Knight Triumphant (43 page)

War awaited. He had done what he had to do. She was moving on to safety, to the heart of his family, where she knew, just as she knew the clan bond between him and Jamie, that she would be protected every day of her life, no matter what his fate in battle for the honor of his king.

He paused, and kissed her deeply, cupping her chin, and studying her eyes as he was prone to do. Then he said at length, “Come, we must really go.”

He caught her hand, led her out, and helped her to mount. He leaped atop Loki, and in a mass, they rode through the gates of Cheffington.

For two hours they rode together, north. Then it was time to split. Allan, in charge of the men escorting her, Rowenna, a few of the players and other men and women from Cheffington, Lord Danby, and Aidan. Gregory would be riding with the men to battle.

There was little time and no privacy when they parted ways. Eric rode Loki to a point next to her own horse, reached across the bit of space, and pulled her into his arms. His lips touched hers with both tenderness and passion. And he told her, “Guard our child.”

She nodded.

Tears blurred her eyes.

And he was gone.

It was Igrainia's love of water that warned her, the following morning, of the presence of the horsemen so very near to where they had stopped for the night.

On waking, she had seen Allan, awake and aware, at the edge of the path leading to their encampment. Near her, Rowenna still slept, while her brother and Lord Danby were sleeping nearby, guarded by Brandon and Timothy.

She could hear the trickle of the stream. She had slept on a bed of soft earth and grass, and had thought that she would awake cool and cramped since they had not lit a fire. Allan had said that they must not. She had realized then that Eric and his men were going after Neville and Mason before joining the king, and that Allan had been warned to take the most extreme care until they had traveled far to the north.

She understood. None in their party had questioned the absence of a fire.

And she had not wakened stiff and cramped. The woods were cool, but not cold; summer had even allowed for some beautiful sunshine this year, and the day dawning through the trees promised to be beautiful.

Sitting up, stretching, she could look over the brush between her and the stream, and see that a light mist was rising from the water. She rose, and stretched, careful not to wake those around her.

She trod softly through the grass, weeds, and wild flowers, and moved down a distance, determined not to wake those who had not risen as yet. She cast off her shoes and hose, and waded in. The water rushed over her toes, as pleasant as she had imagined. She hunched down, heedless that she dampened her gown, since it would surely dry in the day's promised sunlight. The water splashing over her face felt wonderful. It tasted cool and delicious.

But as she smoothed back her dampened hair, she heard sounds that didn't belong in the forest. The jangle of a horse's bridle . . . the sounds of men speaking. She held completely still, and strained to hear. She began to catch pieces of conversation. Snatches of sentences, phrases, words . . .

“. . . and the tracks to the east are well laid.”

“And . . . certain that we are on them.”

“Aye, we'll pick up the trail this . . .”

“. . . close, I know that we're close.”

“Aye, and the moment we've got them . . .”

“. . . they'll not all survive the first onslaught.”

“Any man who survives . . .”

“. . . the woods will be alive with the smell of burning outlaw entrails.”

“. . . need only follow . . .”

As she sat entirely still in absolute horror, she realized that she knew the voices of their speakers. Robert Neville had spoken first.

And Niles Mason was the second speaker. The one enthusiastic to smell the burning entrails.

She rose very slowly. The pleasant water at her feet suddenly felt as cold as ice. She swallowed, barely able to breathe. Seconds swept by her as she realized in desolation that something had to be done to waylay the Englishmen, or else every man among the Scots would be captured, and immediately cut to ribbons.

Neville and Mason were leading a body of armed men. Those who had set out to cut down a large party of outlaws in the forest.

Allan was leading a group of prisoners and refugees, with perhaps ten able men to wage battle if necessary.

She knew that the Scots were famed for their lightning attacks, and the defense maneuvers that allowed them to beat back huge forces that offered incredible odds.

But these odds were overwhelming.

They would be overcome, and the men would be slain, and she would be captured again. And the hint of what life might have been if she had been free—even to wait in fear for each battle of this war that was waged—had been so sweet that even this moment in the stream was charged with agony.

