Knight Triumphant (14 page)

Nothing.

Except despise and mock herself at her own misery for being so terribly filthy.

Eric's wife and child had now been dead more than a month as well. But he hadn't forgotten a single emotion, she knew. His love stayed with him.

As well as his hatred, and his bitterness.

She knew it every time his eyes touched hers.

But at least, that was it. Every once in a while, their eyes would meet. He didn't come near her, but rather left her to his men.

And they were like flies. Always upon her. So near . . . giving her only seconds to slip behind a tree when absolutely necessary.

And that was it.

She was smothering. Desperate.

On the sixth day in the forest, she could bear it no longer. She awoke feeling as if she were becoming a part of the forest floor herself. She lay quietly for a moment, then looked to the right, and to the left.

Both her guardians seemed to be sleeping. Looking across the copse, she could see that Thayer, Timothy, and Brandon still slept as well. And taking a glance around, she could see no one else near them. Eric had left the encampment with Raymond Campbell, as he was prone to do by day, hunting for meat.

She stole away as silently as she could, hesitated, then tiptoed into the trees that led to the stream.

She walked to the water, yet hesitated again, listening. She urged herself to hurry—to strip quickly, jump in the water, jump out. Ah, but then, how could she put back on the loathsome clothing that still carried the dry remnants of Gannet's blood?

She had an extra shift and gown, packed for the long journey to England, but she had left them back at the camp.

And if she went back to the camp, she might wake someone.

And, she told herself ruefully, if she jumped in right there, they could also too easily waken and come rushing down to the stream.

So thinking, she began to walk downstream.

When she reached a point where she felt safe, she slipped her overgown from her shoulders, yet even as she did so, she suddenly heard a cry in the forest.

“Gone!” Geoffrey shouted.

“Gone, she can't be gone!” Angus bellowed in reply.

“The horses, get the horses.”

“Nae, lad, she didn't leave by the road, we'll try the stream!”

She quickly slipped back into the trees, trying to get her gown back on. A thrashing in the forest warned her that the men were near.

Instinctively, she ran, deeper into the trees, farther downstream.

“Lady, stop!” Geoffrey cried.

“Go away! Damn it, leave me be for five minutes!” she cried in return.

“She's running, aye, she's trying to run!” Geoffrey called.

“Run her down then!” Angus roared in return. “We cannot lose her!”

“No!” she shouted, ready to explain that they didn't begin to understand.

She was halfway tangled in her own clothing. Far from dignified. She stumbled through the brush by the water, trying to adjust her dress as she went.

A second later, she felt the trembling of the damp earth as one of them hurried after her.

“No!” she shouted again. “Wait!”

But it was Angus.

Huge, his red hair flowing behind him, like the wrath of God.

She couldn't help herself. She ran farther.

She was fast, and she sprinted from the water through the trees, finding a forest path. She felt a moment's wild burst of elation—she actually could run if she chose to do so. The freedom that suddenly pounded in her heart was a sweet feeling.

Her pace quickened instinctively. Logic filled her mind.
She could run, yes. Run, because she could outmaneuver them. Run, because Eric bluffed when he threatened murder. She wasn't worth the lives of others to him. She wasn't worth anything at all to him, she was nothing but a valuable chess piece in the game of war, a token to be delivered to his king . . .

She hadn't meant to run, but now there seemed no turning back. The thrashing in the forest seemed far behind her. She had an incredible head start. She couldn't move far without a horse, but she could stay hidden within the trees. Alone, she could travel almost invisibly. If she crossed the border and reached the north of England, she could buy her way south. She had learned, from the treacherous Anne and company, to trust no one.

She was moving with such speed, her feet seemed to fly. And again, the sense of elation that filled her with each step seemed to give her the power to fly. She wasn't winded, she wasn't sore, she was simply soaring . . .

She was stunned therefore when a towering block suddenly invaded her path, stepping from the trees.

She couldn't stop herself from running.

She plowed into the block.

Teeth, nose, chin, hands, crashed into his chest.

She tried to steady herself and fingers wound into her hair. The thrashing behind her came to a halt. She hadn't been so terribly far ahead.

