Knight Triumphant (8 page)

MacKinley didn't need to answer. His cheeks were flushed.

“You must leave her be. She is not guilty of any harm.”

Eric felt a rising fury within him. “She was the wife of Afton of Langley. Langley played host to the king's men sent to murder Scottish nationalists and imprison, humiliate and torment their wives. She is as guilty as original sin, Father.”

“You're wrong. You must not harm her . . . you must not . . .”

Eric cast the priest a look of total disdain. “I have no interest in your lady witch, priest. But she has a value to the cause of Scotland. You know what has befallen certain noblewomen of our country, Father. Word has gone out faster than the wind.”

Garth came into the room carrying a large tray. A fresh haunch of venison lay on the tray with a loaf of bread and a ewer of ale.

Eric watched Garth as he delivered the food. “Garth of Langley, you've long been in service here. Sit and join us.”

“There is no poison in the meat,” Father MacKinley said. “We did not save your life to end it with poison.”

“Nevertheless, you will both oblige me by dining first.”

Father MacKinley kept his eyes full upon Eric's as he knifed a large section from the meat and chewed it down, then broke off bread, and did the same. Eric brought his gaze upon Garth, who also took meat and bread.

“The ale,” Eric suggested.

Both men drank.

Eric then set upon the meal, suddenly ravenous, yet aware that he had to take care with meat so rich when he had been ill so long. It was hard not to wolf down every last bite. When he had finished, he realized both men were still watching him in silence.

He sat back. “You are both free to leave the castle, if you wish.”

Neither man replied.

“Did you hear me? You are free to travel south, to safer ground.”

“Where would I go?” Garth asked him. “I have worked here all my life.”

“These people are my . . . they are my flock,” MacKinley said. “And I would keep the peace between them, and you.”

“You must keep the peace between them—and Peter MacDonald.”

“You're leaving?”

“Aye.”

“Joining the Bruce to fight on?” The priest said hopefully.

“You know that I am not. Aye, I'm leaving, but I won't be joining the Bruce—not just yet. I was sent out to solicit men for his battles, and thus was at sea where we found the man who inflicted us all with this rampaging disease. I meant to return to the king with more men at arms. And we will soon have help from many Irish chieftains. But for ourselves. . . now . . . we've lost so many. But, still, I believe that I will bring Robert Bruce a political and powerful prize, nevertheless.”

“You don't mean . . .”

“The Lady of Langley? The very wealthy daughter of the late Earl of Wheaten? Aye, she is the exact prize I do mean.”

“You will give her over—to Robert Bruce?”

“Indeed.”

“But—but—she is long gone. You will never find her.”

Eric rose and came to the priest, staring down at him. “Oh, but I will. You have told me that I will find something to live for. I have found it, Father. I am living for two things, and two things only. Scotland—and revenge. Trust me, Father, I never lie. I intend to find her. And I will.”

“But . . . then . . .”

“Then the lady will pay the price of war,” he said simply.

He left the great hall then with long strides.

He made his way up the staircase as if he were in complete power and control. Peter waited at the door to the master's chamber. He opened it quickly.

He managed to enter the chamber before he sagged. Peter helped him to the bed. He gripped Peter's shoulders tightly.

“They can't know that I haven't my full strength.”

“They will not,” Peter assured him. “But I should go after the lady of Langley. You haven't the strength yet—”

“Your strength is needed here, Peter. The castle is not secure, and it must be held against the English.”

“But, can you ride?”

“Aye, Peter. In just a few days time. Every hour now, I feel my strength returning. I need food, and aye, just a little more rest. Then I will be ready. And I will ride, and I
will
find her, and I will bring her back.”

Igrainia traveled in a far different way from that to which she had become accustomed.

The first time she had come to the Borders, she had ridden with her father, his knights, their squires, and a dozen attendants. The knights had been beautiful in their glistening plate, mail, and her father's colors of red, black and yellow. The horses had been equally resplendent. She had been attended by Jennie and two other maids, and if they had tired, they had wagons in which to rest. They had stayed at castles and manors along the way, been greeted with enthusiasm, feasts, warm wine and rich comforts. When she had later traveled with Afton, they had always left with the same entourage, and been welcomed in fine homes along the way. She rode Menfreya, her beautiful, smooth-gaited, fast-paced mare. Naturally, there were hardships along the way. Rain, snow, sleet, wind and the mud that seemed a never-ending feature of the roads. Sometimes, in summer, there was the heat of the sun, but she loved the sun, and it always seemed to be tempered by a moist whisper of coolness in the air. She had always loved to travel, to see new places, meet new people. Naturally, it had always held an element of danger, but she had never ventured out far without an armed guard.

This was quite different.

She had slipped from the castle with John Simpson and his wife, Merry. They had both worked in the kitchen at Langley Castle as long as they could remember. They had been married as long as they could remember as well, and though they had not been blessed with children, they had maintained what Igrainia knew to be a very special love for one another. Both were old now. John was tall and rail thin, while Merry was short and round as a little ball, with bright blue eyes and silver gray hair. In the worst of circumstances, she was able to find a smile, and remark that anything bad was God's will, and man could only wonder why until the great day came when the gates to Heaven admitted them all. She was a wonderful companion, as was John, who liked to talk about the Scotland of Alexander's day, and describe how good it had been when the land had been at peace.

