Guardian of Darkness (34 page)

“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 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, some how feeling a friendship with Burle, too. It was as if she was 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 was 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 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.”

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 eye 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 how; 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 firey 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 as if 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.”