Knight Triumphant (35 page)

Allan, sent ahead, let out a soft whistle of warning.

A few moments later, the mounted riders were beneath them.

They burst from the bushes, dropped from the trees. The English had the advantage then of their armor. The Scots wore only padded breast coats, the only protection they could have used with such tactics. And still, they struck with such surprise that their enemy were toppled heavily from their horses, and cut down before they could gain positions from which to fight.

The combat was hand to hand, man on man. Someone among the English shouted for rank and order, but the command was ignored. Men began to split into trails and copses; many tried to escape.

Eric found himself off the trail, not in pursuit, but battling the crafty swings of a man in full, expensively crafted armor. He had the disadvantage of finding the place to strike his enemy that could bring him down, while his opponent could injure him with a glancing blow. And still, though the man was able and courageous, he was far more slender, and Eric came at him with persistence and stamina, striking forward again and again until at last he struck with such a deadly blow that his foe's sword slipped out of his hand. The force sent him slamming back against a tree as well, then sliding down the length of it. Eric grasped his sword in both hands to thrust down through his enemy's throat.

Then he stopped. There was something on the man's tunic that gave him pause. A coat-of-arms.

A family coat-of-arms. One he had seen before. It had hung on the wall before him; he had been waking to it every morning.

The crest of the house of Abelard.

He heard a roar from the road. Allan raced into the clearing. “Most of the men are coming, it's time to retreat to the castle.”

Eric turned back to his disarmed enemy.

“Do it, by God! Kill me if you will!” the man against the tree shouted.

His fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword.

From her room, Igrainia could hear the thunder of hoofbeats and the cries of the men. She couldn't see the gated entry to the castle.

When she heard the sounds of the men returning, she leaped up and raced to the door, throwing it open. Jarrett was there, seated in a chair, whittling.

“How can you just sit there? What is happening?” she demanded.

“It's only the first of the troops returning,” he told her.

“How do you know?”

“The lookouts announced their arrival.”

He still looked at her as if she were the greatest traitor alive. She returned to the room. In time, from her window, she could see the riders gathering in the courtyard. She saw Jamie and others she knew, but no sign of Eric. Something was happening, though. Men were taking positions upon the parapets. There were always guards there, watching, but there were more now.

She remained at the window, seeing the quivers full of arrows that men were carrying up the steep steps to the walls. She could see longbows and Peter's war machines being dragged into place. There was a tap at her door. She strode to the door and opened it.

Rowenna was there, carrying linen sheets and a broom. “I'll take them,” she said stiffly.

But Rowenna glanced over her shoulder at Jarrett. “There's work to do in the room.”

Igrainia turned her back on the girl and returned to the window. But a moment later, she realized that Rowenna had followed her.

“She's gone,” Rowenna said hastily. “You have nothing to fear. Jennie is gone.”

“Gone where?”

Rowenna shook her head. “I don't know. But they were questioning everyone. And she could not be found. And Gregory has said that she is gone.” Rowenna made an impatient sound. “You can tell them now, without fear for your friend.”

“How can Gregory be so certain? There are places to hide in the castle, places where she might not be found for days.”

“Gregory has a gift.”

“Then why didn't he see before that it was Jennie, not I?” she asked bitterly.

“He has a gift, he is not omnipotent.”

Rowenna was certain, absolutely certain, Igrainia realized. She walked back to the window. “Thank you,” she said briefly.

She listened as Rowenna went about her work. She couldn't bring herself to speak to the girl further. Finally, she heard the door close.

Far below, she could see that Jamie was shouting orders, and that the activity was increasing. Animals that had been out in the fields grazing were beginning to fill the courtyard, and herders urged them into the stables and loft in the lower levels of the inner tower walls. There was still no sign of Eric.

She flew back to the door, throwing it open.

Jarrett was still whittling.

“Jarrett . . .”

He looked up at her. His eyes did not conceal his mistrust.

“Jamie is down there. Eric is not.”

Jarrett stared at her. “No, he has not returned as yet.”

She returned his stare. She wanted to exclaim that she had done nothing, but she heard shouting then, and went back to the window. She leaned out and craned her neck, trying to look in the direction of the great gates. Again, men began to pour into the courtyard.

She was halfway out the window when hands were upon her waist. She screamed with instinctive fear, not certain if she was about to be tossed to the courtyard below, or dragged back in. But a second later she was standing on solid ground, and Eric was before her.

