Knight Triumphant (16 page)

“Indeed, madam, I suppose you would have.”

She quickly turned back to the pheasant, lowering her head. She nearly screamed when she felt his hands at her waist. He rose, lifting her, moving her aside.

He continued to watch her for a long moment. She stood in silence, trying not to shake.

Then he turned and started back toward the horses.

He mounted his war steed, turned the beast and headed hard down the trail.

And she was left alone.

With the log, the pheasant, the feathers . . .

And a strange, disconcerting memory of his heated touch.

There was simply something so aggravating about the woman that Eric was tempted to let her go. Let her be a fool, and run into another group of cutthroats and thieves. If he had waited just one more day to ride after her, or if they had started off just minutes later from Father Padraic's wayside village, she would be dead now. Or in far worse condition, but she would never see that.

Because she was such a thorn in his side, he seemed unable to stop himself from lashing out at the irritation.

One man on a good horse could reach Father Padraic's village in the matter of a few hours. He didn't need to reach the village, only the outskirts where he was due to meet with Allan MacLeod, and receive whatever news there was from Langley, and if any word had been received from Robert Bruce.

He arrived early. The horse he had was exceptionally fine. He had commandeered the animal after a skirmish with a small party of Scotsmen—kinsmen of John Comyn. It had been a battle he hadn't relished, as he knew that the men honored their own dead, and had difficulty accepting the fact that Bruce had claimed the throne.

But no matter what the battle, a man fought for his own life and ideals. And the Comyn men had been supplied by the English, which was why the horses left wandering were so fine.

He had chosen the huge roan despite the horse's initial wide-eyed, rearing reaction to being seized by a different man from the master he had known. A warhorse with a learned loyalty was an invaluable animal, and Eric had been certain he could retrain the mount. He had done so, calling the roan Loki for his Norse ancestor's god of mischief. The horse could run with the agile speed of a purebred Arabian, but his size and strength allowed him to carry a considerable weight and still run for incredible distances.

He was a deeply valued prize of war.

Then there was the other.

The lady of Langley.

She realized nothing. The concept of being a captive seemed to have eluded her. As had that of humility. And simple gratitude.

That they had wasted an incredible amount of time. That he had done so because good men might live and prove to be valuable in his sadly depleted fighting force. They might have ridden today; Thayer Miller was a man who understood the importance of position and movement.

Yet Eric had waited. Given the wounds more time. And he was chafing badly at his inactivity, and the hours in which he'd nothing to do but think. Even here, at this distance, he felt the chafing. He stared up at the sky, knowing that he was early. But it was better waiting here. It was better that he had come early—better, certainly, than seizing his captive and shaking the lady of Langley until he rattled her bones apart.

He heard the sound of a bird's call, listened for a second sound, then returned it and led his horse from the shield of brush where he had waited.

Allan trotted toward him along the trail.

“Eric, I had thought myself early.”

“I rode with a fair amount of speed. There was little to keep me, sitting about a forest copse.”

“There is much for you to do at Langley.”

Eric frowned. “Is there a problem?”

“Not a single traveler has ventured near. I sincerely doubt that many will dare the proximity of the castle for some time, not when it seems that the disease was kept from spreading. But as you had asked, I rode to the inland to the next town, once within Bruce's domain, now under one of Edward's knights, a Sir Ramsey. But men will be men, and whispers will flow. I brought a great deal of ale—thanks to the coffers of the late master of Langley. The people there pray that battle stays away from them, and that there will be a fall harvest. But in their hearts, they remain for Bruce. A deep patriotism burns in every heart, and perhaps, the divide created by Comyn's death will lessen since the Bruce is the one man who can now free the country from English rule. As the ale flowed, I learned that word has reached the Earl of Pembroke that you have seized Langley in Bruce's name, and he is furious. He's heard interesting tales. It seems that the late lord's kinsman, Sir Robert Neville, made his way to the earl, and told how the filthy ragtag band of the worst outlaw betrayers and prisoners brought the castle to destruction with disease, then seized it.”

Eric shrugged. “What further is said about us matters little. We all have a death sentence on our heads as it is.”

“Pembroke has been ordered to seize Bruce—one way or the other. He can't afford the men to come to Langley and hold such a castle siege, but this kinsman of the late Lord Afton, Sir Robert Neville, has survived the illness. And he isn't under Edward's command, not in the manner of the Earl of Pembroke, who had been given his orders to find and seize Bruce.”

“Naturally, he will try to raise forces to return to Langley and take the castle back,” Eric said. “He planned on being named lord of the fortress after the death of his kinsman, the hereditary lord. If he can take it back, he will naturally be awarded the title and overlordship of the land. Still, we have time. No matter how men may honor a king, they all know that Edward cannot protect them from a plague. And to take such a fortress as Langley, a man needs a large army, bountiful supplies, and a good source of patience. We'll keep our eyes and ears open—there is no way not to know if such an army were on the move. And my intent was never to try to take a castle so positioned and hold it at this time, only to free our families.”

“Of course,” Allan agreed. “Except . . .”

“Aye?”

“Taking the castle has proven to be a surprisingly pleasant task. The people have been grateful for our steps taken in caring for the sick, in repairing the devastation brought on by the disease. Many of them feel that they were stricken because of the cruelty practiced by imprisoning women and children. God visited the illness upon them for that act, or so some believe. They are a deeply faithful group of people, and follow the words of their priest, who appears to be a uniquely honorable man. They are not nearly as horrified as they might have been to find themselves under the rule of a band of ‘savage highlanders'.”