Angus and Geoffrey were now standing behind her in the path. She could see them because she was in a death lock, and the strands of her hair that weren't tied into Eric's fingers were falling over her face, blinding her.

“Lads, it seems as if you've misplaced something,” Eric said, his tone one of dry mockery.

Some
thing.

Infuriated, tears threatened to spill from her eyes, and in sudden sheer frustration, clenched her muscles to deliver a damaging kick.

But she found herself twisted around, her back to his chest, her wrist now in the vise of his grip, her arm twisted so that she couldn't possibly fight.

“You were right!” Geoffrey said defensively. “She is dangerous, that one.”

“Aye, she tried to elude us!” Angus said.

“She'd not have gotten far,” Geoffrey said calmly.

“No. She won't get far,” Eric said with a deadly calm. “I will see to the lady myself.” Her arm was suddenly free. But as she started to step away, she found herself caught up again as his hand landed on her shoulder. “Come, madam. It's time we had a talk.”

“No!”

“Yes.”

“I've nothing to say.”

“That's amazing, but no matter. I shall do the talking.”

And she found herself propelled forward.

Deeper into the trees.

And away from all others.

Each time she attempted to halt and turn around, she found herself prodded forward.

“Wait, damnit!” she insisted trying to turn.

“Move!”

“No! You don't understand. I wasn't trying to run—”

“Trying? Madam, you were running.”

“I wasn't going anywhere, I can't stand your men with me every minute of every day! I woke and needed privacy—”

His hands clamped on her shoulders. She managed not to scream as he twisted her around and pushed her through the forest path. She shook off his touch, walking on her own.

“What? Are you going to drown me now?” she demanded.

“The thought is tempting.”

She came to the embankment and halted again, spinning around. They were far downstream, far from the others. If he intended murder, this could certainly be the place for the crime.

She squared her shoulders and stared at him furiously.

“You!” she said heatedly. “You listen to me. I—”

She was unable to go further because he suddenly seemed to explode with searing aggravation.

“No. You listen to me and heed me well. You are the greatest annoyance I've known in years! You don't like being among my men? I didn't like chasing over the country after you, but I have done so, and here we are. So let me explain the situation to you once again. You are in our custody. A prisoner, a hostage, a pawn. What you like and what you don't like doesn't apply.”

After all the events that had occurred, it didn't seem to matter terribly what happened anymore. The dream of escape had died as quickly as it had risen. Standing there, before him, when he had obviously enjoyed the stream and fresh clothing himself, suddenly made her feel all the more horrible. And as she stared at him, the driving passion in her life was simply to remove the blood and mud that seemed to cake her body. “I am a prisoner, not your subject, not someone who owes you anything at all, not loyalty, not courtesy, and by God, what is it that you don't understand? What on earth can you expect? A prisoner certainly isn't going to offer blind obedience! And you have not . . . you have not provided me with the least required for any hostage. Even Edward gave his caged prisoners a privy! I cannot, will not, abide like this, I will not accept your ridiculous dictates willingly, I will not remain willingly; I will not do anything asked of me. I am an annoyance? I shall be more so! If that's so disturbing, then let me go, and I will darken your life no further! Or simply be done with it and take off my head, or put your sword through my heart, but I will not go on like this! I—”

Her stream of words came to a halt as she suddenly saw the ice in his eyes.

“My apologies, I cannot end your life for you,” he informed her coldly. “You are worth more alive than dead, my lady.”

“Then I will be as
annoying
as possible and you will not have a minute's peace from me until you begin to extend not kindness or compassion but some simple necessities—such as privacy and the opportunity for cleanliness!”

“The stream has been here all along.”

“And so have your men!”

“There is no way that you will ever be left entirely alone.”

“I cannot bathe in front of your men.”

“Cannot?”

She should have been forewarned by the slow arch of his brow and the set of his jaw.

“Cannot—will not!” she spat out.

He moved with such lightning speed that she was taken entirely unaware. His hands were on her shoulders; she thought he meant to shake her, to offer some violence. She realized before a scream could tear from her throat that he was finding the clasp to her cloak. The garment dropped to her feet while she stood in stunned silence.

