what the recipe is and allowing her to do her job would suffice.” He could see the storm brewing in her eyes and he stepped closer to her, his big fingers finding her hand.  He brought it to his mouth, his lips against her flesh as he spoke. “You are a beautiful, witty and intelligent woman, Cari. Allow us to treat you as such. Allow
me
to treat you as such. You do not belong in the kitchen. You belong in a fine house with all of the luxury and protection I can provide you.”

Her emerald eyes went from flashing to soft in a moment. She watched him nibble on her fingers, her heart doing strange leaps against her ribcage.

“Well,” she said slowly, hearing the quiver in her voice. “Since ye put it that way, how can I refuse?”

He grinned, his lips still against her hand. “You cannot. And I thank you for your understanding.”

She shook her head at him, a knowing smile on her face as they both knew she had little choice. But she did not particularly care.

“When do we leave for town?” she asked.

“Immediately if you wish.”

“Will it just be you and I?”

He shook his head. “Nay. I am taking Burle and Stanton with me and about twenty men at arms.”

Her eyebrows rose. “Just for me?”

“Just for you.”

Giddy with the thought of spending the day with him, not to mention that her hosts were purchasing finery for her, she was in a splendid mood as he escorted her back to the kitchens. Quite carefully, she explained to the cook what must be done and left the woman to wrangle her magic with the new recipe.   With orders to gather an escort, Burle went along his way as Creed took Carington back to the keep to collect her cloak.

As they were preparing to mount the steps to the keep, a few children came running past them, howling in terror. One child, a little girl of no more than four years, fell on the ground and bloodied her knee.  Carington naturally felt sorry for the child and was preparing to help her stand when Gilbert and Edward suddenly appeared, small swords in hand.  The boys pounced on the little girl before Carington could get to her.

“I have you now, wench!” Gilbert grabbed the child by the hair. “To the vault with you!”

Horrified, Carington made a dash for the child before Creed could stop her.  With the little girl in one hand, she shoved Gilbert away.

“Gilbert d’Umfraville, ye’re a monster to hurt this child,” she scolded severely. “Go away and leave her alone, ye little devil, before I take a stick to ye.”

Gilbert’s mouth popped open in outrage.  Then he thrust his sword at her, barely missing her torso. 

“I’ll teach you to interfere, you brazen wench,” he cried.

Creed was suddenly between them, removing Carington and the weeping child without laying a hand on Gilbert. One had to be very careful with Richard’s sons.

“Master Gilbert,” his voice was low. “Honorable men do not use weapons against women, and particularly not Lady Carington. She is a guest of your father’s and you will not harm or harass her in any way.  Another offense and your mother shall be informed.”

The threat of Lady Anne’s wrath was perhaps the only thing that intimidated Gilbert.  But being the spoiled child that he was, he was not easily swayed.  He pursed his lips, glaring at Carington and the sobbing girl.   He pointed the sword at them.

“Don’t you interfere anymore,” he threatened Carington. “This is my castle. I will do as I please.”

Carington would not let a spoiled boy frighten her. “If I see another wrong doing, ye’ll come away with a blistered backside.”

“I will kill you first!”

“Make yer move, ye arrogant little fiend. I dare ye!”

It was turning into a shouting match between a grown lady and a horrible little boy.  Creed put his hands out, one to turn Carington back towards the keep and the other to gently but firmly turn Gilbert around in the direction he had come.  He ended up shoving him into Edward, who was huddled behind his brother in mute support.

“Go, both of you,” he ordered quietly. “I will hear no more of this. Master Gilbert, I would suggest you leave those children alone. You have been warned against beating them before.”