Knight Triumphant (18 page)

“A good man still died. Reed.”

“But you and the others were saved.”

“The world is all perspective, isn't it, Father?” Eric said. He gathered his reins. “You know where we are, Father.”

“And you know the road back here.”

Father Padraic stepped back. Eric started off at a lope.

This time, Igrainia was tempted to stay behind.

But the dapple gray mare, though not Eric's horse, seemed ready to obey his every command anyway. Before Igrainia could grasp the reins, the mare had taken off after him, and they were on their way.

By late afternoon, she was amazed both by the amount of territory they had covered, and how long it had taken her to cover that same distance when she and John and Merry had come on foot.

Eric rode hard, but never too hard. He had an instinct for when to rest the horses, when to walk them before reaching a stream for water, and when to cross a meadow or plain at full speed. There were so many times as they rode that she thought this was her one great opportunity; she could surely find a time and outdistance him.

But she didn't take the chance. She knew that though he appeared to give her little attention and didn't bother to speak unless it had to do with stopping for water or slowing their pace, she was certain that he knew her every move.

And she didn't want him riding her down, catching her, and either binding her to the mare, or forcing her to ride with him.

It had also occurred to her that somewhere during the journey, he was going to have to sleep. That would be her real opportunity.

They rode into the darkness as the moon remained high in the sky, illuminating the path. She had a feeling, though, that he had covered this ground in his day so many times that he would need no light to know where he was, and where he was going. They kept to the forest paths, and she knew that he was ever wary of others being on the road. But they met no one along the way, other than one old woman hobbling along. Eric did not hide from her, but reined in, paused and spoke to her for a moment. Igrainia was certain that he had given her a coin. And she knew, as well, that it was his way of spreading good will across the land for the king he served, Robert Bruce.

At last he told her that it was time to stop for the night. They were in the middle of the road. She was tired and thirsty and saw no place that looked at all conducive to sleep, but he dismounted and came over to help her down from the gray.

“I can dismount on my own.”

“As you wish.”

To her great irritation and consternation, her foot caught in the stirrup.

Naturally, the gray mare decided to take a walk.

She hopped along beside the mare, trying to disentangle herself, and cursing the idiocy of trying to dismount so fast.

He caught the horse's bridle, and before she could free her foot, he had lifted it from the stirrup.

“Don't touch me—please!” she snapped out.

He didn't.

And she didn't regain her balance, but fell flat on her rear along the trail. She lowered her head, fighting the sense of self-fury and humiliation. She saw his booted feet before her.

“Shall I assume that you don't want help up, or shall I give you a hand?”

“No, I do not wish your assistance, in any way,” she said, scrambling to her feet and dusting the dirt from her hands.

“Try to walk then without tripping over anything else,” he replied, leading the way off the road.

He had known the way like the back of his hand. There had been no suggestion at all that there was a trail through the trees and thick brush, much less one that led to another stream with a pleasant copse hemmed in by oak and pine. Here, the needles lay thick and rich, and the branches that rose above them were so dense that hardly a trickle of moonlight flickered down. It was enough, though, to throw a few rays of gem-like glitter upon the dark water. To the far side of the bank, the earth rose in a low sloping hill, making the copse even more private than it might have been. Igrainia was thirsty, and therefore dropped the mare's reins and bent to cool her face in the brisk rush of the spring and drink deeply.

Eric led the horses to the water, then moved across the space to tether them before taking a drink himself. Igrainia ignored him and walked to one of the trees, sinking down. It wasn't something that she would admit, but she was tired and sore. She knew how to ride, she rode well, and she had traveled distances before.

Never like this.

He took the satchel of food Father Padraic had given them from his saddle, then chose a tree himself. He broke the bread, hungrily eating a piece, his eyes, however, never leaving hers.

“You've no interest in eating?”

She stared back at him. “I'm not in a mood to break bread with an enemy.”

“I see.”

He continued to eat. She closed her eyes, leaning against the tree. The night felt cool. She pulled the gray cloak around her—the dull gray woolen cloak that had supposedly been her assurance she would pass for a poor pilgrim all the way south to London.

She was hungry and longed to snatch the food from him. She was also tired. More tired than hungry, because she must have dozed. She was startled when she felt his fingers winding around her wrist.

“Not so fast, my lady. My tree is better than yours.”

