Knight Triumphant (36 page)

Eric, surrounded by other men, was forcing the enemy outward, away from the gates. Her eyes were suddenly attracted by a glint in the sun and she looked forward, outward from the gates. And there was Aidan, her own family crest etched into the plate of his chest, and in beautiful color on his mantle. He was valiantly pushing forward.

Her hand went to her throat, terrified. He was surrounded by so many Scots!

A sword sent a harsh blow against his chest. She was certain that she heard the clamor of it all the way to the parapets, over the deafening din of the battle itself.

“Aidan!” she breathed.

The Scots moved on. They were forcing the English back to the north.

She spun around. Peter was busy setting the machine again. There were no ladders drawn to the walls; the English had given up that form of entry.

She raced down from the parapets. A few horses, animals that had lost their riders just beyond the gates, had wandered back in, and stood as if lost about the courtyard. Men were still rushing about. The cries she was hearing were of victory. The military tactics of the defenders, executed with craft, cunning, and brash courage, were proving effective.

But she could feel little jubilation. Aidan lay in the dirt, perhaps dead already, perhaps bleeding to death.

“Igrainia!” She heard her name bellowed. Near the great doors to the tower, she saw that Jarrett had by now realized that she was not within the castle. He was stopping men as they rushed by, demanding to know if they had seen her.

Her brother lay in the dirt.

She ran swiftly, her decision made that she must be the first to reach Aidan. She caught the reins of one of the riderless warhorses, and swung into the saddle.

Even as she did so, Jarrett came rushing to her and grabbed the reins of her horse. “Igrainia, have you gone mad?”

“My brother is out there; let me go.”

“Someone will see to your brother.”

“Someone will put a sword through his heart!” she cried.

Jarrett didn't intend to let her go. He was close enough so that she could kick out at him with all her might.

The stirrup caught the side of his head. He staggered away and fell.

She winced inwardly, praying she had not hurt him too badly. But Aidan might be dying. Her brother, her flesh and blood, lying in the dirt in his pursuit to free her.

She kneed the animal with a vengeance, low against its neck as she raced over the bridge, her heart pounding along with the thunder of its hooves. Within a few minutes, she had reached the spot where Aidan lay, a prone, sprawling pile now of shimmering armor in the sun.

She swung off the horse at his side. He lay facedown. She caught his arm, struggling to roll him over, looking over his form for blood and injury. She got him onto his back, and saw the great dent on the plate that covered his chest.

She struggled with his helmet, drawing it from his head, then struggling with the circlet of mail at his throat.

“Aidan! Aidan, are you breathing?” she whispered, not aware of the riders around her, barely hearing the constant clash of steel, the screams, the commands. “Aidan!” She leaned low against her brother's face, and felt the stir of his breath against her cheek. He was alive. She had to get him up, and on the horse, and into the courtyard, where she could tend to him. Black hair lay matted over his forehead. She touched it, praying that it was damp with sweat and not blood. “Aidan . . .”

He groaned. His eyes closed again. “Aidan!” she said more desperately, seeking the straps and buckles to the plate upon his chest. His eyes opened again. “Igrainia . . . not . . . cut. Just . . . winded . . . breathing . . .”

He tried to rise to a sitting position, and nearly crashed down again. She caught him, and he shook his head, and smiled at her. “Black . . . stars . . .” He blinked then, and it seemed that his senses had returned. And suddenly, he was yelling at her. “What are you doing on a battlefield! Foolish girl!”

She drew back. “You may be the earl,” she informed him. “But I am your older sister, and I am trying to save your fool life!”

She screamed then suddenly, because someone had come behind her. There were arms around her, hands on her midriff, drawing her up.

“We've got you!”

She twisted about to see the visored image of Robert Neville.

“Let me go!” she demanded. “Aidan's hurt. I'll see to him; your battle is lost, you must retreat!”

Robert Neville ignored her entirely; she might as well have not spoken. “Aye, the battle is lost, but the prize is gained. You are rescued, Igrainia!”

