Knight Triumphant (5 page)

“She is as hot as fire.”

“Then you must move so that I can cool her.”

Jennie had left fresh cool water on the marble-topped table near the bed. Igrainia first set the kettle upon the hearth where a poor fire burned, then began dousing clothes in the water. When she turned back to the woman she found that he was frowning, his eyes blue blades again, so sharp as to cut into her.

“You've gone so far as to steal the rags of clothing from her back?”

“She is swaddled, sir, because the only way to ease the fever is to cool her skin from head to toe. I will brew herbs with wine as well, for some have the power to heal, as surely you know.”

“If you poison her, you will die very slowly. There are some interesting torture devices to be found in the foul dungeons below where we were kept.”

“There is no real threat you can give me. But since I pray that you don't set forth upon a bloodbath and murder the men and women who live in this castle, I can promise you, I have no intention of poisoning your wife. Nor sir, would I ever do such a thing. You malign my husband, who is now judged by God alone. If you were blessed with half the intelligence of your brute strength, sir, you would have realized that when you were brought in.”

She didn't look at him as she spoke, but gave her entire attention to the task at hand, bathing the woman to slake the fever.

As the day wore on, he saw what she did, and tried to help. When he realized her dismay at the poor flames in the hearth, he went to fetch wood, and when she dropped each herb into the mulling wine, she had to give him a detailed explanation of just what she used, and why.

During the long afternoon his men came to the door and gave him reports on what was being done to secure the castle or who had lived, and who had died. Father MacKinley came, and flagons were filled from the great kettle of mulling wine so that he could treat the others as well. Except to fetch wood and kindling for the fire when it was needed, the rebel Scot did not leave the room at all, and when he was not working to bring down his wife's fever, he sat by her side, holding her hand. What emotion he felt he did not display, other than in the ticking of a blood vessel at his throat, and in the tension in his muscled forearms, and the tightening of his hands.

“Have you suffered the fever yourself, ever?” she asked him once.

His cold Nordic blue eyes touched hers. “No.”

“You are at great risk.”

“We have been at great risk.”

“From where had you come to bring this fever with you?”

He scowled at her, as if talking to her was an extreme bother, but he gave her a reply. “I don't know where this fever came from. We found a man at sea . . . his shipmates had apparently perished. We thought to save his life. Instead, he has taken all ours.”

“Perhaps,” she said, changing the cloth on the woman's forehead, “it was God's judgment.”

“Perhaps it was God's judgment that the English should seize upon women and children and bring them here, and so kill many more English than Scots,” he said sharply. “And what makes you think I honor your God?”

She started. “The God of England is the God of Scotland.”

“But I am not entirely a Scotsman, lady. So don't think that I will stop at anything because of Christianity or a fear of Hell.”

“I have no doubts that you would kill as brutally as any man alive.”

“No man alive is more brutal than Edward of England.”

That was difficult to argue. Not a man, woman, or child alive had not heard tales of the king's fury when he sacked Berwick. Orders had been given that none should be spared, and women, children and infants had been struck down as they ran in terror. Only the slaying of a mother at the moment of giving birth at last brought the king's own horror home to him, and only then did the carnage come to an end.

“Edward is merciless against those he considers to be traitors,” she said.

“I am merciless against those I consider to be traitors—or murderers,” he replied.

A knock sounded at the door and he went to answer the summons. A man he had called Patrick stood there, and spoke to him in quiet tones. A moment later, he closed the door and returned to the room, showing Igrainia a parchment.

“There lies the love of your king! It's an order delivered at the end of an arrow shot far from the gates, warning that we must not spread the plague from Langley. How intriguing. It seems that the troops who swept down upon women and children, refusing to believe in the illness, managed to depart your husband's castle at the first sign we were telling the truth. They have crossed the border, and are ordered to remain in an abbey there until they are certain they will not bring this contagion into England. It's a pity that none of the king's lackeys could have delivered it straight into Edward's bosom. The Earl of Pembroke, that illustrious battle arm of Edward, has sent word that none should leave here until all are certain that the illness will not be spread beyond these gates. There is lengthy rhetoric here, which you are welcome to read, but in truth, it says that all must die with the Scottish rebel prisoners rather than risk infesting the land. Of course, the message has been sent to your late husband. Apparently, no one has received word of his demise. But you must be grateful, of course, that I waylaid you before you were able to disobey an order from the long arm of your king.”

“No reasonable man would want this plague spread. It came to Langley through your people. It is an enemy to you, and to me. Any ruler, mindful of his subjects, would give such an order.”

“Madam, you are very understanding. What would your father think, however, knowing that his child must be sacrificed along with all the others!”

“My father, sir, cannot share his thoughts on the matter. He has been dead some months now.”

“Ah! So the king can cast you to your fate with no fear of reparation among his greatest barons. Ah, but, surely, there is someone to claim the title now?”

“My brother.”

“And, pray tell, does he fight for Edward?”

“He is expected to ride with him soon. He just turned seventeen.”

“Just seventeen? Do you know how many young men of that age litter not just the battlefields here, but the farmsteads and villages as well?”

“Justin is an excellent horseman and swordsman. The king has taken a keen interest in his training, and has been intent that he should be fully prepared to command his elders.”

“Oh, yes, of course. Poor lad. He is an earl. He can't be taking orders from lesser men. Yet I wonder if he is aware of what has occurred here, news can travel so slowly. And if he knew . . . what could he do? Orders have been given. So his dear sister must stay here . . . languishing among the doomed!”

“By the time my brother hears of the situation here, it will be over.”