She hadn't realized how afraid she had been for his life until she saw him. He wasn't in mail or any plate armor, but the padding beneath his shirt and tunic made his shoulders and chest immense. Dried blood spattered most of his clothing. His face was lined with dirt.

She wanted to throw herself at him and begin to laugh and cry hysterically. He was alive. The worse for wear, but alive.

Somehow, she managed to stay still, looking at him, awaiting what would come next.

“Two more inches, and you'd be a pile of broken bones below,” he told her.

“I know how far I can go,” she said. “You're covered in blood.” The temptation to reach out and touch him was almost overwhelming.

“Not much of it is mine. It's time for you to go.”

“To go?” she repeated, trying not to betray the dismay that seemed to hit her like a physical blow. What had happened? Had an arrangement been made at last and she was to be exchanged for a prisoner dear to the Scots?

He reached out his hand to her.

Like the rest of him, it was streaked with dirt, specks of blood. He noted it before he touched her. Stared at it, turned it palm side up. Then he said, “Come on.”

She didn't accept his touch. A tightness formed in her throat. “I didn't write letters to my brother to be slipped out the castle walls,” she said.

“It doesn't matter now.”

Perhaps he didn't want to touch her, so heavily encrusted with the blood of battle. But he was going to.

She backed away a step. “Where are you taking me?”

“Below.”

“To the dungeon?”

“To the tunnel,” he said impatiently. “If things go badly. . . there will be someone to take you out, and north. To the highlands.”

She thought she was going to fall, she was so relieved. She stumbled forward, and he had to catch her with both hands, holding her against his chest.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Nothing. I just . . . tripped.”

She didn't care about the remnants of battle that so stained his clothing and person. She was glad to be next to him.

He caught her chin gently, lifting her face.

“You've seriously wronged me, you know,” she told him.

“Maybe . . . and maybe in many ways,” he said softly, the tip of his thumb moving over her cheek as he studied her eyes.

“I'm glad you're alive,” she told him.

“I'm grateful. And I will do my best to preserve myself, since I don't want to distress you further in any way.” There was a slight mischief in his eyes. She smiled, and laid her head against his chest. She felt his fingers in her hair, cradling her there. “We have to move,” he said softly, and with a regretful sigh, she thought. He cupped her face in his hands, standing back. “I'm not locking you away. You've got to understand, if this does go badly . . . Jarrett will be with you. He'll see to it that you escape, and he'll take you so far into the hills that the English will never find you . . . unless you choose, one day, to be found.”

“Don't—” she began.

“Let's go.”

He took her hand then, leading her from the room, and down the stairs. Jarrett was at the table, busy with Garth. She saw that he was in process of securing supplies in a satchel, should they be needed. Igrainia felt a tremor of fear in her heart, seeing how they were preparing for any contingency.

Before Eric could approach Jarrett, the great door to the courtyard burst open and Jamie came striding through.

“The men reached their positions, and just barely in time. The English are coming on us now. Hard.”

“Go with Jarrett, Igrainia,” Eric said, and went out with long, determined footsteps, Jamie at his side.

Igrainia glanced back. Jarrett was still absorbed in his task. She skimmed lightly across the floor, reached the door, and slipped out.

She didn't understand the battle plan. There were men mounted in the courtyard, which made little sense. The drawbridge was up, but the inner gates had not been closed. Men were rushing around her in all directions, some in heavy armor and mail, and some in the simple clothing of their everyday life. She saw some of the men ushering the women and children into the comparative safety of the stables, storerooms, and armories along the base of the tower walls.

One of the steep flights of stone steps to the parapets lay directly across from her position. She sprinted across the distance and ran up the steps. If the men in their haste to follow orders knew that she was not supposed to be about, they were too concerned at their tasks to waylay her.

And maybe Eric had never let it be known, except to his intimate circle, that he had ever suspected her of corresponding with her brother, his enemy.

She reached the top of the steps without being waylaid. She stood, watching, and as she did so, she saw the English troops coming. She knew Ewan Danby, Lord of Cheffington, knew his colors and his crest, and she knew that he rode at the head of the troops. She saw Robert Neville's colors as well, and the ostentatious mail of Sir Niles Mason.

Trumpets sounded as they came, dragging war wagons and a huge catapult at the end of their ranks. She watched as they crossed the trail to the north and began to descend the slope that led to the moated castle at the base of the hill.

