Knight Triumphant (42 page)

She managed to remain standing, but couldn't voice a reply.

He walked over to her. She realized that she wanted him to take her into his arms. She wanted him to tell her that she was wrong, that she wasn't just a possession important in a tug of war of power. That he wanted no one else when he had her. That he had ridden for her because he had discovered that she was as important to him as his beloved Margot had been, that . . .

He loved her.

But he didn't pull her into his arms. He plucked at something in her hair.

“Hay,” he said. And he turned away from her. “Of course, like your brother, you'll be treated with all the respect due your position. I know how you love your bath . . . one will be sent immediately, because it's growing late, and, of course, you will be at the celebration we're planning tonight. . . and of course, my men will all be grateful for this new great glory we've achieved in our pursuit of you.”

“I—will not celebrate any more slaughter with you!” she countered.

“Oh, but you will. You'll come down tonight, on my arm—or dragged along by it.”

To her great dismay, he turned and left her.

There were a number of pressing matters that had to be settled.

He was grateful that Jamie was with him, since his cousin could deal with statistics and defense as efficiently as he could.

But there were certain details he had to deal with himself.

The first was Lord Danby.

He found the dignified old lord where he was being held, in his own chambers. He stiffened by the fire as Eric entered, as proud and noble a warrior as Eric had ever seen.

“So,” he said. “Cheffington has fallen. And I was incarcerated in my own room as it happened, without even raising a sword.”

“Cheffington, my lord, is Scottish,” Eric said simply.

“And you believe you will hold it?”

“I believe that the Scots will hold it, and that, sir, were you to decide to honor Robert Bruce, it might remain your holding.”

“I am not one of those men seeking only grandeur, comfort, and riches, Sir. I do not bend and bow to the wind, but do my duty, whatever that may bring.”

“I see. And it brought you Robert Neville and Niles Mason.”

White lashes fell briefly over Lord Danby's eyes, but he gave little other sign that Eric's words had disturbed him.

“Sir, you had the daughter of an English earl in your holding. It was the correct and chivalrous thing to bring her back.”

“And would it have been the right and chivalrous thing to hand her over to Neville?”

“Had the king given an absolute order, it would have been so.”

Eric smiled. “But the King's
absolute
order did not reach you, and so you did not.”

Danby nodded.

“The lady is my wife, and will remain so,” Eric said. “And though it was certainly not done for my accord, I am grateful that you chose to protect her. And though I swear, if it is ever in my power, by God, both Neville and Mason will die. But it has not been our policy to show brutality or cruelty to men for proving that they are loyal to their King, yet obedient as well to the dictates of their conscience. We intend you no harm. You will be taken north, where the King of the Scots has greater allegiance, and if and when arrangements are made, you will be returned, in the best of health, if not spirits, to Edward.”

Danby bowed his head. “I am grateful for the honor and chivalry you have proven in battle, sir,” he said stiffly.

“And, I, my Lord, remain grateful to you,” Eric told him.

He left Danby's quarters then, wishing that the man were on their side.

His next stop was Aidan's room.

He found the young Lord Abelard busy at his writing desk.

Aidan looked up as he entered, set down his quill, and rose.

“My sister, sir?”

“Your sister is well, I assure you.”

Aidan nodded, watching him. “In the woods that day . . . you would have killed me, if you hadn't realized who I was.”

“When engaged in a sword battle with a man who intends to kill me, I am most usually called upon to fight him unto death,” Eric said dryly.

“In truth, I do not hide behind my sister's skirts.”

“In truth—I did not mean to accuse you of doing so.”

Aidan inclined his head.

“I came to give you my thanks.”

“For?”

“You were here when Igrainia needed you.”

“She is my sister.”

“Ah, but many men might have seen only the white or black of war, the right or wrong of his own side.”

“I assure you, I did nothing to aid outlaws.”

“Of course. But . . . you are welcome to come to the hall tonight.”

