Knight Triumphant

by Heather Graham

  “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.”

  CHAPTER 4

  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 n
aturally 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.

  “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.”