The difficulties lay not in her fellow “pilgrims” for the journey, but in the journey itself.

Of necessity, they left the castle on foot. Father MacKinley had given them directions to reach a tiny parish church just north of the ever-disputed border, and there, from an old friend of his, they were to obtain horses. Their journey on foot took well over two weeks, for though John could walk fairly swiftly with his long, skinny legs, Merry huffed and puffed and they were forced frequently to stop. They'd had to carry some provisions, and the provisions grew heavier with every footstep over the rocky terrain. At night, they slept upon their rolled woolen blankets on the ground, which wasn't much of a hardship for Igrainia—she loved the feeling of being minute in a world of a million stars and darkness—but for Merry the ground was hard, and for John as well, and they both woke each morning with a moan and a creaking and cracking of knee joints and elbows, and limped for a few minutes as they tried to get the crinkles out of their backs. They dared not light fires, lest they should be seen by marauding troops of outlaws, and so they ate berries they found along the way, and dined carefully on the bread and cheese they carried. Water was abundant, because the land was filled with beautiful little lochs, ponds and streams. The weather was extremely mild, and sometimes, at night, Igrainia would strip down to her shift and dare the chilly yet inviting waters of a stream to indulge in the longest bath she dare before her limbs began to turn blue.

They traveled carefully, and for many days, by keeping to the forest paths indicated by Father MacKinley. They walked as if the world belonged to them alone, and it was a beautiful world, with the land rich in the green and pastels of summer, sloping in the sun, falling to shadow in the denseness of the forest. They did, upon one occasion, pass by what had once been a small village, a thriving farm, and saw that the buildings remained burned and ghostly, the fields barren, the burnt out remnants of paddocks and stables nothing but eerie, skeletal chars. But the land had a way of replenishing quickly; the grass came each year where warhorses had trampled it just months before, and wild flowers grew in profusion. Even here, the grass was beginning to grow, and wild flowers—weeds perhaps, but colorful and tenacious—circled the ruins, and would, in time, cover the violence of the past.

They did, at last, arrive at the little village where Father MacKinley's friend, Father Padraic, came from his small church as children ran ahead to tell him visitors were coming. Igrainia remained silent as John introduced them as a family on a pilgrimage, with letters asking for his help in acquiring mounts for them, and sending them on their way. In her drab gray, hooded wool cloak, Igrainia wondered what evil this gentle man would offer her if he knew the truth of who she was. Father Padraic, very old, with long white hair and beard that seemed to stream as one on his shoulders and chest, eyed her with a deep, dark, reflective gaze. She was certain he knew that she was a young woman of a certain wealth, fleeing to the south.

He said nothing regarding his thoughts, though, but set about welcoming them to the village, and telling them he would find comfortable lodging for them in the cloisters of the old nunnery. There were other pilgrims stopping by, for this was a known stop on the way to the many places of prayer and salvation to be found in England. The language most frequently spoken here was the French used at court, or the English of the Saxons, though the Gaelic of the Celts was known as well.

“Father MacKinley has asked that I provide you with mounts,” Father Padraic said, reading the rolled scroll MacKinley had sent in John's care. He studied them again, dark eyes upon Igrainia. “I will do the best I can. Meanwhile, take your ease in our parish home, a poor place by many standards, but a wayside for faithful travelers. Gregory!” he called suddenly in a loud tone. “Where is that lad? Ah, there you are, my boy. Show these good people to the rectory house, and see that they receive something to eat.”

Gregory, a lad of about sixteen with green eyes and wild red hair, nodded to them and smiled broadly. “The lad is deaf as stone, but a good boy,” Father Padraic said. “He'll escort you, and I'll see what arrangements can be made for horses.”

“Thank you,” Igrainia said, speaking at last.

Father Padraic nodded, watched her closely once again, then turned away.

The rectory was little more than a large hovel made of wood and sod, the main room a large hall with battered benches and tables. At one sat a group of nuns who nodded when they entered. An ancient priest sat alone at another, and two other tables seemed to be filled with bands of pilgrims. They were seated at the table next to one group that seemed to be comprised of three couples. The other group might have been young men aspiring to be squires so that they might go on to be knights; they were young, and seemed hardy and in robust health and energy. As Igrainia sat across from John, she noted that the elderly priest, sitting alone, was casting disapproving glances toward the young men, who were imbibing heavily from the pitcher of ale that sat upon their table.

A young woman with a jagged scar down her check brought them ale, bread and a haunch of tough meat.

“Poor lass! I wonder what befell her!” Merry murmured as the girl moved about, serving them.

“War—soldiers with no mercy,” John replied briefly. “Don't stare at her so, wife.”

Igrainia watched the girl work with tremendous sympathy; like Merry, she couldn't help but wonder how she had sustained the terrible wound. She felt sorry for the girl, and when John gave her a small coin in payment, Igrainia called her back softly, adding to the payment they had made.

“Take care, my lady!” John warned.

“No one saw me, and if so . . . we are in a religious house.”

