Knight Triumphant (49 page)

“And I am amazed that you are so prepared.”

“A shepherd saw your approach when you and your men paused at the stream by the forest.”

A simple enough explanation. He didn't believe her.

“How kind that you have looked to our needs, when payment of the tribute was all that was necessary.”

“We wish to continue to prosper,” she said lightly, then added, “and live, as well, of course.”

“The king of Scots isn't a cold-blooded murderer, as you are aware.”

“Well, with all men, it depends on the circumstances, does it not?” she inquired. “Please, be seated. We couldn't be certain exactly when you would arrive, and I hope that the meal has not grown cold. Sir Alfred will be joining us here. Some of my retainers will be joining your men outside.”

Jamie bowed to her, and took her hand, startling her for a moment. Despite her cool demeaner, her flesh felt like fire. He sensed that she longed to jerk her hand away, yet she did not. The smile that came to her lips was forced.

“I meant only to escort you to your chair, Lady Christina, not chop off your fingers.”

“Of course,” she said, and allowed him to escort her. As he walked by her side, he felt the tension in her body, as if she emitted sparks of heat.

As he seated her in one of the large chairs at the head of the table, he saw that Sir Alfred was directing his men to places. Servants came from the kitchen. All were male. Mostly large men, and those who were not still appeared to be heavily muscled. The only one to serve wine was a comely young woman with round blue eyes and delicate features. As she reached to fill his glass, Jamie noted that her hands were smooth, her nails neatly trimmed. No callouses from long labors touched her tender flesh.

She moved to his left, serving his men, rather than the lady of the manor.

“You had no difficulty riding?” Sir Alfred, just at the curve of the table, asked. His words were jovial, as if he were welcoming kin from afar.

“Aye, the roads were fine,” Jamie said. “It's winter, or storm season, when it is so difficult to travel south.” He pointed to one of the tapestries and asked, “What battle is depicted there?” Both Sir Alfred and Lady Christina looked at the tapestry. He took the moment to give a sign to Liam.

Then, in a heartbeat, both the lady and Sir Alfred were looking at him. They seemed to share a certain discomfort. He arched a brow to the woman. “Ah . . . it's a fairly new piece, is it not? The battle of Falkirk. I see the colors now. Edward I, there, in all his glory and splendor. And all the Scots there—dead and in pools of blood. It's quite a use of color. Did you create the piece, Lady Christina?”

She appeared pale. “No, Sir, I did not.”

“Now there would be a fine piece to bring to the king,” Liam commented to Jamie.

“Um. Perhaps not,” Jamie said. A man stood at his left shoulder, ready to serve one of the trays of meat. He sat back, watching the woman at his side. Then he turned from her and addressed George. “I had forgotten. How remiss. George, tell Grayson that I believe Satan has picked up a stone. I'd not have my horse go lame.”

“Aye, Jamie,” George said, excusing himself and rising. He bowed to the lady and Sir Alfred before leaving the hall.

The serving woman with the soft hands was back. She poured for the lady and Sir Alfred, and seemed to find that her pitcher was empty.

“So, tell me, how will the tribute be paid?” Jamie said, addressing the woman.

“I've ten excellent warhorses for you to take now,” she said.

He shrugged. “A good warhorse is a mighty payment, indeed. But I believe the king was expecting a certain amount of gold.”

She nodded, sipping her wine, not looking his way. “I'm afraid that you've come before we've been entirely able to prepare. My brother has gone to collect the revenue from some of the stock we've recently sold. At his return, the bulk of the payment will be made in gold.”

“Ah, so that is why you are here to deal with this business,” he said.

“Sir, it doesn't take a scholar or a well-schooled knight to pay off men who hold innocent people under ransom, does it?”

He smiled, picked up his glass, an unusual and elegant piece, and drank deeply from it. “An excellent wine,” he told her.

“I am glad you approve. Please, do drink your fill.”

“Innocent people,” he repeated softly.

“I've certainly done you no harm,” she said.

He sipped more wine, smiling politely in return. “I believe, my lady, that your father was Sir Adam Steel.”

“He was.”

His smile deepened. “I believe he was with a group under Edward I who agreed to meet with a number of Scottish nobles to negotiate, years ago . . . twelve-ninety-six, I think it was.”

Again, he saw the color leaving her face.

“They all met in peace. The Scots deposited their weapons as agreed. They died with their throats slit.”

“I was an infant, Sir, and have no idea where my father was at the time. But I might point out that not far from here, your William Wallace cornered a number of English knights, herded them into a barn, and stood and smelled the air as they all burned to death.”

“But I don't believe that he would have come south—and the English not come north.”

She turned on him suddenly. “You should take care. There are still many English in Scotland.”

“Oh, we are aware of that. But then again . . . here we are in England.”

“Demanding payment.”

“Aye.”

She wanted to say more; she refrained. “We've entertainment for you,” she said, rising. She went to the kitchen.

Sir Alfred remarked on the quality of their horses.

“I admit, Sir Alfred, they were taken from the English at a castle we recently restored to the king's domain,” Jamie said.