“Enjoy your tree, then, and leave me mine!” she protested as he dragged her to her feet.

“There will be but one tree,” he said, and she realized then that he carried a length of rope and had slipped it around her wrist.

“Wait!”

It had been pre-tied in a noose and closed tightly around her arm before the protest left her lips. He tied the other end around his own wrist, using his teeth to secure the knot.

“This is
not
necessary!” she protested.

“I believe it is. I watched your face throughout the day. You thought a dozen times of trying to ride hard and fast across a meadow, and lose me in the next patch of forest ahead. And I saw you bide your time, thinking that I must eventually give way. I've wasted enough time running around the country. You will not cost me any more.”

She narrowed her eyes in fury. “I can be more trouble than you can ever imagine. I can cost you time and sleep and thought. I can—”

She broke off with a startled cry as he sat, and the rope pulled taut, drawing her down beside him.

“I could kill you in the middle of the night, you know,” she informed him, chin lifted high.

“I doubt that you could, and I know that you would not.”

“No, you don't know that.”

“You could have killed me before.”

“I didn't know just how really, truly wretched a man you were at the time.”

“I should have appeared more wretched at the time—you didn't know then that I wouldn't slaughter your people if . . . if Margot died.”

“Maybe I'm really desperate now.”

“Why would you be so desperate?”

“How do I know your great Robert the Bruce won't decide that I should be executed?”

“Because he doesn't execute women for being the daughters of English earls.”

“He merely uses them,” she said bitterly.

“He wants his wife back, his child, his sisters. Cheer yourself. You could soon be back in the bosom of your family, having freed some other poor lass as well.”

With his free hand, he pulled his mantle from his shoulders and laid it out on the ground. “There's room,” he said.

“I prefer the pines.”

“Indeed. They can be as sharp as your tongue.”

He lay his head down on the cloth, stretched out, and closed his eyes.

She stared at him a moment in anger and consternation. Then she pulled away as far as the rope would allow, and lay down on the pines.

He was right. Beneath a cloak or stretch of fabric, they were soft, making a bed of the earth. Without a cover, they were prickly.

She tried to ease her own cloak up for a pillow. It worked. With a feeling of triumph, she lay her head down. She would never sleep not tied to this man. But she needed whatever rest she could afford.

She lay awake, and the night seemed very dark. It didn't seem to matter if her eyes were opened or closed. She lay very still. Then she realized that whatever the light, he could see, and he was watching her.

“Why were you crying by the fire last night?” he asked.

She tensed. “Why do you care?”

“I hadn't seen you give way to any grief before, that is all.”

She hesitated. “Because . . . Afton is gone. And after he died, I had hoped . . .”

“Hoped for what?”

“It doesn't matter. He is dead.”

“And gone. You had hoped you would have his child, and you know now that you never will.”

“I've known . . . for some time,” she murmured.

“I'm sorry.”

“You must be very sorry,” she murmured bitterly.

He was silent a moment. “If you don't think that I can sympathize with the loss of both husband and a child who might have been, you have less sense, my lady, then I ever thought.” His tone was quiet, but had a harsh edge. She bit her lip, remaining silent in the darkness. She closed her eyes again. Her body ached from riding. Her mind seemed as sore. The night was cool, and her cloak was serving as her pillow, and she was afraid to move. She lay there, stiff and cold, until she at last began to drift to sleep.

Dark winds seemed to sweep silently around her. A deep chill settled over the earth, and she dreamed that a permanent ice had come to the land, and it was crawling over her. She longed for the sun. It was near, it was somewhere near, and she was running, trying to find the place where it was fighting through the ice and wind, aching to feel warmth again.

And it was there. She could feel it. She just had to keep running. With every step, there was a greater warmth. It blanketed her. Then the wind died down, and the cold faded, and despite the wonderful warmth of the sun, she slipped into an ever deeper darkness . . .

Her eyes opened on the misty light of dawn.

She felt the man behind her.

Felt him, because they were touching.

And she realized with horror that he had been the sun in the night, the warmth she had sought so desperately.

He had taken his mantle which had been his pillow, wrapped it around her, and drawn her close. His arm lay around her shoulders. His body curved to her back.

She stared at the new day, trying not to scream, keeping still and silent and praying to find a way to inch from his hold . . .

“You're awake. Get up. It's time to ride again.”