“And you think all men who profess to be of God are naturally saints?” John said.

“She needs the coin,” Igrainia said.

John crossed himself. “My lady, your welfare is in my hands.”

She reached across the table and squeezed his hand. “My life is in my own hands, John, and you and Merry are dear to be with me.”

“ 'Tis no hardship, being with you, m'lady,” Merry murmured, sawing away at her food. “But this meat! What on earth might it be?”

“We might well be better off not knowing,” John warned.

“The bread is very good,” Igrainia told Merry.

“Ah, indeed, fresh and filling,” Merry said, finding happiness in the warm loaf and the sweet butter served with it.

“Hello, welcome!” a woman called from across the table.

“Hello,” Igrainia said, noting then that John gave her a stern warning.

She decided to ignore him.

“Where are you traveling?” she asked the woman.

“Canterbury,” the woman said. “I'm Anne, and that's Joseph, my husband. We're late of Berwick. Gannet is our brother, and Jacob is married to my sister there, Lizzie, and Beth . . . Beth is a dear, but we've never found a husband for her.”

“I've not really been looking!” Beth, the youngest of the three, an attractive woman with a quick smile, said with an indignant sigh. “Anne thinks all women must be married, or they have no value in life.”

“Well, it is the way of things!” Anne reproached.

“I have a trade,” Beth told them.

“A trade?” Igrainia inquired.

Beth smiled. “I am a poet, and I play the harp.”

“She needs a husband. There weren't many paying for a woman to play and sing in Berwick!” Anne said.

“I will make my own way,” Beth said.

“I'm quite sure you will,” Igrainia said. “Perhaps there are hard times many places here, in the Borders, in the cities so often crossed by the armies. But in London . . .”

“Oh, child! You mustn't encourage her!” Anne protested. “She needs to find a husband, a good husband, though it won't be easy at her age. Most probably, we'll have to find her a widower in need of a good woman to watch over his children.”

“Anne, we've barely met these people,” Beth protested. “And I'm not interested in meeting a man who is looking for a cook and housekeeper.”

“All men are looking for an able woman to cook and keep house,” Anne said impatiently.

“There's always a nunnery,” Beth murmured. She winked at Igrainia. Anne didn't seem to notice the irony in her sister's tone.

“Yes, there's that, of course, but . . .”

“But it doesn't fit my nature,” Beth said.

“Not at all,” Anne agreed. “She has an atrocious temper, you see. And a way of speaking her mind . . .”

“She makes it very, very difficult, you see,” Lizzie finished.

“Lizzie!” Beth remonstrated.

“Lizzie, Beth, really, both of you might want to be a bit more discreet,” the women's brother, Gannet, said in a soft, amused drawl.

He appeared to be younger than any of the women. Though the independent Beth seemed to be in her mid-twenties, Gannet was younger still, probably a year or two behind Beth, but very obviously her kin with blue eyes, shoulder length, curling blond hair and a pleasant face.

“Indeed,” said Jacob, a man as slim as his wife, Lizzie, but with a sinewy, tough-looking strength to his leanness, “we've not even really met these good people!”

“Aye, and we've barely let them say a word!” Joseph said.

Then the three couples all stared at Igrainia's table, waiting for the trio there to speak.

“I'm—” Igrainia began, but John stepped in quickly, interrupting her before she could give a name. “I'm John of Annandale, and this is my wife, Merry. We're taking our niece, Isabel, south to worship at Canterbury as well, and hoping to see her wed to the son of an old friend outside of London, a fine fellow, a blacksmith's boy, with a fine future ahead.”

“Well, then! We are travelers of a like mind!” Joseph said. He had a pleasant, weathered face, and a welcoming manner. He lowered his voice.

Between them all, they were quite interesting in appearance. Anne and Joseph, so plump and cheerful, Lizzie and Jacob, slender and stern, and Gannet and Beth, alike as sister and brother, pleasant faced and voiced, and of a slightly rebellious nature.

“I believe we, too, will be staying in London,” Joseph continued. “Back in Berwick . . . well, years back . . . there was such a slaughter there, when the people held out against King Edward. Most of our kin are dead and buried, and there's no livelihood for a man in these parts anymore, not when his craft is metalworking, and those who desired his fine goods are all either gone or impoverished.”

“We're all looking to make a new living,” Jacob said. “We had a farm . . . a small farm, just outside the town, and we were tenants of a young lord who took to the hills with Robert Bruce. First, the English decimated the area. Then . . . the Scots burned us out, trying to keep the English from living off our land. Then the English came back and laid waste the land, in retaliation against the Scots. Seems London is far enough from the wars for us to find a way to manage. And we've a daughter living there, married a landed knight, she did, so she's written for us all to come and find work with them and their kin and good friends. Sorry I am to be leaving, but a man's got to make his way.”

“Of course!” Merry said.

“So, Isabel, you're looking to make a good marriage, eh?” Anne inquired.

Igrainia forgot that her name was supposed to be Isabel until Merry kicked her gently beneath the table.

“Oh! Yes. Marriage, of course,” she murmured.

“Poor lass! She has so little to offer,” John said, shaking his head sadly.