Aidan squared his shoulders. “I'm a prisoner, and therefore, not interested in communication with the enemy. Sir, you may be as decent as my sister says. But I am an Englishman. I may acknowledge certain virtues in such a man as you, but I will not turn my back on my country.”

“I understand,” Eric told him. “But I must say as well . . .”

“Yes?”

“I'm glad that I didn't kill you.”

He left Aidan then. There was still a great deal do to before the evening.

The first was to plan for tomorrow.

At first, Igrainia ignored the bath that was sent. She was nearly beside herself with misery. It had been one thing to accuse him of regarding her a prize of war, a wife as ordered by the king—and another to reconcile herself to the fact that it was true.

And though he enjoyed his time with her, it was a pleasant interval, but not one that would disturb any other desires he might find upon a long ride in her absence.

Without her absence, perhaps . . .

Now he wanted her at a celebration.

She intended to walk down without him touching her. To walk down with the “nobility” he had granted her.

And so, she bathed and was ready when he returned for her, apparently braced and ready for a fight, a very determined look on his face.

She shot through the door before he could speak, or touch her.

When she came down to the hall, she felt her temper melt somewhat. Even as she walked down the last of the steps, men were coming to meet her. Jamie first, who bowed over her hand and kissed it. Angus, Brandon, Thayer, Timothy, Allan . . . and finally, Father MacKinley, whom she had least expected to see.

“You've taken to arms, Father?” she asked him.

“Many a priest travels with troops, Igrainia. And many a man of the cloth has picked up a sword.”

“So you pray for these men now?”

“Aye, that I do. And, of course, I have other functions,” he said with a wink. But he didn't explain what functions he meant. He smiled at Eric as he came behind Igrainia, then went on to speak with Angus.

“Your place at the table awaits, my lady. Ah, in fact, we've arranged the meal so that you many take your customary chair.”

She couldn't shake his firm touch upon her arm as he led her to the table. There were new faces in the hall, now, mingling with those she had come to know. She recognized the players who had presented the shows in the courtyard, the pretty young singer, and others. There were smiths she had seen at work with the horses and repairing armor, and there were the masons she had seen working during the day.

The hall was filled.

It was not Rowenna who served ale to them, though, but another girl who had been among Lord Danby's kitchen maids.

Eric was to her left, in Lord Danby's chair, and Jamie was to her right. Beside him, handsomely dressed in a clean tunic of Eric's colors, was Gregory. His silent smile for her was so warm that she could not help but return it.

Then she noted Rowenna, not seated, but standing at the end of the table, talking earnestly to Father MacKinley. And she, too, was differently attired. She was truly beautiful, and the scar could not touch the glow and magic that seemed to have come to her face. She was wearing a soft white linen gown, and a circlet of flowers in her hair.

As if aware that Igrainia was watching her, she turned to her. Her face seemed to beam anew as she offered Igrainia a radiant smile.

“She is such a graceful, natural beauty, is she not?” Eric whispered to Igrainia, his head low, so close to hers.

“Indeed,” Igrainia agreed stiffly.

Eric rose suddenly, tapping his knife on the table, and drawing the attention of those in the hall. When they were silent, he spoke.

“We've much to celebrate here tonight. Another victory against our oppressors, and in it, the safe return to our fold of my wife, the Lady Igrainia. With each such step we take, we come closer to the goal of our people, a free and united country.”

Cheers greeted his words.

“We have endured years of battle; it's likely that we will endure more long years of hardship until we have truly evicted the foreign powers from our lands. William Wallace sacrificed his life in the pursuit of a dream for his country, not for power, for glory, or for gain. Few men have ever been so willing to sacrifice everything for a cause. But now a man who is aware that his loyalty was often misspent has been crowned king of Scotland, and has taken to the field, and in the brutal deaths of so many of his family members, in the imprisonment of the women he loves, he has learned the agony of sacrifice as well, yet casts his life and his crown against a mighty strength. That Robert Bruce is king, and will prove himself king, marks a new beginning for us, one proven in this victory we have wrested today. We feast at the hope and prayer of a new, free Scotland. Our land. And what better way to toast the future than to celebrate the hopes and dreams of the future of a man and woman Scottish to the core. Angus, Rowenna, may the wedding you celebrate tonight bring you the love and loyalty to strengthen your hearts always, in the good and bad days that lie ahead, and may the unity of your hearts and souls be constant, and may your children be blessed to grow and prosper in a country we will call our own.”