“No, Aidan is down, I don't know if he has broken bones! Let me be—”

But he ignored her. He grabbed her with a rough strength, spinning around, and throwing her on top of his horse. He mounted behind her. She twisted and turned, furiously trying to push him from the horse, to break his grip upon her, to make him understand. She wasn't even aware of the depths of her own peril at that moment; she only knew that her brother was on the ground.

“Aidan is injured!” she screamed. She slammed a fist against him. Hit mail and plate armor. Agony burned through her hand. “Robert! Aidan is down, let me go!”

“Niles has Aidan,” he said curtly. “And we are in full retreat.”

His horse reared suddenly as he spurred it with a vengeance. She grasped the animal's neck, but it was an unnecessary gesture. Robert Neville had hold of her with his left arm that would have defied a full forward flip by the animal. The horse pawed the air, then leaped forward as if flying into a breakneck gallop.

Her hair whipped into her eyes.

She could see nothing.

She could hear the trumpets sounding retreat.

 

 

The Scottish cries of triumph were deafening.

Eric was pulled from Loki by his men, and lifted high among them as their shouts of elation filled the air. He caught the hands of his men as they moved him through the throng of victors at his side. Jamie, who had led much of the action, was picked up as well, nearly thrown into the air, and, as if they were going to meet for some great mock play battle, they were brought together in the middle of the field. Eric grasped his cousin's hand in a tight clasp, the thrill of the total rout they had given the English deep in his own heart as well.

Then he shouted, “Men, you've done it! By God, today we have proved that Scotland is a sovereign nation, and that we honor our own king, Robert the Bruce!” A roar of approval went up, a great salute to the king. “He knows that he will win his country, not just through the nobles of his realm, but through the spirit of every man among his people. Because we are a free people. And we will continue to prove it to the English!”

Cries went up again, and then he knew that they could afford no more time basking in their glory. “We've injured on the ground, men. Our friends, who have fought as we have!”

He was lowered to the ground, and as one, the men began to move, covering the field of battle once again.

Clearing the ground would take until nightfall, and they would still be finding the dead and injured of their own, as well as the English, tomorrow.

Set down upon the ground himself, he charged Allan and Raymond with the task of moving into the forest, and following like silent wraiths in the wake of the English. Angus was left in charge of seeing that parties were formed to bring in the wounded, and to see that the dead were delivered to biers at the small chapel, that the proper rites and all honor might be bestowed upon them.

Only when his orders had been given did he mount Loki again and ride back over the drawbridge.

Peter came rushing up to him, white-faced and tense.

“Igrainia is gone.”

“Gone?” He didn't believe it at first. “She is not gone; I ordered Jarrett to take her to the dungeons, to break the seal on the tunnel should they need to escape.”

“She is gone,” Peter persisted. “Come into the hall; Jarrett can tell you what happened.”

Tense as a strung bow, Eric slipped down from Loki and strode in fury for the great hall. He was immediately ready to go for Jarrett's throat, until he saw the man, and the gash and bruise against his forehead.

“What happened?” Eric demanded.

“She saw her brother—”

“How did she see her brother from the dungeons?”

“We did not make the dungeons,” Jarrett said, shaking his head. “I was packing what meager supplies we dared take, as you had told me. You were out of the hall and she was in the courtyard before I ever knew you had brought her down.”

The sickness and the fury that seized him were so great he was still ready to fly at Jarrett, and pummel him into the ground, if only to ease his anguish. He felt a hand on his shoulder. Jamie. He fought for control.

“Then what?”

“I found she was not in her room. I searched for her; Garth said that he had seen her in the hall, with you. I came out.”

“I found her on the parapets,” Peter explained. “But I couldn't force her down because the battle had commenced. Then she was gone—”

“And I found her. On a horse.”

“And you didn't stop her.”