“What—”

He was going for the filthy, muddied hem of her gown. She tried to move back. “Stop it, what in God's name are you doing—”

“You want the mud off; so be it!” he told her, tugging at fabric.

“Wait, stop, no—”

She tried fleeing again, a situation that merely made her trip over her own feet, and caused her to fall flat on her rump. The air rushed from her. He caught her by the arm, his hands filled with linen as well. It began coming over her head. The ties caught around her breasts, the garment was over her face. She couldn't see, could barely breathe and she could feel his hands everywhere, trying to loosen the ties.

“You wretched creature!” she swore, yet she was certain he had no idea of what she was saying, her words were so muffled by the fabric. “Vermin, scum, despicable . . . vile. . . loathsome . . . hideous pretense of a human being!” She struggled as she swore, trying to strike out, to fight, certain that she was in for terrible violence from him, the horror of rape, of a vicious subjugation, no matter his abhorrence for her. Yet no matter how she tried to strike, no matter her words, she could accomplish nothing, she was fighting with the tangle of her own clothing.

“Stop!” she cried, and the word was clear, because she was suddenly sitting in the mud alone, bereft of all the clothing that had been cutting off her words.

She curled her arms around her chest, staring at him in desperation and fury, and humiliatingly close to tears. “You will pay for this. I should have let you die, you ungrateful monster! I will kill you for this one day. Perhaps it's good that I didn't let you die because you should really meet your maker in the most gruesome fashion. And when my brother and the king find out how you have treated me, what you–-what you have done to me, you will die the death of a traitor, they will cut you up slowly, rip out your organs . . . castrate you—”

She broke off with a scream because he was reaching for her again. The shock of the powerful feel of his calloused hands against her bare flesh was staggering. His face, so close to her own as he lifted her, was set and grim. She was suddenly afraid that he meant to drag her back to the center of the camp, and see that each and every one of his men violated and humiliated her.

“You will die for this!” she promised, and then, the fury that had so assailed her turned to fear. His hold upon her was like a death grip. He was built like the wall of the castle, with a sudden anger in him that seemed as hot as molten steel. He wasn't a man to be begged or with whom one could barter, but she was suddenly so afraid of what could be done to her that she almost rued her words of fury. “Wait!” she breathed, ready to swear that she'd behave decently if he'd just let her go. “Don't do this! Listen. Let me go, you must let me go. Don't take me back to the encampment. Listen to me! Wait—”

He didn't wait.

He simply released her.

She hadn't realized where he had walked, hadn't heard the sound of the stream around his feet as he moved.

But that's where they were.

In the stream.

And as she fell crashing into the water, it wrapped around her like a blanket of shocking cold ice.

She screamed as she hit the surface, then choked as she slipped beneath it, sinking into three or four feet of briskly chill water. The sting against her flesh was breathtaking, then numbing, stunning her completely. The words she might have spoken as a humble plea were choked against the rush of water that filled her mouth. For seconds, she couldn't move, just feel the rush of the frigid stream sweep around her.

Then she found the sense and instinct to surface, her head only, her torso and limbs kept beneath the surface. Water streamed down her face and sluiced through her hair. Her heart beat in a frantic pulse of fear as she braced for what might be coming next.

She had to be wary, on guard, ready to fight his next onslaught.

But even as her head emerged from the water, he stepped back, a good foot away from her. He towered there, his blond hair shining in the sun, looking down at her. She hated the way he looked down.

She wasn't about to rise. She was still afraid. Of physical violence. Of his anger.

But only his eyes touched her. They seemed a strange blade of heat against the cold engulfing her, a heat that touched her with an uncanny sensation that raced along her spine, and into the center of her being.

She kept crouched down, shivering, teeth chattering, so stunned and shattered that she forgot how much she hated him, and for a moment, no words came to her lips, and it was even difficult to assemble a coherent thought.

He, however, had no difficulty talking.

“I wouldn't dream of denying you a bath, madam. But you'll not be left alone, and so, there you are. Dear God, can it be true? Is she suddenly silent? Amazing, but good, because you need to listen. Your privacy is nonexistent, and your freedom only goes so far. If you decide to take a swim to the other side and streak naked through the forest, I warn you now, I will send every man I have after you, and I will not bother myself with concern regarding what befalls you.”