“Igrainia! Good Lord! What are you doing here?”

It was Peter, Peter with miniature catapult, dragged to a position where his burning missiles might be hurled at the point just beyond the bridge. Other men were rushing to him. In the narrow confines of the parapet, they were bringing huge vats of heated pitch.

“I had to see!” she told him, eyes in torment. “Peter . . . you must believe . . .”

“Get down!” he commanded. “They are forming their archers!”

She ducked as he commanded her, but couldn't force herself low enough so that she could not see. She realized that Eric was not far from her, across the rise and machinery of the drawbridge. As she watched, he dropped an arm, signaling someone or something that she couldn't see.

As the English came forward, dragging their equipment, there was suddenly a wild, savage cry from the forest. She understood then, some of the battle tactic.

The Scotsmen seemed to pour from the forest, trapping the English invaders between the dense growth of trees and the stone walls of the castle. At the same time, the men at the parapets began to fire, and Peter's small war machines went into action. Huge balls of stone, metal and peat were set into the catapults and sent flying down on the English forced to the walls.

The invaders fought back valiantly. Their massive catapult was being drawn into position. From the walls, she could see that the archers, with burning arrows, were aiming for the machine.

She looked around wildly. Eric was gone from his position.

Below her, she saw that men were streaming into the moat, ladders were being rushed forward to be drawn up against the walls.

An arrow whizzed by. She heard a cry from the man beside Peter. She turned to help, but saw that the weapon had pierced the man's heart. He died as he struck the floor of the parapet.

She saw that his job had been to light the missiles placed in the catapult. She scrambled over the fallen body, and picked up the torch he had used. Peter stared at her.

She lit the missile in the machine. Peter used his great strength to let it fly. Again, he turned, creating another burning ball to fly.

She rose slightly and saw that there were men climbing up a ladder that had been wedged in the mud next to the wall. Peter's head was bowed over his work. She rose quickly, catching the rungs of the ladder, pushing with all her might. One of the Englishmen was nearly at the parapet.

“Peter!” she cried.

He rose instantly, and added his strength to hers. The man crawled with desperate vigor to reach the parapet before the ladder could crash back to earth. She saw his hand grasp the stone, saw the knife caught in his teeth. He was nearly over the stone while Peter still shoved againt the rungs of the wedged ladder.

Against the stone lay Peter's sword. She dived for it, and gritted her teeth against the weight of the weapon. She drew it up in time, and tried to remember everything she had read about weapons and war in Afton's books. Weight, counterweight, balance . . .they could mean everything. She watched until the man teetered on the brink, ready to throw his leg over the stone. She swung, catching him right against the steel of his helmet. For terrible seconds, he wobbled there, almost on the stone, not quite.

He lost his balance. She watched in horror as he went crashing down, hitting the ground at the base of the stone first, then falling into the water.

Peter at last heaved the ladder over. It crashed into the moat. They heard the screams of the men upon it as it went down. They both stared into the water. Then Peter stared at Igrainia, as if amazed.

“He would have killed me, had he come over,” Peter said.

She just stared at him, white-faced, knowing that she hated battle more than ever, now that she had killed a man.

Another arrow whizzed overhead. Peter caught her shoulders, pulling her down. They both rose again as shouts rang in the air, and another wave of battle cries sounded.

The archers had managed to set a fire on the huge catapult on the slope; it was burning with a vengeance. The drawbridge was lowering, and as it did, armed men went riding out of the castle, joining in the hand-to-hand combat that ensued when the Scots had attacked from the their ambush in the forest. Eric was leading the men from the castle, immediately entering into battle, his great sword swinging again and again from his perch atop the mighty Loki.

“Peter!”

This time, a ladder had reached the parapets at their side. A man was about to step cleanly upon the stone edge.

She grabbed one of the peat balls and threw it with all her might. The man, taken by surprise, offset by the weight of his mail, instantly went falling over. Peter thrust the ladder from the walls. Igrainia raced down the parapet and watched as the battle continued. It had been reduced to pockets of men, recognizable by their colors, and the crests on their armor banners. She saw that Eric was still horsed, and heavily engaged near the drawbridge. At a distance, she could see Lord Danby, on the ground, fighting valiantly. She didn't see Niles Mason or Robert Neville, but the fighting was so tight and fierce in many places, they might well be in the midst of any number of groups.