“And how shall it all end?” he asked lightly, and she realized that he didn't want an answer. He was watching his wife where she lay upon the bed. He leaned toward her, then told Igrainia tensely, “Her fever does not lessen.”

“I am afraid she has fallen very ill.”

“You know that you must save her.”

“I know only that I can do my best.”

“If she dies—”

“Aye, yes, I know, you will murder us all. Then you must, for I can do all that is in my power, but I am not invested with magic.”

Again, he did not seem to be paying any heed. His eyes were upon his wife, and though she loathed him, she felt an odd chill, wondering what great love he must have for this woman that he could think that anyone, any power, could fight death.

She was startled when he replied to her after several moments. “That is not what they say.”

Igrainia stared at him, but his steady gaze remained upon his wife. He knew much more about Langley Castle, and about her, than she had imagined.

She measured her answer carefully. “If I were a witch, sir, with magic beyond that of healing herbs, I would have saved my own husband.”

That brought his steady gaze to her at last, and he slowly arched a brow. “Madam, your marriage was arranged at your birth, and you have been lady here less than a year.”

She felt the hot burning of her eyes, and she was furious. It was one thing that he should come here, fight her people, demand the castle, and mourn his child while demanding that she keep his wife alive. Force and power, even brute cruelty might be expected in war, and these were violent and dangerous times.

But that he should know her life, and mock her love for so fine a man, seemed an invasion that went beyond the power of a victor. She locked her jaw tightly, fighting tears before she replied. Then her anger infused her words with strength. “How dare you? How dare you suggest that . . . You did not know Afton. You could never know a man like Afton, never understand a man like Afton. The world to you is take and seize with your sword, with your violence. Fight with such fury that you will always win. There are those alive who can see the plight of others, men with minds as well as brawn, who will not practice cruelty because cruelty has been practiced against them. My husband was such a man, with both strength and gentleness, and had I been his wife but one day, sir, I would have loved him with a deeper passion,
admiration,
and
respect
than you could ever
begin
to understand.”

His gaze remained on her and she waited for—expected—mocking words in return. But after a moment he turned to his wife. “Then I am sorry for your loss. But still, this is—was—your husband's holding. And it was he, surely, who ordered that prisoners, dying and in pain, be kept in the dank bowels of a castle, there the quicker to die.”

“It was not Afton! The king's men came—”

“A lord need not bend a knee so low, even to a king.”

“You fight and bow to yours.”

“I choose to stand behind mine. He does not cross the lines of right and wrong—those lines drawn by
your
God, my lady.”

“How wondrous—when it is said that he did away with the last man to compete with him for the throne by doing a murder.”

He twisted where he sat, staring at her coldly, but not denying the charge. “Many men have betrayed one another in this struggle. But the die is cast now, and Bruce is king. King of Scotland. None of this is important now. My wife is.”

She walked to the bed, standing at his side, trying very hard not to tremble. “I have done what was in my power for your lady, for your people. I will fight to save her life. Not because you will kill me—or even others—if I don't. But because your are mistaken when you think that my lord husband did not know compassion, and what was right, and wrong, in the eyes of God. And humanity.”

“Perhaps you should give your speech about humanity to Edward of England.”

“As you have said, kings are not important here, this lady is. Speak no more about my husband, if you would have me tend your wife—with you in the room.”

He stood, coming to his full height and size, which sent her back a step.

His fingers bit into her shoulder, but stopped short of inflicting real pain.

“She
must
live!” he said, and in his words she at last sensed his desperation, and the weakness within the man.

“I swear to you that I will try.”

He released her, and took his chair again, and in a few minutes' time, she had him hold his wife so that she could do her best to get some of the healing brew of wine and herbs between the lips of his beloved Margot.

Again, then, she began the bathing with cold cloths.

An hour later, it seemed that Margot's fever had cooled somewhat. Father MacKinley came to the room and told Igrainia that she must rest. She shook her head firmly before the Scotsman could reply to him. “I am fine for now, Father.”

“Sir, I would speak with you for a moment, if you would allow me,” Father MacKinley said to Eric.

The Scotsman rose and went to the door with the priest. Igrainia kept vigil at the woman's side, praying.

She was startled when Eric called her sharply. “Madam, the priest has need of you for a moment's time.”

Arching a brow, Igrainia rose from the bedside and walked to where Father MacKinley stood.

“I will return her immediately,” the priest vowed.

The man nodded, turning back to his wife.

Still amazed, Igrainia followed the priest into the hall. “Where are we going?”

“Sir Robert Neville tosses in a fever, but he has asked to see you. It may well be a last request, and so Sir Eric has said you may have a minute.”

They hurried down the hall to Robert's chamber. Igrainia swept in, alarmed to see how seriously ill Robert had grown in such a short time. She immediately took the water by the bed and began bathing his face. Robert was a handsome man, her husband's second cousin. He was gifted with sable brown hair and deep, haunting eyes. His features were very fine, as Afton's had been, and usually, when he stood, he was lean and straight, and he both rode and fought with courage and skill.

Now his face was pale, and his eyes seemed like stygian pools. He caught her hand as she cooled his face.

“Igrainia!”

“Robert, rest.”

“You're alive, safe . . .”

“Aye, Robert. I'm well.”

“They have the castle. The outlaws, the barbarians . . . you must find a way to leave.”

“Aye, Robert, don't worry.” She glanced at Father MacKinley; they both knew she'd be forgiven any lie. “Don't worry. I will get away. They pay little heed to me.”

He almost seemed to have forgotten her.