He raised his cup. Around the room, other cups rose as well. More words of cheer and congratulations were called out, and as Igrainia watched, still astonished, Angus walked over to Rowenna and gripped her hands. The two of them stared at one another with radiant adoration.

Then Father MacKinley raised his hands in prayer, and those seated stood, and first he praised God for their lives and their victories and the food they would eat. And then he announced that the wedding would begin.

It was simple and beautiful, Father MacKinley's words spoken with strong, fluid tones, and the bride's and groom's vows given with certainty and assurance. When they were pronounced man and wife before God, there were more cheers, and the happy couple were swept up and kissed and congratulated all around in good cheer.

Igrainia hadn't dared to look at Eric through it all. But as the cheers rose and the feasting began, she felt his hand on her arm. “Aren't you wishing to congratulate the happy pair, my lady?”

“Of course,” she murmured awkwardly. He drew them up. They approached, and she had to force a smile, she was still so stunned. But Angus took her in a bear hug, thanking her for being the great lady she had proven herself to be, and swearing his loyalty to her as well as to Eric. Then Rowenna embraced her as well, and thanked her. “My life. . . my life was nothing until I met you. I'd have never known Angus, a man so great and so gentle, and so unaware that this scar mars my face.”

Shame filled Igrainia. She hugged Rowenna in return. “You owe me nothing; it is Eric who brought you to Langley. And you have been deeply and sincerely appreciated there, and you are beautiful, and it is only the truly blind who do see the scar you wear, and . . . forgive me, for ever doubting you.”

Rowenna drew back, perplexed. “Doubting me?”

“Never mind, it doesn't matter. I pray for your every happiness.”

“We will be together, you know. Traveling north to safety. Eric and Angus have both insisted,” she said.

Igrainia nodded. “It will be wonderful to have such a good friend on the journey.”

The pipes had begun to play. As Rowenna smiled at her, innocent of any evil thoughts Igrainia might have had, Angus claimed his bride.

Igrainia found herself swept into the steps she had learned from Jamie at Langley. Then she was dancing with Thayer. . . Timothy . . . Allan, and Father MacKinley. Great trays of food filled the tables, ale flowed freely, and the night passed in a whirl. She saw Eric, with the players, dancing with the girl, whose name was Sarah, with the wrinkled old woman who cooked the meat in the kitchen.

But he didn't talk to her until it was very late, and the newlyweds had left the hall, and the men were beginning to leave, or to find a place upon the table, or on the floor in the rushes, to sleep for the night.

Only then did he take her arm.

And she found herself hurrying before him up the steps, head lowered as they entered the room he had chosen. She heard him close the door, and she knew that he leaned against it, and that he watched her.

“Well?” he said softly.

She couldn't find the words she should have spoken quickly.

He walked to her, not touching her yet, just the sound of his voice brushed her ear.

“Aren't you feeling just a wee bit ashamed?”

“Yes,” she said simply.

Then he did touch her, pulling her into his arms. She looked into his eyes, and admitted, “Very ashamed.” Then she was free, she knew, to throw her arms around him. To press her lips to his with a wet, open-mouthed hunger, and die a little in the rough plunder of his tongue, the force of his hands upon her. She felt that she melted against him, into him, like snow on the mountains, or steam rising into the cool air of a summer morning from a stream that had been warmed by the sun the day before. Their clothing was shed, and she lay with him, in a tempest of triumph, in the tenderness of time, and in a strange, sweet and savage ecstasy of belonging. And when at last they lay together, spent, sated, and exhausted, she was newly thrilled when he suddenly rolled over her, pinning her fiercely, and saying, “What a little fool you are! In truth. We bested an impregnable castle for you! Do you think that I would lead such a force if I were so easily entertained elsewhere?”

