Page 208 of Historical Hotties
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 disfigurethe 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 wastapping 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!”
