Knight Triumphant (46 page)

But even as she screamed, Eric rolled. He came to his feet with a vengeance and a will, and he whirled with a mighty strength and fury.

Igrainia watched as his sword ripped across Niles Mason's midsection.

For a moment, the man remained still, poised there, as if pausing in the middle of a dance.

Then, he fell forward.

For a moment, Eric was still. Then something dark touched his face, and he took his sword in his hands, and in a fit like madness, he brought the weapon down again, and again.

“Jamie, let me go, please!” she begged, and struggled to push from him.

He released her.

“Eric!” she cried his name, and his sword stilled. She rushed behind him, closing her eyes against the sight of Niles Mason.

She circled her arms around Eric from the back, laying her head against him.

“It's over!” she breathed. “It's over.”

He remained taut above the body. “The first,” he said quietly, “was for Margot. For my child . . .” His voice faded. He turned, and she looked up as he stared down into her eyes. “And then . . . for you.”

“It's over!” she whispered again. And she thought that something in him had cracked, that he had suffered more grievous wounds than she could see. Then he stiffened, and his arms around her tightened.

“What in God's name are you doing here? Aidan was to have you on a horse and out of here before this all began.”

“Aidan tried, but . . . how was I to know that you did have a plan?” she countered.

He caught her chin with bloodstained fingers. “You should be beaten, you know. Locked away somewhere safe. You . . .”

His fingers fell from her chin. He collapsed against her. She didn't have the size, strength, or power to hold him up.

They fell to the earth together.

 

 

Streambeds were an excellent place to heal. They lay against crystal clear bubbling waters. They provided a multitude of healing mosses and herbs for poultices and salves.

Eric was sorely wounded, yet most of what he sustained was superficial. Some of the slashes on his body ran deep, and would add to the scars he had already sustained. His throat was roughly scratched and bruised from the rope. The cut on his arm needed stitches, as did one gaping slash in his thigh.

The first few days, he was so sore and weak that he was a good patient, lying on the bed she arranged, barely aware of the tender care she gave.

There were many wounded. Thayer again sustained serious wounds, but they didn't seem to bother him. Each one, he assured her, taught him something new about defending himself.

One the afternoon of the second day, while Eric lay sleeping and others tended to the rest of the wounded, Igrainia sat on the bank, her toes in the water, with Jamie beside her.

Jamie chewed on a blade of grass. “You'll be far safer now, you know,” he told her. And turned to her. “But when he rises, Eric will join Robert Bruce.”

“Has Edward risen then to lead his great force to battle?”

“I don't know. Allan and some of the others have ridden out to find out what is happening,” Jamie said. “You gave a fine accounting of yourself, you know.”

She flushed. “It was the worst time I have ever spent in my life. And there have been many awful times of late. I had no idea that you all were coming . . . I couldn't believe that Eric would just allow them to . . . to . . .”

“It's over,” Jamie said softly.

“But it's not. You all will ride off to battle again, soon enough.”

Jamie didn't dispute her. With a shrug he said, “There are quite a number of us; the clan has grown and covers many areas of the country. In fact, we've bred a few very black sheep, but for the most part . . . we've kin who followed Wallace each step of the way, and they will be with Robert Bruce when Scotland is really free, and he is king in truth of a sovereign nation. Eric's loyalty will never be questioned. But, yes, we will ride off to battle again. Eric will do so. You can't stop a man from fighting for something that has become more than a dream,” he said. “But . . .”

“But?”

“You can take pleasure in the knowledge that you have brought him back from a nightmare of torment worse than death.” His gray eyes were on her again, both sparkling and grave. “He loves you, you know.”

She hesitated, biting her lip. “I'm his wife. And . . . I am going to have his child. I am . . . what is his.”

Jamie laughed, drawing her sharp gaze.

He shook his head. “Igrainia, when he planned on giving himself up, we knew that we were taking a grave chance. He knew it. And I asked him,
is she worth it
? He said yes, Igrainia. No man offers himself up for possibly taking that kind of torture for a woman he doesn't love. He wasn't just willing to give his life. It was more, far more.”

“I've seen him being noble for many people, on many occasions. He has never said that he loves me.”

Jamie smiled. “Facing the possibility of disembowelment, castration, and beheading goes a wee bit above the call of being noble,” he said.

“Yes, you're right.”

“Don't let Margot's ghost stand in the way of what happiness you two will have the time to seize,” he told her. “Remember this, they were together for years. Before Margot. . . well, he was a seafaring man. He was a roamer. But when he loved her, she was everything in his life. Margot's benison is something wonderful for you. He is a man who loves a woman with every ounce of devotion and loyalty in his soul. Don't worry about words. Know what he has done, and that it was done for you, and let it suffice.”

Impulsively, she kissed him on his cheek. “He is going to want to ride to the side of Robert Bruce,” she said. “As are you, I'm certain. But . . . he shouldn't ride too quickly, Jamie. He does need time to heal.”

“If the great battle is about to take place, no force on earth will stop him.”

That night, she slept beside Eric, listening to his even breathing, grateful that he was doing so well. The next morning, she went down to the stream. She walked in wearing her shift, eager for the waters. She had begun to feel that she would never rid her own flesh of all the blood that had spilled.

She cast her head back into the water, letting it rush through her hair. She smoothed it back with her hands, and looked up.

Eric was standing. Battered and bruised, but apparently stronger in muscle and mind, he watched her from the bank. She rose quickly, and rushed to him, afraid that he would falter and fall. But as she came forward, he caught her in his arms, and pulled her against his chest. He didn't kiss her, and he didn't even speak for the longest time, but held her there. And she felt the strong, unwavering beat of his heart, and she was glad.