“I am the wife you have now!” she reminded him.

He looked down for a long moment. Blond hair fell over his forehead, somewhat shielding his eyes from her view.

“You are the wife I cherish now,” he said simply, and lay beside her again, pulling her against him.

After a while she told him, “Gregory is right. We are going to have a child.”

“I never doubted his word,” he said, his voice slow and heavy, as he was falling asleep.

And yet, she added, “It's not going to be a daughter, Eric. Not a girl with hair like wheat in the sun.”

“You will have my son,” he told her. And she could not read the emotion in his voice, but his arms were around her, and so she chose to rest in them.

“You must sleep,” he told her. “Tomorrow, we will ride hard, in different directions.”

“Tomorrow?” she said in dismay.

“We dare not risk the time. Edward's troops have assembled. The men and I must reach Robert Bruce, and you must be far away from here.”

“Tomorrow!” she repeated with dismay, turning in his arms.

“Igrainia!” he said, as she rose against him, her eyes damp. He let out a soft moan, and cradled her into his arms, giving way to a new rise of passion. “We can sleep along the way,” he decided.

 

 

Allan would lead Igrainia and her party north, Eric had decided. He was most familiar with the trails to the highlands, and with Eric's family who resided there.

There were still a few last minute details to be settled before they rode. But while Allan and several of the men were already mounted, as well as Aidan Abelard, the women had yet to leave the castle and mount their horses.

Seated atop Loki, Eric gazed down at the bodies that had been gathered in the courtyard. Those which they had hidden in their secret war against the castle by night had been removed from their hiding places, since Eric did not mean to leave Cheffington riddled with any form of disease that the rotting corpses might bring about.

But along with those of the men who had been killed was that of a woman. Beginning to rot and bloat, it was a horrible sight. And yet recognizable.

“Jennie,” Father MacKinley said, mounted by Eric's side.

“She must be buried quickly. I don't want Igrainia to see her.”

He was startled when young Aidan brought his horse around to view the pile of the dead. He looked at Eric. “Who killed her?”

“I don't know,” Eric said evenly. “She was the one sending you information from Langley. And she left Langley. Apparently, she came here.”

Aidan looked down again. “Her throat is cut.”

“Aye, so it appears.”

Aidan stared at Eric again. “Lord Danby would never order such a vicious and senseless murder.”

“I sincerely doubt that Danby ordered it.” Eric waited for Aidan to accuse the Scots—since they were the ones she had betrayed.

“Neville,” he said softly. “Or Mason.”

“So it must have been,” Eric agreed.

Aidan looked at him strangely. After a while he said, “I remain your prisoner—or a prisoner of your king. But you can rest assured that I will guard my sister as passionately from certain Englishmen as any of your outlawed men.”

Eric smiled, but sobered, nodding solemnly. “Thank you, Lord Abelard.” Then he looked at Father MacKinley again. “See that the bodies are quickly removed; I will go in and hurry along the women.”

 

 

Igrainia stood in the hall, far more prepared for the journey north than she had been for the abrupt ride here.

But she was loath to go.

Once they had reached a certain distance, Eric would turn, and ride away to join with his king. A great battle was about to commence.

And she might never see him again.

He came striding with purpose and determination into the hall, looking for her, she knew. And he saw her, standing before the great fire, still and pale.

“What is it?” he asked her.

Her heart seemed to quicken. It was so strange. It was as if she couldn't remember a time when his towering gold presence was not the looming factor in her life—and in her heart.

She threw her arms around him. She shook, trying to hold back sobs.

He held her, smoothing back her hair. “We must go now.”

After a moment, she nodded. The waiting was always the misery for women. Whereas . . . Well, he had come for her. He had found her, seized her from the hands of his enemy. She was his wife. She was cherished. Wanted, certainly.

And yet . . .

He'd never said that he loved her.