Knight Triumphant (9 page)

“So little to offer!” Anne said indignantly, and looked to her husband, since she couldn't quite seem to find the words she wanted.

“Never feel that way, my girl,” Joseph advised. “Why, lass, you are a beauty, pure and simple,” John said. “Don't worry, girl, for though many a man is looking to better his own lot in life through his wife's riches, there's many a man as well ready to love and cherish a lass for her soul and her nature.”

“And her appearance,” Anne added dryly. “You'll have no problems, girl. Perhaps you're not looking high enough,” she suggested to Merry. “If you could get her into a good household, she might win the eye of a young man with potential. Not nobility, of course, but she's the face and figure for an ambitious young man with a knack for arms. She could, perhaps, find a lad quick and nimble enough to ride in the king's army, and thus become a knight himself, and make her his wife.”

“A blacksmith's son, safe and solid, will do,” Merry said firmly.

“You will settle for a blacksmith's boy?” Gannet asked. He was looking more at Igrainia than at Merry and Joseph. Igrainia lowered her head, hiding a smile.

“Now, there's nothing wrong in being a smith!” John said.

“Not at all!” Merry agreed.

Igrainia looked at her, still trying not to smile. She arched a brow to her. Merry shrugged, and smiled. “Aye, a blacksmith's boy. Why, in London, such a fellow will never be out of work.”

“You really should travel with us,” Lizzie put in. “There is always safety in numbers.”

“Perhaps we will ride with you,” John said. Igrainia noted that he was watching the other table, the one filled with young men. He said quietly to their neighbors. “They seem an unlikely lot.”

“Oh, no, they're quite charming, really!” Beth advised. “Young men who are willing to humble themselves before God! No prospects for them here, on the borders. They are mostly from old Anglo-Saxon homes in the area . . . once they've made their way and laid their sins before God, I believe they mean to volunteer for the king's forces. It's a harsh world, and there's little a man can do to improve his lot! That group, well, they will do what they can!”

“Perhaps,” Merry said quietly, “we should all join with them. Though most men fear God enough to leave humble pilgrims be, there are many along the way who care for only what they can take.”

“There's not much they can take from us!” Beth said.

“Unless they know—” Anne began.

“Anne!” Joseph chastised.

“We've nothing to fear from this good family!” Anne said indignantly. She shrugged, and seemed to squirm, adjusting her voluminous shift beneath the table. Igrainia looked downward quickly, certain that Anne had been about to tell them that she had hidden what few “riches” she owned in the hem of her long gown.

“We've certainly no wish to hurt anyone,” Igrainia told her.

“John, what do you say?” Merry asked.

John watched Igrainia, as if he were going to hesitate. She smiled at him, offering him a silent query with her eyes.
What could go wrong with these gentle folk?

After a moment, John agreed. “There is safety in numbers.”

“Oh, lovely. We will all really get to know one another,” Anne said. “We should leave quite early. Get a good night's sleep, and leave early.”

Just as she finished speaking, the young men at the nearby table rose.

“Good journey,” one said to Anne and her party, pausing by their table. He was probably in his early twenties, tall, and thickset, apparently heavy muscled. He spoke to Anne, but his eyes traveled to the table beyond and he nodded an acknowledgment to Igrainia, John and Merry. “And to you as well,” he said politely.

John nodded in return.

“You are on a religious quest?” the young man asked.

“We travel to London, making the pilgrim's stops along the way,” John replied politely. “We hear that you seek to join the king's service. Good journey to you and your friends as well.”

“Oh, yes, of course. Thank you. Perhaps we shall pass along the way, and be of some service.”

“You will probably travel a good deal faster,” Igrainia said, a small smile curving her lips. If they joined with Anne's group, they would surely move as slowly as the seasons. Not that she had expected to make fast time with John and Merry.

And not that it really mattered. With Afton gone, with the world she had known at an end, she was in no great hurry to go anywhere.

“Well, yes, we do travel quickly,” the young man told her, his brown eyes studying her with a strange intensity. “But then . . . we, too, will have our stops to make along the way. May God allow that we meet again.”

“Godspeed!” Merry told him.

The four young men departed.

“Like as not, they'll all be dead in a year!” Beth said with a soft sigh. “There they are, young and in fine health, and they're off to learn to do battle, and fight the king's wars. They'll return here, and fight their own kin, like as not. They might earn a greater place in life by battling and killing, but still, they'll be nothing more than common foot soldiers when they march, and God knows, 'tis the common man who bleeds for the rich folk, and that's the way it is!”

“I think we all need a good night's sleep,” Merry said, rising.

“Goodnight, then,” Joseph told them.

“Goodnight,” Igrainia said.

The deaf lad, Gregory, appeared in the long room then, as if intuitively knowing just when they would be ready to go to their accommodations. He smiled a lot, but seemed uneasy. Igrainia offered him a warm smile, but he still seemed rather distressed, looking around as he led them across the now darkened yard where they had to walk carefully to avoid chickens and pigs in the muck. They came to another thatched-roof dwelling and entered a hall where a small fire burned. Father Padraic was waiting in a chair before the fire. He warmed his calloused hands, then rose when he saw them. “Well, I hope that you are sated, since our food is filling, if not greatly pleasing to the palate.”

“We are quite sated, and grateful,” Igrainia said.

Father Padraic nodded. “We welcome all here, and ask few questions, and therefore, can give few answers when soldiers, from either side, sweep down upon us. Child, there is a very small but private room for you at the end of the corridor. Please retire when you are ready to sleep; we don't waste candles or torches here. There is an anteroom adjoining the small chamber. Merry, John, I believe you will find it sufficient. All of our rooms are small and spare, but most often, we have to fill what space we have with many pilgrims. And so many are poor, wounded and left homeless, their lands destroyed by the battles waged!” he added softly. “There are so many of God's children who must be tended.”