He eased himself down to sit upon the bank, and she came down with him, searching his eyes to assure herself that he was well enough to be up and moving. “Whatever am I going to do about you?” he asked softly. She was on her back, her head in his lap. He smoothed a lock of wet hair from her forehead. “You are always in the midst of things, just when you should be away and safe.” He wasn't really looking for an answer; he had the one he wanted. “You've still got to ride north, you know.”

“I know.”

“What, no argument? You're quite certain? Niles and Robert may both be dead, but the south isn't safe. Even if Langley has thus far stood firm. But . . . at least, there are really beautiful bodies of water in the highland country.”

“That will be lovely.”

“You're far too agreeable. Am I more gravely injured than I knew?”

She shook her head. “I simply can't change what is. And I know that you will ride to join Robert Bruce. And that I will die a little bit every time you're gone, and . . . live for those moments when you will return.”

His hand, which had moved lightly on her hand, fell still. “Will you?” he said, but again, he didn't really want an answer. “I've told both your brother and Lord Danby that they are free. They may ride to join Edward's army, or go wherever they like. They proved themselves truly gallant and honorable men in the past days, and as I can't change what is a passion in my heart, I don't expect them to forget that they are Englishmen. Since Aidan is your brother, I'm assuming you'd just as soon that I did lock him up and keep him safe. But I can't do that. He is young, but very much a man, and worthy of being Lord Abelard.”

“I am glad that you have left the decision to them.”

He nodded. “And what about you, Igrainia? You are English as well. With me, you're the wife of an outlaw. And in the future, I can't promise any rich castles, fine clothing. . . actually, as of late, I can't even promise a bed on which to sleep.”

She almost laughed. “I have been prized for who I am and what I possess. You are the one receiving nothing. My estates in England will certainly be confiscated, and Langley. . . Langley belongs to the man who holds it.”

He was silent for a moment, then he said huskily. “Neither lands nor riches are the prize, Igrainia. You are the prize.”

She trembled where she lay. “I, alone? King Edward would never believe that. Nor, I imagine, would Robert Bruce.”

“Robert Bruce did point out how very beautiful you were.”

She arched a brow. “He told you that? When he was ordering you to sleep with me, I believe.”

He offered her a subtle smile, taking no offense. “Actually, it was a day by a stream, much like this one, when I first realized just how completely beautiful you were.” His smile faded then and his words were as serious as the sudden, dark depths of his eyes. “Igrainia, forgive me whatever cruelties I offered when we first met. I was in an agony such as could never be bestowed on the flesh. I know that you suffered as well. It wasn't you that I loathed with such fury, it was death, and each time I looked at you, and thought that you were beautiful, I was angry at myself. That you were actually admirable was something I refused to accept. And when I was forced to accept the fact that you were so very desirable, it was more than painful. But then . . . when it seemed that I was losing you time and again, despite my best efforts and what I've always considered a sound military mind, I was forced to realize that . . .”

“That . . .” she said hopefully.

But he never had a chance to reply. There was a sudden shouting and cheering by the stream bank. Igrainia sat up quickly. Eric rose, helping her to her feet. Anxiously, they started walking back together. In a few minutes' time, they were running.

The injured, the care-givers, and those just passing the time by the stream were all risen, all together, and gathered around Allan, who had returned on a sweaty horse, and remained atop it, flushed and windblown, but grinning ear to ear.

“What has happened?” Eric demanded.

“He's dead! Edward I of England is dead!” Allan shouted. “He rose from his sickbed, mounted his horse, rode but six miles in four days, had to stop—and died! Dear God, the king is dead, long live the king!”

“Allan, details! So what is happening now?” Eric demanded. Allan at last dismounted, approaching Eric where he stood, where the others had gathered around him. “He died, telling his son that his heart was to be brought to Jerusalem, and that his bones should be stripped of their flesh and carried with him into battle against the Scots—and that they should remain unburied until the Scots are at last wholly subjugated and subdued.”

“Those bones will stay atop the ground forever then!” Angus called out.

“Aye, for it seems that Edward II has stopped all the action. He's not done what his father asked, but has made arrangements to inter the body at Waltham Abbey, and has called back favorites whom his father had banished. In short, he sits with his assembled army.”

Allan saw that Igrainia was staring at him blankly. He spoke softly for her benefit. “Edward was merciless here in Scotland. But he was a warrior king. A true Plantagenet. While his son . . . Igrainia, the great battle will not come now. Robert Bruce has been given time, precious time. He can travel north through the country, subdue his enemies within it, gain a solid foothold in Scotland, and then . . . then make his stand against the English.”

She smiled slowly at Allan. Again, cheers went up.

Sad, perhaps, that so many could celebrate the death of a man, a king.

And she had known him. Known him in better days when he had been, to his own people, a great king. Handsome, gallant, powerful, a force to create a strong England.

And yet . . .

She had to be glad.

Eric had her hand. While the throng around Allan continued to shout and cheer, he led her down the stream, a long way down the stream. He released her hand and walked into the water. He turned back to her, beckoning. She joined him.

“He was your king. I'm sorry.”

“I'm sorry as well. Once, in his way, he was a great king. But . . .”

“Aye?”

“If his death means that you'll not ride to battle so quickly, then . . .”

“Aye?”

“Then there is something to be grateful in it.”

He reached out, touching her face, smiling. “Do you remember how I told you that the first day I really knew how completely beautiful you were was that long ago day at a different stream?”

She nodded. “So you say.”

“I was really furious with myself . . . for what I wanted.”

“And that was . . .”

“Well, here we are in the water again.” He pulled her into his arms. His hands were on her shoulders. The damp shift slipped from them. “Since we're here, I can just show you.”