Knight Triumphant (17 page)

He hadn't noticed how thick and long it was before. Her immersion in the stream for all those hours in the morning had apparently taken away the packing of mud that had kept it mortared closer to her head in the past days. The length of it seemed to carpet the forest floor and become a part of it.

She still had not made a move, or indicated in the least that she was aware she shared the space with anyone or anything other than her book.

“Bless the lord! I have never had such finely plucked fowl in all my day,” he stated loudly.

“Why, the Lady Igrainia plucked the birds herself, so she did,” Merry said, pleased. “And, as you know, I prepared them, of course, and seared them over the fire.”

“And a tasty meal you have created, deep in the wilderness,” Eric said politely.

The lady of Langley remained still.

But she had heard him. And he knew it.

“Indeed, Merry, I'm quite in awe of your cooking abilities. But I must say—not a single piece of feather have I hit! Perhaps when we return, the lady of Langley will see that all fowl brought into the castle is so perfectly prepared for the fire.”

“But, sir!” Merry said innocently. “The lady of a castle such as Langley does not need to pluck fowl. The castle is filled with servants and kitchen lads and lasses. Well, it was filled, before . . . before the sickness. Still . . .” her voice trailed.

“Still . . . such a talent,” Eric murmured. “But then, perhaps she'll not be at Langley long enough to share her skill.”

He had finished his piece of meat. Their hunting that morning had not been plentiful, and he did not intend to take more. He rose. “Mistress Merry, that was an excellent meal. If only we had you at all encampments. We ride early. Thayer, you have the strength?”

“Aye, sir!” Thayer said, standing, perhaps to prove that he could do so easily and well.

Eric nodded.

“Before full light, I would be under way.”

He walked away from the fire, striding across the copse. He took up his own position at a distant tree, yet he could still see Igrainia.

Darkness had almost fallen.

She still pretended a great interest in her book. She could not possibly see the words.

He unclipped the brooch that held his mantle about his shoulders and rolled the garment to act as his pillow, then lay back in the coming night. He thought of the years gone by, and they seemed endless and futile, and the night seemed like an oppressive, stygian blanket falling around him. He closed his eyes and suddenly longed to be at sea again, but the sea was where they had found the drowning stranger who had brought about so much death. If only he could go back, relive that day, and leave the man to drown. The never ending struggle for freedom had not seemed like an exercise in madness when Margot had lived. It had been a dream, delicate, beautiful, there to pursue for his children, and his children's children . . . for Aileen, laughing, smiling . . . golden hair waving in the sunlight as she ran to him, calling out his name, making the desperate fight for a future worthwhile.

Sleep eluded him. He heard the others find their places on the pine needles beneath the trees, except for Geoffrey, who was taking the first hours of guard duty, and would remain on the trail. The fire burned low.

He tensed suddenly. There was movement in the camp. He lay still and wary, then realized that Igrainia had risen, and come to where the embers were burning low. She sat before the flames with her head forward, her ebony hair catching bits of light from the dying blaze, seeming to gleam in a blue-black cascade.

She seemed to be as still as he. He almost rose, wary that she had risen for some purpose and was waiting to see if the men would waken and waylay her before she could make any attempt to slip through the woods.

Then he realized that her shoulders shook.

She cried silently in the night.

He did not disturb her.

 

 

They received a pleasant welcome from Father Padraic the next day. He remained in horror that he had welcomed such a heinous group as Anne and her family to his bosom, yet talked about the way that Heaven worked in mysterious ways, sending Eric and his men to rescue them when they might well all have died at the hands of the cutthroats.

Igrainia found herself heartened with Rowenna's pleasure at seeing her, and at the joyful way Gregory bobbed and bowed as she dismounted from Skye.

There was a great deal of bustling about when they first arrived, with Father Padraic insisting that Thayer must get straight into a bed. Food would be brought for him, since his injuries were the kind that would take a long time to heal completely, and he would have a long ride back to the castle the following day. While that business was taking place, Igrainia found herself being led into the long hall where the pilgrims ate—where she had first seen Anne and her family band, and Thayer and his companions as well. Rowenna chatted as she served a dish of lamb and vegetables, telling her how very grateful she was to see her alive and well.

“Gregory was right, you see,” Rowenna told her. “You must always listen to his wisdom.”

She wasn't sure how Gregory had been so right, since she was, albeit alive, still in the custody of her enemy. She arched a brow.

“Well, you were attacked, no?” Rowenna said with a shiver. “I should have known that the man, Gannet, would prove to be a knave. He watched you as you ate, as you spoke. And the look in his eyes . . . as Father Padraic would say, he was coveting what was not his. Thank God Sir Eric and his party came along when they did.”

“You know everything that has happened?”

“Of course. They came through here, looking for you, you must know. And soon after, Allan MacLeod returned, telling us that we must be careful, we had harbored a family of monsters. Can you imagine? There are other such places as this village, churches where pilgrims stop. I wonder how many people they might have killed and robbed . . .” Her voice trailed as she shivered. “But that's it, don't you see? Gregory knew. You fought Gannet for your life, but fought long and hard enough . . . and you were rescued!”

“Yes—rescued.”

“The stew is good, isn't it?” Rowenna said.

“Pardon?” Igrainia looked into her bowl. She had eaten as one who had been starving a very long time, though she had only missed one meal, the night before.

The scent of the cooking meat last night had been mouth-watering, and only her fury and her pride had kept her from it. The hunger had stayed with her through the long ride this morning.

“The stew. You are done already. Well, Sir Eric will be pleased.”

“He'll be pleased that I have a hearty appetite?” Igrainia said.