“This is still Scotland, after all, no matter how many Flemish and English may live in the lowlands. And there is a call in most men to be proud of what they are.”

“Which is my point; it will be difficult to abandon these people if the time comes when we are forced to move to the north, or so beset by English forces that we must resort to fleeing back to the highlands.”

“There is nothing we can do but wait and watch.”

“There is another rumor,” Allan said, “that the king is furious and is ready to lead his own army.”

“The king, the mighty Longshanks, is growing old and infirm, so the rumor goes.”

“His hatred and anger against rebellious Scots keep him strong.”

“But as we have seen, all men succumb to death.”

“He needs to die soon,” Allan said.

“Aye,” Eric agreed.

“Do I return to Langley?” Allan asked.

“Aye. Tell Peter that I intend to make all haste to return myself. And I think that we might have gained three good fighting men on this foray—the lads were not so enthusiastic to serve Edward as they were to find a means of survival. We can provide that for them.”

“How can you travel quickly with injured men, an old couple, and the lady of Langley?” Allan asked.

“There's nothing wrong with the lady of Langley,” Eric said. “And she is the only one among the group who is trouble. The others can come at their best speed; she'll travel with me. Also, it's important to find out just where Robert Bruce is now and with what forces—I intend to turn her over into his hands as soon as possible. Perhaps he'll be able to use her in bargaining for the return of his wife, sisters or daughter.”

“Aye, Eric, I'll see what I can learn by the time you've returned.”

Riding back, Eric noted that he did not pass a single traveler along the road, such was the sorry state of the lowlands these days.

As he neared the brush covering the trail through the trees to their streamside encampment, he slowed his pace, searching both the ground and trees for any sign of mounted men on the move. There was none. Still, this area was known to be a far safer place for Englishmen than native Scots, and he wanted to make sure that their dangerously small party was not happened upon by an offshoot English scouting party. The information regarding the whereabouts of the King of Scots now kept him to the north, in lands more friendly to his cause, and so, it was most likely that any strong forces would be hunting him far from here. But just as Robert Bruce had learned that small forces must use intelligence and the art of surprise, attack and running swiftly, so it was likely that his enemies might learn the benefits of scouting out small forces, and picking off the Bruce's loyal men one by one.

When he had assured himself that the grounds near the forced encampment were secure, he rode back down the narrow branch trail to the stream.

As he came close, he could smell the succulent odor of cooking meat. The scent instantly made him hungry, and he kneed Loki, urging the horse forward at a faster clip. Then, nearing the camp, he slowed, letting out the bird call that would inform his men that he was returning, and not an invasion of enemy forces, or even a stranger.

As he reached the clearing he came across Raymond guarding the camp, his sword drawn as he stood blocking the way. At the sight of Eric, he grinned, and sheathed the sword. “I'm a careful man, these days,” he explained.

Eric dismounted. “It's always best to be a careful man.”

“You've arrived in time for fresh fowl,” Raymond said, reaching for Loki's reins. “I'll see to the horse. The old woman has dug into her travel satchel for spices and such. The stringy pheasants we've managed to obtain should be tastier this evening, even if they remain somewhat a challenge for the teeth.”

Eric nodded his thanks to Raymond and strode on through the trail. As he broke through the trees, he saw that the fire burning in the center of the camp was bright against the gathering darkness. The others were gathered around it; even Thayer was seated straight among his friends. The birds were taken from the tips of the swords on which they had been set over the fire, and divided among the company. Merry, doing the dividing, was smiling and chatting. There seemed a strange camaraderie about the fire.

“Eric!” Angus said. “You've made it back in good time! Ouch!” He took his finger from the breast of fowl he held, blowing on it. “The birds are hot and savory. We've had a new cook, and she is far better than Raymond or Allan.”

“Naturally!” Merry said. “Men think to fill their stomachs, while women know the art of making a meal.”

“There are many fine cooks who are men,” John chastised his wife. “Why, remember, in the days of Alexander, when we were so young ourselves, Merry, the old lord brought in the fellow from Stirling who could make the toughest mutton seem fine.”

“Aye, but he's not here tonight, and I am, so eat your meat, and be glad!” Merry retorted.

Eric took a seat on the ground in the circle, his eyes quickly scanning the area for the lady of Langley, who was conspicuously absent from the group around the fire.

She was by the tree where she slept every night. Her long gray cape was laid out as a blanket upon the ground. Her back was to the group, she rested upon an elbow, and read from a small book. He found himself curious as to whether she had carried the small volume, or if it had been something one of the men had given her.

Was it a book of prayer, or something other?

“Sir, a fine piece of the meat!” Merry said, offering him a hot and greasy piece of the fowl.

“My thanks, madam,” he said. The thigh meat in his hand, he indicated the woman under the tree. “Your mistress isn't joining us?”

“She says she has no taste for these birds,” Thayer told him.

No taste? So that's all the labor of plucking had taught her—to turn her nose up at their efforts to keep them all well fed.

Let her starve then, Eric thought.

Yet he found that her absence from the group around the fire irritated him as fully as everything else about her.

He bit into his meat. Aye, they were scrawny birds, but Merry had had a way with the seasoning. The meal wasn't just sustenance. He tasted the food, as he realized he hadn't tasted food in quite some time.

Since . . .

Since he had come to Langley.

He took another bite of the meat, then found his gaze fixing on the woman beneath the tree once again. Her hair streamed down her back like the blue-black shade of a moon-touched river at night. There was a great deal of it.