Fear snaked into her again, pushing aside knowledge and leaving only wariness, her own vulnerability, the ease in which he could manipulate her, move her, do whatever he chose to do. Words suddenly spilled from her lips before she could stop then, words that betrayed every sense of her own weakness, and handed him the knowledge that she was indeed a captive of his slightest whim.

“You . . .
you
. . . you wouldn't . . . you're not . . . you didn't intend . . . you're not . . . you weren't . . .”

“You thought, Igrainia, that I intended to rape you?” There was an incredible disdain in his tone. “Oh, madam, that is far too intimate a violence, and nothing but violence, and one that holds no appeal for me. Bathe to your heart's content. Rid yourself of the dirt and the blood—if you can. I assure you, blood is hard to wash away. I'll be on the bank. Again, understand this. You are a prisoner, and one I intend to keep. But nothing more than that. Your ultimate fate lies in the hands of Robert Bruce, not in mine. This is the most privacy that you will get. You will never be left alone, and since you seem able to escape my men, then you are a task I will have to take on myself. You wanted the stream; you have it. Enjoy it.”

He turned then, leaving her in the icy water, and walking to the embankment.

Igrainia remained where she was, watching him, afraid to move. He stood on the embankment for a moment, water pouring from his boots, breeches and tunic. His back was to her. Her heart began to thud. Now would be the time to swim away . . .

Except that there was nowhere to go.

He turned again, facing her, then sliding against the trunk of an old oak and sitting at its foot.

“You'll congeal to ice if you don't move,” he warned her.

That much was true, she realized. Her teeth were chattering. Her limbs had no feeling.

“It's ridiculous for you to sit there,” she told him.

“Ah, but here I am.”

“Where could I possibly go?”

“Nowhere. But it doesn't seem that you accept that fact.”

“I didn't mean to run anywhere this morning.”

“You didn't mean to, but you did.”

“I haven't any clothing.”

“You might not consider that a problem.”

“You are obnoxious.”

“You are a pain in the ass.”

“How crude, ill-mannered and rude. But to be expected.”

“Aye, of course, there is little we learn of chivalry and manners in the barbaric north.”

“I can't stand this!” she erupted, then breathed deeply, thinking to change her tactic. “Please . . . can't you just go away—just a little away, for just a few minutes?”

“Unfortunately, my lady, you seem to be an idiot, and therefore, I cannot.”

“Sir, there is no insult that you can inflict upon me that means a thing, but, if you don't mind, explain your words. I'm actually extremely well educated,” she informed him pleasantly, trying very hard to hold on to her temper.

“You fled the castle, thinking that you could make it to England alone.”

“I wasn't alone.”

“Aye, then, you had a pair of gentle, naïve rabbits at your side.”

“Many pilgrims travel in the countryside.”

“And many of them do not make their destinations. Your ‘friends' upon the road have most probably been practicing their trade of murder in the woods for some time. It's a nice, fairly easy way to make a living—for those who are not squeamish about shedding blood. Kill a man or woman, steal everything he or she carries, dump the body, and make off with the goods. Do it along one of our poor, rutted roads to the south, surrounded by forest, and the crime might go undetected for decades.”

“Had I been killed, I'd not have been a problem for you.”

“Ah, but I've told you, you are worth much more alive than dead.” He leaned forward suddenly, his features set in a scowl. “And I don't imagine that man meant to kill you, not right away at least. Most likely, you would have suffered repeated assault, until he tired of you, and then he would have killed you—unless he could have been convinced that you'd still be worth something—though tarnished and abused—to your brother, a very wealthy man.”

She stared at him, wanting to dispute him, and feeling colder than ever. She remembered Thayer's comments before the attack, when he told her that Gannet had watched her all the way.

“They were the least likely group to suspect of such evil,” she defended herself.

“You may be educated beyond all reason, my lady,” he told her. “But you haven't the common sense of a horse. Evil comes in far more ways than the visible encroachment of an enemy army—or a man who openly wears a pair of devil horns.”