A moment later the lady returned with a small man in a jester's costume and another who carried a lute. The one stood with his instrument while the other performed acrobatic feats, then sang an innocuous ballad about pirates at sea. The lady had taken her chair again. Jamie watched as the jester sat with his men, accepted wine, and encouraged the Scots to drink. Jamie watched Liam, next to the jester. His men appeared amused and entertained, as they were intended to be.

They lifted their glasses, raised a toast to Hamstead Heath, and its beautiful lady.

She smiled, and graciously accepted the compliment.

A moment later, when another song had begun, he turned to her.

“You don't have, nor will you have the tribute, Lady Christina,” he said as fact.

She lifted her glass and eyed him over it, a challenge in her eyes.

“And if we do not?”

“Well, then, we take all the livestock, everything of value in the manor, burn it and the outbuildings to the ground, and depart. I'm afraid we shall have to kill anyone who tries to prevent us from doing so.”

“How merciful,” she said, her tone dry, and not at all frightened.

“You don't have the payment.” He leaned closer to her. “You should be alarmed.”

She looked at him with her green eyes cool, calm, assessing. “I'm afraid, Sir, that you will not be able to bring harm and destruction to Hamstead Heath.”

“And why is that?”

She set down her glass, watched him for a moment, and smiled. “Because, soon, you will not be able to move at all. Your wine has been drugged.”

He digested that information, allowing his fingers to knot around the glass on the table, and his voice to deepen as if with fear and fury.

“So you have meant to murder us all.”

She shook her head. “Murder you? Such fine prisoners for ransom. No, dear Sir. Your eyes will shortly close, and you will sleep the sleep of the dead for a good many hours. You will awaken within English prisons in the very best of health.”

He looked at her gravely. “I am glad you did not intend murder.”

“Why is that?” she inquired. Then her eyes fell for a moment and she shook her head. “It would be far easier for you to die here in the spell of a strong opiate, rather than face the death that will be intended by decree of the king.”

“How courteous of you to consider a lesser death for my men and me,” he said. Her eyes once again met his. They seemed impassive. She might not wish extreme violence upon any man; it didn't seem that his fate meant much to her one way or another.

“You've no right on English land,” she said. “Even if the English king is now little more than a . . . well, even if he is not a ‘hammer' of the Scots. You have brought about your own doom.”

“But I haven't fallen flat quite yet,” he told her. “What makes you think that, in my fury, I will not draw my sword, and slice out your heart for such treachery?”

“I doubt if you will have the strength to do so.”

He smiled. “I've the strength, but not the need.”

“And why is that?” she inquired, but with little interest. She expected that he would fall face first into his stew any minute. Her work would be done; men would be summoned to take them away, shackle them, drive them onward to whatever dungeon was intended.

He leaned back in his chair, watching her, fascinated by the green cat eyes that returned his stare with cool apathy.

“Because, my lady,
you
have been drinking the opiate.”

At last, a response. Those beautiful eyes went wide with alarm. Then they narrowed in disbelief.

“You are a liar, Sir. There was no reason to expect any treachery here.”

He leaned forward. “There is always a reason to expect treachery among the English,” he said, and he couldn't keep the note of bitterness and anger out of his voice. “Trust me, my lady, the cups were long ago switched, and the alarm was given to my men. You will find your people sleeping the sleep of the dead very soon.”

She started to rise—and realized that he was telling the truth. She sat back down quickly, her fingers quivering on the table where they lay.

“You will have no power here. Your men—”

“I'm afraid that you'll find the floor beneath the table quite wet with the fruit of the vine. Ah! Look! There goes Sir Alfred!”

As he spoke, the white-bearded fellow's face fell into his plate.

“Your men outside—”

“Were warned.”

She shook her head. “You can't . . .”

“Can't what? I told you what will happen.”

“No . . . all these people. They will starve come winter.”

“Alas, you should have thought of that.”

He was startled when her fingers suddenly curled around his wrist with a surprising and desperate strength. And he was even more surprised when she spoke.

“You can't leave me here!”

“What?”

“You can't leave me here.”

“My lady, Robert Bruce is one of the most humane men I have ever seen. We do not slay the populace, nor do we even seize prisoners and bring them back to Scotland. Not unless they're of incredible value, which you are not. You've really nothing to fear.”

She shook her head. “No! You must take me with you.”

“As what?” he inquired, eyes narrowing.

This was definitely a strange form of treachery.

“As . . . anything,” she said.

“You know what you're saying?” he demanded.

“Indeed, exactly.” Her voice seemed to quaver slightly. He wondered if it was the drug, doing its work, or if she was speaking boldly to hide another kind of fear.

Truly puzzled, he stared at her.

“You wish to become a camp follower? Or far worse? There are other names for what you're suggesting, of course . . .”

“You can't leave me here!” she insisted again.

“Why? You are the child of a respected English knight. A murderer to those of us who are Scots, but a hero in the days of the old king of England.”

She moistened her lips, seeking an answer that wouldn't come. He lowered his head and leaned closer, his mouth nearly against her own.

“Why?” he demanded again.

He was not to have his answer.

The lady fell forward into his arms.

He shook his head, pulling free from her grasp.

“Please!” she said.

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Copyright © 2002 by Shannon Drake

 

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