She didn't need to inch away. He didn't push her, but he moved back himself as if he had been forced to give his warmth to a toad through the night. She was forced to turn back to him as he tugged at the rope, but he didn't even glance at her. He gave his full attention to untying the rope that had bound them together. He stood with an impatient agility and speed.

“Up!” he repeated, staring down at her. Apparently, she didn't move quickly enough because he reached down, catching her hand, drawing her to her feet.

“We can reach Langley tonight.”

“Tonight?” she said. “But that's impossible. It took over two weeks to reach Father Padraic's church from Langley.”

“You were walking with two old people, my lady. We have good horses, and with them, even riding with you, I can make Langley by some time tonight.” He turned from her and started walking toward the horses.

She stared at his broad back, feeling a renewed burst of real warmth within herself. It was the slow simmer of resentment.

“Indeed, let's do hurry. I definitely find the concept of
even
a night in the dungeons preferable to a night like the one I've just spent.”

She had the pleasure of seeing his back stiffen before she turned to the water, wanting to wash her face and hands and wishing she dared jump into the rushing stream, clothing and all.

But she didn't intend to be cold again. Ever.

In his presence.

Eric didn't think that he had ever pressed a journey so hard, other than the time, perhaps, when he had last ridden here, determined to re-enter the castle where he had been a prisoner, and retrieve his wife and child and his people.

But then he had not come a great distance, and he had ridden with men, hardened warriors accustomed to nights on the ground, lack of food, lack of sleep and hours in the saddle.

Not a fool to take the chance of killing the horses, he had watched his pace, made stops for water, and even offered the lady of Langley the remnants of their food. She had declined. He had almost insisted, afraid that she'd faint along the way and destroy their chances of making Langley, but then he had decided that if she was so determined to maintain the distance of an enemy relationship, so be it. They had only to reach the castle, and she would be secured within its walls, and he would be freed from the burden of keeping an ever watchful eye upon her.

She had refused sustenance, and hadn't passed out on him, and had kept pace.

They were equally eager to be quit of one another.

And so, they reached Langley just as the sun was fading from the sky.

They were seen riding toward the castle long before they approached the gates.

The great drawbridge was lowered while they were still some distance away. The crimson shades of a dying day were like rays falling upon the earth from a misty pastel palette. It had been a beautiful day, and the colors of the coming night created an impressive picture of the castle's realm; the water in the moat sparkled as it twisted around the castle and headed for the connecting river, the walls gleamed in the strange glow—and the flags of Robert Bruce, king of Scotland, flew from the parapets.

Riders came out to greet them—Peter MacDonald, Allan MacLeod, Raymond Campbell, and Father MacKinley.

“So, you did make a hasty return!” Peter called cheerfully, reining in as they met in the stretch of field before the castle wall. “It's good that you've returned!” He glanced at Igrainia, riding at Eric's side. “Welcome home, my lady.”

Igrainia nodded. Eric studied his resistant companion. She was pale and drawn, her face very white against the ebony hue of her hair, her eyes a deep purple in the twilight. He looked away from her. Last night, he had dreamed about spider webs, about fighting to disentangle himself from a black web. He had awakened with her hair in his nose, and noticed then that his captive was quivering convulsively from the cold that had settled down upon them in the depth of the forest after the sun had fallen.

He didn't want her dying of the cold, so he had used his cloak and body to warm her, and when he had fallen back asleep, the dreams had come again, of being entwined in great, long, shining tangles of blue-black web. Dreams were fickle. From the nightmare, he had drifted into a few moments of haunting recall, and he had cherished the feel of warmth against him, the sweet scent of a woman, and the softness of silky hair, for in those moments he had imagined the hair tangling around him not as a dangerous web, but a cloak of silk, in a gold that rivaled the sun, and when his eyes had opened, he would find he embraced beauty, for she would be there, Margot, and she would smile, and life would again be the most precious gift . . .

He had opened his eyes to a sea of black. And the warmth had been a lie of simple survival, and the beauty he embraced was a bitter enemy, and nothing more than a pawn in the game they played, as dark and dangerous and damning as the color of her hair.

“Igrainia, you must be very tired,” Father MacKinley said. “Come, I'll see you straight to your chamber—” He broke off, remembering where the new master of the castle slept. “I'll see you to comfort and rest,” he amended.