“Igrainia!”

She turned. Rowenna, smiling tentatively, had come to the stream. On the bank, she was stripping off her shoes and hose.

Igrainia paused just a split second longer, feeling the beautiful breeze in the air, the soft warm kiss of the rising sun on her cheeks.

One way or another, she was going to wind up back in the custody of the man she loathed.

She sprang to life then, racing to the place where Rowenna stood, clamping her hand over the other girl's mouth. Rowenna struggled for a moment in surprise, then seemed to acknowledge Igrainia's whispered, “Shsh!”

She drew her back from the stream, whispering quickly then. “They're there, Neville, Mason, and their men. They're on to us. I'm going to take a horse and split the trail—”

“No! My God, they'll seize you. You can't—”

“Rowenna! Understand this. They will attack and slaughter the entire party and I will be seized, one way or the other.”

“I can't let you do it. I will scream, I swear it. Allan will stop you. We can get away.” Her voice quavered. She knew that they could not get away.

“Rowenna, you know as well as I do that we cannot! You've got to help me, because Allan will allow himself to be captured and slaughtered like a boar in order to keep us safe. And Neville will have me anyway. Don't you understand? Please, God, don't let me wind up back with them, and have the deaths of these men to live with, day by day, as well!”

Rowenna breathed slowly.

“I can go.” she said. “Neville doesn't want me.”

“Niles Mason is a murderer. I am the only one with a chance. If I go, Rowenna, Allan may know how to reach Eric's forces. Rowenna!” She shook the girl. “Neville wants my lands in England, and he wants to be lord of Langley. He can't be those things without me. He wants to marry me. . . to . . . own me. Please, you have to help me. You have to keep Allan occupied while I get a horse . . . and get away. Rowenna, I am begging you, for the love of God, if we chance much more time, they'll find us right where we are now, and everyone will die. I am an excellent rider, I've spent much of my life on horses, and I'm riding a well-fed mount that had belonged to a rich man. Now. I must go now!”

Rowenna's wide-eyed look of desolate horror assured Igrainia that she understood the peril. She understood that Neville could not have Langley or English riches without Igrainia.

“Go to Allan. Keep him talking, while I take my horse. He'll want to know where I am. Tell him that I'm bathing in the spring, and that I need a little time, and privacy. He will not have trouble believing that,” Igrainia said firmly. She didn't wait for Rowenna's reply, but grabbed her hose and shoes and stumbled into them as quietly and quickly as she could. She started back, following the water's edge to the camp, treading in determined silence past the others who were still sleeping, or just beginning to wake. She found the graceful, beautifully bred mare she had been riding. There was no time for a saddle. She slipped the mare's bridle from the line where the animal was tethered, urged her from the group of horses and into the clearing. She walked her through a nonexistent path, winding through the trees, to avoid having to pass any point in Allan's vision, and once she had made her way back to the main road, she mounted at last.

She retraced the steps they had taken the night before, then began riding hard along a path that took her far from the little party in the woods. She crossed the streambed, passing by the point where Neville and Mason had been camped. So close . . . yet through the night, neither party had known of the other's presence.

She doubled up on the track where she had run, making certain that there were plenty of hoofprints in the dirt along the trail, and that she had broken limbs from the trees and bushes along the way. Even if she hadn't been missed at first, if Rowenna had explained that she was bathing in private, Allan would soon begin to worry about her.

Riding near the enemy camp, she judged her distance. She needed to come close enough to ensure that someone heard a commotion along the trail.

And she needed to stay far enough ahead to force them out to follow her . . .

Follow her long enough so that they were led far, far away from the others.

 

 

They had just woken from the night's encampment and were preparing to start out on the day's ride when Eric saw Gregory—who had been about to mount his horse—suffer a strange spasm as he stood there. For a moment, he shook, violently.

He dropped his horse's reins, and doubled over.

Eric strode to him instantly, afraid that the boy was having a seizure.

But Gregory rose, still looking as if an unendurable agony tore into his flesh.

“What's wrong? Father MacKinley! Come, quickly!” Eric commanded.