“He'll be pleased that you've eaten so quickly. He's eager to get back on the road.”

“But we're staying the night.”

“The others are. You're not.”

“Oh, no, we're all staying, resting here tonight, starting out again in the morning.”

As she spoke, she looked uneasily to the door, and as she did so, he appeared. Entering the hall, he stood in the doorway a moment, blocking the sun, yet seeming to shimmer with a golden glow. It was his hair. So very blond. He almost appeared like a hulking god, tall, filling the doorway with the breadth of his shoulders. She remembered when he had come tearing down from the hills like a wild man, hair matted and filthy, face streaked with dirt, clothing so tattered. No more. He had apparently made very good use of the stream whenever he chose. His hair was clean and combed, long and rich. He was clean-shaven. He wore a tunic over his shirt and breeches, and about his shoulders, a mantle in the colors of his clan. The tunic, she knew, had been fashioned from Bruce colors, and she knew that his clothing had been chosen as a declaration—he was not a man to hide his identity or his cause.

His gaze fell upon her, his eyes that cold arctic blue that could appear so remote, that seemed to burn with an ice fire that left no doubt as to the depths of his fury—or his passion, she imagined. She had seen him take on a party of men with twice his own number and arms and armor that were many times superior to his own. She had seen him battle disease, and come through with improbable resilience.

God's will
. She thought.

God certainly had a sense of irony.

“So, you've eaten. Then we should leave.”

She remained seated. “I confess to being confused, Sir. I was of the understanding that we were all staying, that Thayer should rest here, on a good bed.”

“Thayer will rest here.”

“I have been tending to his wounds and should ride with him.”

“My men have tended to fellows far more grievously wounded, and much farther from any point of healing.”

“But—”

“May I remind you, you were the one to suggest that Thayer should stay, and that I should go, and since I am loath to risk any more danger to your noble person, you should come with me.”

She stared at him blankly. It had indeed been her suggestion.

“I am eager to reach Langley. I've noted that you're an excellent rider. We should move quickly together.”

“But—”

He strode to the table and looked down at her with impatience. “
But
seems to be your favorite word, my lady. It is time to go.”

She was absurdly tempted to cling to Rowenna's arm.

He was already talking to the young woman whose near perfect beauty had been marred by the slashing wound across her cheek.

“I thank you,” he said softly.

“My lord!” she said, blushing, and dropping a small curtsy.

Igrainia stared at the two, but neither seemed to notice her. She felt a blush sneaking up her own cheeks as she suddenly found herself wondering if Eric had found solace for the loss of his wife with Rowenna.

He took the girl's hand, pressing something into it. Money, of course.

Payment.

Igrainia turned, staring at the empty bowl in front of her.

She jumped when she felt his hands on her shoulders and the rush of his breath against her earlobe as he bent down behind her to speak.

“Are you ready?”

Her throat felt thick and heavy, and she didn't know why. There was no reason to be any more afraid of him now than she had been before. There was less reason. He had stated clearly enough that she was a prize of war he much preferred alive.

She stood quickly, hoping to knock him in the chin with her shoulder. He moved back in time. “Rowenna, my love and blessings to you and Gregory,” she said.

Rowenna nodded, smiling. “God bless you, lady, as well.”

Igrainia turned and walked from the hall. She saw Eric's huge horse immediately, but the little mare she had been riding was gone. There was a far finer looking horse next to his, a tall, dapple gray with the look of an Arabian.

“Her name is Iona, and I've just purchased her at some expense. But she'll move quickly,” she heard from behind her.

“She was expensive? You mean you've had to part with some of the money you surely seized from Langley? I was perfectly fine with the other mount. But then, again, if you wanted this horse, you could have just seized it—as you have seized all else.”

“May I suggest that you mount the horse,” he said cooly. There was frost in his narrowed gaze once again.

She strode to the horse. For some reason, she was trembling. She had been riding since she was a small child. She had ridden the largest horses in the stable.

But she missed her footing on the stirrup while trying to mount this one.

And there he was, of course, directly behind her, hated hands upon her again as he lifted her and set her upon the mount.

“Don't do it.”

“Do what?”

“Don't even think about trying to elude me.”

“Whatever gave you that idea? I'm delighted to be going home.”

“Really?” he mounted beside her. “Even when you won't be staying that long?”

She stared at him too quickly to hide her wary surprise. “Where am I going?”

“I don't know—yet.”

“Oh—are you simply going to open the gates and let me run?”

“Hardly likely, my
lady
,” he replied, an emphasis on her title. He wasn't watching her then but staring toward the church building. Father Padraic was coming toward them, a thin leather satchel in his hands.

“Meat, cheese, bread and a flask of wine for the journey. A letter as well for my good friend and one time pupil, Father MacKinley,” Father Padraic said.

“Thank you, Father,” Eric said, reaching for the satchel and securing it to his saddle. “Gifts we will appreciate.”

“As we have appreciated yours. Godspeed. And God bless you, Lady Igrainia.”

She inclined her head, and managed to say a soft, “Thank you.” What she really wanted to do was tell him that Sir Eric Graham was probably no Christian at all, but a heathen still bowing before some ancient Norse gods.

And that his gifts were all stolen goods.

Somehow, she refrained.

Father Padraic walked around to her side, making the sign of the cross. “Sometimes, my child, God sends us on the right path.”

“And sometimes he takes good men and innocent children far before their time,” she replied, unable to keep her silence then.

“His will be done,” Father Padraic said, ever serene despite her words. He smiled at her. “There were murderers among us. God sent salvation.”