Page 193 of Historical Hotties
Julia nearly collapsed with relief. “I wanted to tell you, so many times,” she murmured. “But I was afraid to.”
Carington sighed softly. “You told us now. That is what matters.”
Creed was an emotional wreck; he could not be as kind and gracious as his wife was. He turned away from Julia, still clutching Carington, and pulled his wife back to the table with him. Sian and Richard followed. They regained their seats at the table and this time, Sian poured Creed a large cup of wine. Julia simply turned away from the group and left the hall.
Carington watched her go with some sadness. For so long, she had felt no pity for the woman because of her selfish, haughty ways. But that was all changed now; she felt a good deal of sorrow for the lonely, confused young woman. She turned back to her husband.
“Are ye all right?” she asked softly, her hand on his face.
He nodded, staring at his cup of wine. “Aye,” he murmured. “But it is as if I am living his death all over again.”
She kissed his cheek, leaning her head against his to comfort him. “But ye had yer justice when ye killed Jory whilst defending me. Ye did not know at the time that ye killed the man who murdered yer brother.”
He nodded slowly, still staring pensively at his wine. “I did not know it, but God did. Perhaps it was He who orchestrated that event as justice well served for my brother.”
She smiled sadly at him, forcing him to look at her. When his dusky blue eyes fell on her sweet face, he suddenly collapsed against her, his face in her tender neck and his arms around her. In the great hall of Prudhoe as life went on around them, Carington could feel his warm tears against her flesh. For Ryton, he would finally weep.
It was only later on that evening that they discovered that Julia had hung herself.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
December 1200 A.D.
The snows hadcome early this year. As Carington sat with Lady Vivian de Witt, cooing softly at the newborn girl in her cradle, she kept watching the snow outside as it collected on the windowsill. Lady Vivian was not feeling well after the birth of her daughter and had been growing steadily weaker for days, something that greatly concerned Stanton. Lady Anne had sent to Newcastle for the physic and the man insisted that the lady was greatly taxed from the birth, prescribing such things as boiled beef’s blood and other strange things. But still, Lady Vivian was not improving.
Carington and the other ladies would take turns sitting with Lady Vivian to tend both her and the infant who was, in fact, a lusty little girl with her father’s blond hair. But Lady Vivian could not feed the child so a wetnurse had been hired from the village. When the woman was not nursing the babe, she was busying herself with little Henry. On this cold and snowy day as Vivian slept, Carington had baby watching duty. She reached into the cradle and scooped up the fussing infant, walking the length of the floor and singing softly to soothe her. She considered it good practice for the day when her own bairn would arrive.
The door to the cottage blew open and two knights entered. Snow blew in after them until the smaller knight shut the door firmly. Carington stood back, shielding the baby from the harshweather as Creed wiped the snow from his eyes. Stanton went straight into the bedchamber to see his wife.
“The weather is worsening,” Creed commented, eyeing the fat-faced baby in his wife’s arms. “How is the child?”
“Fine,” she said, then lowered her voice. “But Vivian is not well at all. I fear for her, English. She is growing weaker by the minute.”
Creed drew in a deep breath, his gaze moving to the open bedchamber door. He could see Stanton seated on the edge of the bed as he spoke softly to his wife. After a moment, he shook his head and looked back to Carington.
“I do not know if I would be half as composed as he is,” he murmured, looking into her emerald eyes. “He shows a great deal of strength.”
Carington knew he was thinking about her and the perils of childbirth; she had seen this rise in fear in him for weeks. It had worsened since Vivian gave birth to her daughter. She reached up and patted his icy cheek.
“I’m as strong as an ox,” she assured. “I’ll be on my feet an hour after birthin’ this bairn. There is nothing to worry over.”
He kissed her palm, watching her put the baby back in the cradle. He was trying not to let the event of the birth frighten him, but in truth, he was terrified and excited at the same time. All he knew was that his wife must survive, no matter what. He did not know what would become of him if she did not; he could not even think about it.
“I came to tell you that we have sighted an incoming party about a half mile out,” he changed the subject. “It looks to me as if they are flying papal banners but I cannot be sure. The blowing snow obscures much.”
Carington whirled to him, her eyes wide. “The priest returns?”
He lifted his shoulders. “I am not sure,” he replied. “But I think you should be with me if it is him.”
“Of course I will,” she insisted, watching his expression for any signs of apprehension. “The queen’s bairn should have been born a couple of months ago. Do ye believe it is news of the birth?”
“It is possible.”
She gazed up at him, trepidation in her eyes. “Oh, English,” she murmured. “I am frightened. No word for months and then….”
He leaned over to kiss her gently; he did not want to touch her because his armor and mail were like ice. “I know,” he murmured, kissing her again. “But we knew this time would come. We expected it. We can do nothing more than face it.”
Her eyes began to well. “But what if he wants to take ye to London?”