MacKinley came running over. Gregory was mouthing words.

“He says that we must double back instantly,” Father MacKinley began.

“I can read that . . . I can read his lips fairly well . . . but what is that last word he is trying to say?”

MacKinley stared at him.

“Igrainia. He is afraid for Igrainia. He is saying her name.”

 

 

Igrainia knew that the men were behind her.

She hadn't waited for them to mount their horses and start out in a breakneck pursuit, but rode ahead at a ground-eating gallop herself. Neither Niles nor Robert would feel the need to do so, since they believed they were following behind a somewhat hampered party of prisoners and women.

But when she had put some distance between herself and the campsite, she slipped from her horse and knelt down, setting her ear to the ground. At first, there was nothing. Then, she could feel the vibrations, and she knew that they were following behind. As she rose and mounted again, she once more had reason to be thankful for the time she had spent reading Afton's books on the art and skills of warfare when she had been a prisoner in her own chambers at Langley.

She could only pray that Allan would have the sense to gather help before making any attempt to come after her.

Nudging her horse firmly, she started to ride again.

 

 

Eric and his men doubled back, returning along the trail they had followed, trying to catch up with Neville and Mason and their men. As he rode, he knew that they had laid the trail, knowing that he would send Igrainia to safety before joining with Robert Bruce.

He damned himself for his stupidity as he rode.

They found the English encampment by the stream. And they saw the broken brush and branches leading to the northwest. The trail had been covered by a number of horses.

As he prepared to mount and ride again, Jamie told him, “Listen!”

He did. He heard the hoot of a night owl, soft on the breeze.

It was day.

Jamie returned the call.

A moment later, Allan came bursting through the trees on his horse. He was white-faced and grim.

“Igrainia?” Eric said.

“She tricked me,” he admitted, his white features betraying his dread for the words he had to say. “She sent word that she was bathing . . . and created a trail for them to follow.”

“She tricked us all,” Aidan said, riding up behind Allan. “She knew . . . she knew that they would slay your entire party. And possibly me and Lord Danby as well. After all, we stand in the way of what he wants.”

Despite the sick, choking rage that grew in Eric, he knew that there was nothing he could say to them. He knew Igrainia.

And in his heart, he knew that she had made the only move she could. His head spun with a cold, sick fury, yet it was against himself.

He had misjudged his enemy.

“We ride after them,” he said simply.

And he spurred Loki forward, racing against the wind.

 

 

As the day wore on, Igrainia was in pain. She hadn't come upon a stream again in hours. She had ridden so long and so hard that her thighs ached. She was hungry, and yet her stomach seemed to be roiling. At last, she nearly fell from her horse.

She had to stop, and had to find water.

For herself, and for her horse.

She dismounted. For a moment, she was so dizzy that she had to pause, bend over, and wait until the dark cloud over her vision passed by. She straightened. Her stomach rebelled. She stumbled into the bushes and then emerged, more desperate than ever for water.

She tried to mount again, and realized that she hadn't the strength then to leap onto the back of her mount. She led the mare to a fallen log, and managed to drag herself back on. She spoke to the horse, telling her that she was an animal, she was supposed to instinctively know how to find water. At last, by standing still on the road, she could hear a bubbling sound, and she followed it through the trees at the side of the road, crashing through branches and limbs, until she came to the water. She drank too fast, and found that she was sick again. She drank more slowly. Cooled her face with the water. The horse drank its fill. Finally, Igrainia led it from the trees, then, before mounting again, she dropped to the ground and placed her ear against the earth.

She heard the vibrations instantly.

They were close.

So much closer than they had been before.

She stumbled up, and onto the horse.

 

 

Rowenna rode hard to make her way to Eric at the lead. Her cheeks were tear-stained. “It's my fault. I knew, but she knew . . . and she said that he would get her one way or the other, and that she couldn't bear it, being his captive, and knowing that so many had died because of her.”

Eric glanced at Rowenna.

“It is no man's fault, except my own,” he said.

And he pushed harder, riding ahead.

 

 

She didn't need to drop to the ground to hear the horses.