“Oh, aye! I went to stop her. But she screamed something about her brother and all but put her foot through my head. I've not received such a blow from the enemy in many a match!” Jarrett said, shaking his head. “She kicked me!” he repeated, and he was indignant, but looked as sick as Eric felt. “I fell on the ground, blacked out entirely, woke. . . and saw that it had ended, and the lady was gone.”

Eric stood very still, a tempest racing through him. His fingers flexed in his palms, his head felt as if it would burst.

“So she was ready to betray us,” he murmured.

“Eric,” Peter said, “Don't be so hasty.”

His eyes flashed like ice on his old friend.

“Hear me out!” Peter said. “On the parapets . . . she grabbed my sword and dislodged a fellow about to scale the wall. She saved me from his knife, and helped me topple a few of the ladders. She was fighting
with
us Eric.”

“You let her fight?” he demanded.

“Well, now, I did not command her to risk life and limb in the fury of battle, but neither did I forbid her to lay that sword against a man about to take my heart. Jonas MacFadden, at my side, caught one of the first arrows. The lady was a formidable warrior, taking his place.”

“But then she seized a horse and rode from the castle,” Eric said.

“It might well be true that her brother was in grave danger.”

Eric turned, striding for the door. “Peter, come with me. We've got to see the bodies of the dead and injured English. I've got to know if Aidan is among them . . . and Niles Mason and Robert Neville. After, Peter, you'll begin what repair is needed. Jamie, form a party of our fleetest men, those most capable of moving in silence, attacking in stealth. We'll need pack animals to carry arms and armor . . . there are abandoned wagons in the field, we will need them.”

“Eric,” Jamie said, stopping him. “They'll take her to Cheffington. It's their base, and Ewan Danby is a decent man, and an honorable one. He has never come into a town or village and slain the innocent.”

Eric nodded. “I know.”

“Cheffington is a walled fortress, just as Langley. “To attack with a small party would be suicide.”

“There is always a way into a fortress,” Eric said. “Always.”

And he strode out, praying that he would find the slain bodies of Robert Neville and Niles Mason on the field.

By nightfall, it was evident that the men were not among the dead. Nor was the body of Aidan—dead, injured, or moving—to be found. But among his own were those who had seen the English retreat, and at last, a man who had seen the Lady Igrainia ride to the field and fall to the side of an English lord.

And he had seen, as well, that one of the mounted knights had taken her with him upon his warhorse before following the thunder of the retreat.

“Did you know the man's colors?”

“Aye, Sir.” And the man spat in the dirt. “He was in mail and plate, but I know his coat-of-arms well. She was taken by Sir Robert Neville, while her brother's body was lifted from the field by the butcher who began this all, Sir Niles Mason.”

Jamie was with him when he learned for a fact what he had so dreaded in suspicion.

“What is your plan?” Jamie demanded.

“To get her back.”

“How?”

“That we'll decide as we ride,” Eric said.

“Against a horde!” Jamie murmured. But he shrugged. “Ah, well, it's not as if we're ever favored by the gods! I had always said that if I were to go down, I would want it to be in a blaze of glory!”

“My intention is not to die in a blaze of glory, but to live by it,” Eric informed him. “Time is everything now, Jamie. We must ride.”

“Aye, we must ride.”

“Peter will stay and hold Langley,” Eric said. “We need everyone but a skeleton crew here.” He hesitated a moment. “The priest comes with us again. And Gregory.”

“Gregory?”

“Aye, I want the boy with us. And Rowenna, as well.”

 

 

During the long ride to Cheffington, Igrainia was in a fury.

Lord Danby recognized that they traveled with many injured. He was the supposed true leader of the forces, but he was aging now, a man of sixty-plus years, and he had given a great deal of control to the two young knights who commanded the men under him.

He was a handsome aging fellow, with clear green, thoughtful eyes, and snow white hair and beard. He would not allow Igrainia's tumult over Aidan and the other injured to slow them down, but he rode at her side, and they both rode behind the litters carrying those who could not walk.