She tossed back her hair. Those deep violet eyes touched Eric's for a moment. “Father MacKinley, I'm a prisoner here, you know. Prisoners reside in the dungeons.”

MacKinley glanced uneasily at Eric. “I'm certain they do not intend—”

“If she chooses the dungeon over other arrangements, Father, so be it,” Eric said. “Peter, you will see to the lady, please?”

He spurred his horse, letting Loki race at his full potential to the lowered drawbridge, then slowing him enough to lope the final distance into the courtyard. He was greeted by a young groom who called out his name in a respectful greeting, and when he dismounted he told the boy, “See that he is well fed and well groomed. He has been called upon hard today.”

“Aye, Sir Eric.”

Leaving the horse, Eric approached the main tower keep, walked up the steps, and entered the hall. Old Garth was there, standing with an ornate silver tray that held matching goblets. “Ale, my Lord,” the old man said, his face crinkling into a smile. “Our finest. But I shall be happy to drink first, if you've any doubts.”

Did he still have doubts? Aye, only a fool would not. But Father MacKinley was actually still the real ruler here, and he was an intelligent man, and he knew full well that if these people poisoned him, his men would exact a terrible vengeance.

He drew off his riding gloves and accepted a goblet of ale and drank it down thirstily. Garth was right, it was excellent ale.

“The ale is fine, and these are exceptional goblets,” he told Garth.

Garth shrugged with a slightly secretive smile. “They should be, Sir Eric. They were gifts from none other than King Edward himself when the lady married the lord.”

Eric stared at Garth for a moment, his brow arched. Then he burst into laughter. So he was lord over King Edward's own gift of goblets. It struck him as very amusing.

“I believe, if we've others, I may make a gift of them to someone else. Another king. Robert Bruce, will find them fine vessels from which to drink. Then again, he may find that he needs to melt them down for simple silver.”

“They are
my
goblets. You've no right to give them away.”

Igrainia and the others had reached the hall. He turned slowly, eyeing the lady up and down once again, and wondering what it was about her that so inspired him to anger.

“My lady, have you forgotten how eager you are to reach the dungeon?”

Allan made an involuntary gesture, but neither he nor Peter would question Eric's authority in front of others. It was Father MacKinley who spoke.

“Sir, you cannot mean to put the lady in the dungeon.”

“It was good enough for our people,” he said softly, watching Igrainia.

Her thick black lashes never fell over her violet eyes. She met his gaze coolly. “Prisoners are meant for the dungeons, aren't they?”

“But, in all mercy—” Father MacKinley began

“You are right, Father,” Eric said, ready to give a reprieve since he had not intended to incarcerate her in the foul place.

But he never continued.

Igrainia argued against herself.

“I look forward to the dungeon,” she said. And she walked past him, heading for the stairway down. No one moved, and she paused. “Am I supposed to lock myself in?”

“Igrainia, you've a chamber above—” Father MacKinley tried to protest again.

“I had a chamber above,” she said, and stared at Eric. “And now I prefer the dungeons.”

Allan looked at Eric. He shrugged. “By all means, if the lady prefers the dungeons, escort her if you will.”

Igrainia turned serenely and continued on her way. Allan looked helpless for a moment, then followed her.

Father MacKinley strode angrily toward Eric. “You, Sir, are blinded by bitterness. Igrainia was no part of the forces who imprisoned your family and your men and their families. And she worked diligently to save lives. It was through the ferocity of the illness that so many were lost, and not through any form of negligence or malice on her part.”

Eric leaned against the table, shaking his head. “You heard her, Father. She prefers the dungeons.”

That silenced MacKinley for the moment. As the priest looked about for another argument, Eric spoke to Garth. “Perhaps the master chamber is haunted with too many memories of death for the lady. I feel that way myself.”

“Lord Afton's kinsman, Sir Robert Neville, had a very fine room across the hall.”

“That will suit my purposes while I'm here,” Eric said. “I am exhausted, and we'll have a long day tomorrow. Garth, see that supper is brought to me there, please. Allan, Peter, we'll meet here, early, and discuss what we do and where we go from here.”

He left the great hall, heading upstairs. His head was throbbing. He was exhausted, and still annoyed beyond all measure.

He didn't like the lady being in the dungeon, and he didn't like the way his own men had looked at him.

She was forcing his hand. And he didn't like that at all.