“I need no special consideration,” Igrainia told him. “If there is a common room—”

“There is, but since it is not necessary, I don't think it wise for you to sleep there. If I were not able to offer it, you would have no special consideration. As it is, I have the space this evening,” he told her. “It is quiet here now. . . there are not so many travelers here tonight. The lads have a room together on the left of the hall; they have come in already and are eager to travel on in the morning. We have a large family group, and they are in the room to the right. We've a few priests moving from parish to parish . . . but we are able still to give you the small privacy. Fresh water is in the pitchers, and we ask that all guests care for their own—for their own necessities.”

“He means privy pots!” Merry whispered to Igrainia.

“I believe I knew that,” Igrainia told her softly.

Father Padraic was smiling. “I believe she did!” he said softly, teasing Merry.

Igrainia extended a hand to him. “We cannot thank you enough.”

“Well, child, wait until you see the horses, the best I could find, in the morning. By midday, you may be cursing me.”

“Never, Father Padraic.”

He made the sign of the cross. “I'll bid you goodnight.”

 

 

The room was indeed small. At one time, it had been a nun's residence. There was a narrow bed that consisted of a thin mattress on taut ropes. Gregory, with his single candle, led Ingrainia to her room first, showed her the pitcher and ewer on the plain, hardwood stand, and left her. In the dark.

She felt for the water, managed to wash her face and teeth without flooding the room, then found the towel without groping too long. There was a window in the little cell, and in time, she was able to make out some of what she was doing with the bit of moon glow that filtered into the room. It didn't matter; she was very weary and ready for sleep, and afraid, that the sleep would elude her. Lying awake was always a nightmare of memory. Sleeping too often brought her bolting to wakefulness, thinking that there was someone she hadn't tended, someone who would die . . . had died, because she had fallen asleep.

Lying awake made her remember too much of the past when the walls of the castle had shielded them from the ugliness of the battle-ravaged world around them. She had known, always, what was going on—as well as anyone could know, with news traveling slowly around the country and beyond. But the news of John Comyn's murder, of Robert Bruce's coronation, of King Edward's fury, had all come to them, usually by mounted men, traveling to and from sites of battle, keen that all should know King Edward's mind.

Afton, caught between his heritage and the king whose might gave him power over the Borders, had only once been forced to take a stand between the two factions that made up his heritage. That had been when the king's men had come with the prisoners. And before that . . .

Life had been idyllic.

Lying awake now, Igrainia too clearly saw his face, his smile, his laughter. She could hear his voice, his words, always reasonable, gentle, compassionate. He had been taught the responsibility of his power, and what it meant to be a lord, a man beholden to the people, as the people were to him. He had used the law to keep his men from fighting in foreign wars, convinced the king that the knights and tenants of Langley were needed there, to hold the precarious position of the castle. And whatever call to arms came to him, he delved first into his books, always finding a point of law that Edward himself had brought to the English people, and using that point to maintain his policy of neutrality and separateness. Tall, slender and artistic, Afton had never had the burly build or stamina required of a true warrior; his strength had always lain in the power of his mind.

She could almost feel him beside her, as if he came in dreams. “Returning to England is the wisest course of action, my love. Your brother is young and will force nothing on you. Take time to heal, choose the life you'll lead. It will all come out well in the end . . .”

It was as if he were really there, the softness of his breath against her cheek, his fingers in her hair. She could feel his presence, his tenderness, yet she knew that it wasn't real, and she felt the pain of his loss rising in her again, touching within; she felt the burn of tears against her eyelids. And the sense that she was not alone.

She woke suddenly, not feeling the tenderness, but a rise of awareness and panic. A whisper broke the darkness.

“Sh . . . sh! Please, my lady, don't cry out!”

She gritted her teeth, trying to control a scream of terror. Waking in the darkness was different from its sudden fall; the moon glow still entered the room and she could see the young girl, and Gregory, the deaf boy, at her side.

The girl with the scar across the length of her young face.

“What is it?” she asked.

“I had to come, I'm so sorry I frightened you.”

“It's all right; I'm all right,” she said quickly.

She sat up, looking at the two in the shadows. “It's all right, really. But why have you come?”

“To warn you,” the girl said.

“Warn me? Is there . . . has someone ridden here?”

The girl shook her head. She hesitated. “Gregory . . . he can't speak, but he can
see
.”

“He can . . . see?” Igrainia repeated.

The girl nodded. “There's a danger ahead for you. It will come out as it should, but you must be very careful. You must watch everyone around you. Always. There's a haze. . . and a chance that you could lose your life. But if you are wary, and watch, always watch. He sees riders, and if you're not aware . . . they could . . . hurt you. He can't tell you when or where you will meet with them, only that your journey is dangerous.”

Igrainia looked past the girl to Gregory. He nodded somberly.

“You can speak with him?”

“He isn't in the least stupid, my lady. He is only deaf and mute.”

Igrainia smiled. “And he . . . sees?”

“He has a certain vision.”

She wondered about his “vision.” She knew she was in danger when she rode; her very existence created danger. But she felt an uneasy prickling along her spine, as if she were hearing a warning as real as any she might find from a messenger sent ahead to tell of armed men riding down upon the gates of a castle.

“Why should a pilgrim be in danger?” she asked cautiously.

“Why would a pilgrim give a poor lass such a rich coin?” the girl asked her.

“The poor lass needs the coin more than the pilgrim,” Igrainia said.

“Aye, indeed, I'd not survive at all if it were not for Father Padraic and the bounty of the folk coming through. But few have the ability, or the kindness, to give with such generosity.”