 

 

Before the night was anywhere near over, Igrainia was ruing her pride and her temper.

There were no cobwebs here; indeed, the place was amazingly clean. The sick had gotten well, or they had died, and Eric's men had done an excellent job of clearing and cleaning the cells. There were fresh rushes on the floor, and a clean pallet made a decent enough bed, but she was alone. The crypts seemed far too close, and within the vaults rested her husband, and the lady Margot, and the child, and when the water of the moat lapped against the stones outside and the wind blew in the night and the darkness, she could almost swear that ghosts cried out in the darkness.

And then a rat went racing through the cell.

Father MacKinley brought her supper, and argued that if she were just to say the word, she would be moved.

“I am a prisoner here now. I might as well look at the bars, so that I may remember my position.”

“You are guilty of the sin of pride.”

“I'm probably guilty of many sins,” she said with a sigh. Then she smiled. “You are wasting your breath tonight. I will ask him for nothing. But I thank you for being with me. And I thank you sincerely for the supper. I was very hungry.”

MacKinley nodded distractedly. “Igrainia, if you are a prisoner, we are all prisoners, and in truth, people are doing very well. The sickness created a strange bond. They were the outlaws, then the conquerors. It was our castle, now it is theirs, but the difference cannot be so much as noted by those farmers and workers who have buried their dead, and gone back to their lives. Maids sing in the kitchen, most of the men who would have served Afton have readily accepted that a new lord has given the command that life is to be as usual, and everyone is to work to survive. They are aware that he gave the orders that spared many lives. There are many people who come and go with no thought to the fact that the castle has been seized. You do not need to be in here!”

“Yes, I do.”

“Igrainia—”

“What have you heard of Robert Neville, Father?” She asked. “He has survived, hasn't he? He must have done so, because he was well enough to escape. He wasn't captured, was he?”

Father MacKinley sat stiffly for a moment. He let out a long breath. “No, Igrainia. Word has it that he reached the Earl of Pembroke's camp. And that, of course, he is in a fury to come back here. But Pembroke has his hands full. There will be no change here for some time. If you think you can sit in this prison until the English come and rescue you . . . it will be a long wait.”

“I don't know what I'm thinking, Father,” she said.

“I must go,” he said. “I don't want them to think that we're plotting.”

“We have plotted!” she said.

“Before,” he murmured. “I wanted you away from here. I feared for you. And there might have been reprisals . . . but there were none. Igrainia, life is going on. War cuts great scars across life, but then it goes on again. Always. Even here. There was a child born today. Catherine, the baker's daughter, and her husband, Thomas, the smith, have had a baby. Neither contracted the sickness, though Catherine's mother died. The girl delivered a hardy, healthy, baby boy this afternoon. There is life again in the castle. I have assured them I will come to their cottage to bless the child tonight.”

Igrainia wasn't sure why she felt a sudden sense of being cold again, of being on the outside of something very strange. “You must go then.”

He nodded.

“And you must tell them how delighted I am for them.”

“Of course.”

He stood, hesitating. “I cannot leave you here. Alone.”

“You have responsibilities, Father. All the souls in the castle and about. I am fine here alone.”

“Please, Igrainia . . .” He broke off suddenly, staring at her. When he spoke, his tone was deep and passionate—he was God's soldier, ready to fight again. “He did not harm you . . . in any way? You're not afraid of him—in any way?”

“Did he molest me, Father? No. I am as hideous as an old crone to him, I assure you.”

“Then . . . ”

“Goodnight, Father MacKinley,” she said very softly.

“Igrainia—you're behaving like a . . . a . . .”

“A prisoner.”

He threw up his hands and was gone.

And the night wore on, and on, and on.

In the morning, when she heard footsteps coming through the crypts, she jumped to her feet and came to the bars quickly.

“Father MacKinley?”

“No, my lady, it is I, Eric.”

She drew back from the bars. She had just risen. She was certain that twigs from the rushes were in her hair, that she was tousled beyond belief, and looking far more desperate than she cared to be seen.

“What is it that you want?” she asked sharply.

He came into view. He appeared golden, fresh, shaven, smelling delightfully of clean soap, his appearance very fine. His shirt was brilliantly clean, and he was kilted into a long woolen of his family tartan. She hadn't realized before that the contours of his face were strongly positioned but very fine. And his eyes, by day, could be a color that was almost as rich as cobalt.