Knight Triumphant

by Heather Graham

  “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.”

  “There are many things that gold coins cannot buy,” Igrainia murmured. “As to Gregory’s vision, what would he have me do? I cannot stay here; I have to ride, and reach London.”

  “It’s true, you can’t stay. But you must be wary. It’s your very life you must guard. That’s why we came. If you are wary, you can survive. There’s help that will come to you. You must only be on guard, and . . . there’s nothing else we can really tell you. If you are wary and protect yourself, then you will survive. We must go now. Father Padraic is a wonderful man. But he has doubts about Gregory’s visions. And there are those who would accuse him of dangerous witchcraft. There are many things he sees which he feels he can never say . . . Father Padraic has been too good to us. But you have been so kind . . . and you must understand, in the way that you speak, walk, and even in your manner, it is easy to see that you are no orphan of the poor, the landless, the luckless or the downtrodden.”

  They turned to leave. Igrainia caught the girl’s arm. “I don’t even know your name.”

  “Rowenna,” the girl said. “And I must go now.”

  “Thank you. Both of you. I will repay you, when I can.”

  “You owe us nothing. We would give you more, if only we could. Please, just believe what we tell you. We must go. Father Padraic sleeps lightly.”

  They slipped from the room in a silence as deep as the darkness.

  Igrainia lay back against her pillow, staring into the shadows. The strange ripple of unease seeped down her spine again.

  He was coming after her, she thought.

  They were warning her, because Gregory saw . . .

  Why?

  Why would such a man, who sorrowed so deeply and loathed her with such a vengeance, take the time and trouble to come after her now?

  He had told her from the beginning what her fate would be if she didn’t keep his wife and child alive.

  And the poor little girl had died before they had even returned.

  Margot had died in her care.

  She didn’t need Gregory to see for her.

  There was no great mystery to her fate. Eric intended to hunt her down. No matter how long she was gone, and no matter how far she traveled.

  And what he intended then . . .

  She didn’t know.

  But sleep eluded her for the rest of the night.

  As did her dreams.

  CHAPTER 5

  They had drawn up before the walls of Perth. The Earl of Pembroke had ridden hard into Scotland at the bidding of the English king, his army of six thousand men drawn from the northern counties of England and the lowlands of Scotland.

  Robert Bruce, knowing of Pembroke’s advance and his own dire circumstances and lack of men, had gathered forces for the country north of the Forth and Clyde. He had managed to raise an army of about four thousand, five hundred men. Having received word that Pembroke was at Perth, they had ridden there hard, ready to do battle. But he hadn’t the necessary siege engines to batter down walls or gates, nor could he afford the cost in human life it would take to send a relentless stream of men to scale the walls. Bruce and his advisers had argued their tactics, many doubtful of the honor of the Earl of Pembroke, yet many equally convinced that he was a man who would not give his word lightly. In the end, Robert Bruce insisted that he knew the Earl of Pembroke, and many silently agreed. He should know many of King Edward’s men, since there had been a time when he had given his allegiance to the English king.

  “I know Pembroke!” He stated firmly in the copse where they had come to talk. “And there is also the matter that we have little choice. I will challenge him, in the chivalric code, and hear what he has to say.”

  Old Angus spat into the grass. “It doesn’t matter what he says.”

  Eric shrugged when Robert Bruce stared his way. “It’s true, we haven’t the means to lay siege to the castle. That is the only real and substantial fact we have.”

  So Bruce himself rode to the gates, and issued his challenge. And he was so convinced that the Earl of Pembroke would honor his promise to bring his men forth and do battle in the morning, that no guards were officially ordered to watch the camp that night.

  And so, the English came in.

  Many of the men had been out, searching for supplies. Many had been sleeping.

  The English fell upon them in the summer dusk.

  Slaughter ensued.

  Eric was fighting near the king when he slew the horse of the Earl of Pembroke, the man who had broken his promise, but not even Bruce’s wrath allowed him to break the sudden crowd of men around the earl. Bruce’s horse was seized next, but Christopher Seton broke through, and sent Philip Mowbray, who had gotten hold of Bruce’s horse, reeling to the ground. Eric pushed through then, forming the guard around Robert Bruce that allowed them to escape the English troops and bring their king to safety.

  Robert Bruce survived but his army was shattered. Many of his finest followers were hunted down and later found at the castles where they had fled. They met King Edward’s fury, and paid with their lives.

  The handful of men who survived and still gave their loyalty to Robert Bruce knew, as he did that it wasn’t time to fight, but rather to retreat, to set out into the countryside, and over the Irish Sea, to gather more followers to form a new army.

  They had to build. The forces they gathered had to be passionate, about the cause of Scottish nationalism, and they had to create a body of men that was large and strong, if they were to come against the English again.

  Everyone knew that there were no rules of chivalry in this war.

  No mercy to be had.

  And so Eric had gone to the isles—stopping for his wife and child, for riders had warned him as he made his way cross country that the English had seized Bruce’s wife and women kin, after Bruce had been sure that they were safely in the care of his brother, Nigel.

  Nigel, having heard that the Earl of Pembroke had arrived at Aberdeen, sent the women ahead once they had reached Kildrummy Castle.

  The women, in the company of the Earl of Atholl, were captured at the sanctuary of St. Duthac at Tain.

  Sanctuary had availed them little.

  They had been seized and sent straight to King Edward, who had come to the monastery of Lanercost.

  Kildrummy Castle had not shielded Nigel.

  Nigel, a handsome young man, quick to laugh, as quick to find courage and fight, had paid the price for supporting his brother. A brutal price. And the women . . .

  So Eric had determined to keep his own wife and child and the kin of his
men with him. They had set forth upon the sea to find men in the rugged north and among the western isles, among them their own kin, largely Norse, and the Irish, many with a hatred for Edward as deep as that which stirred in the heart of the most maligned and bitter Scotsman.

  For a moment, he felt the sea breeze, fresh and cool.

  And he heard her voice, ever gentle, ever compassionate.

  “It’s a man, we must stop. A man, a human being . . . he will drown . . .”

  “Aye, and maybe an agent of the English, better off dead!” Peter had warned.

  “And perhaps a loyal follower of King Robert Bruce, in such dire condition since he chose to serve his king,” Margot had said.

  And so they had taken in the man . . .

  And they had taken in death.

  And the English, coming upon them when they were weakened and desperate, had seized the women, and knowing he hadn’t the power to beat the forces bringing them to their imprisonment, he had allowed his own capture . . .

  Maneuvered his escape, and come back. Too late. He came back to sickness, to death.

  Faces seemed to whirl in a fog before him. Drawn, ashen, marred by plague, gray, purple, blistered, skeletal . . . faces, white beneath a flow of blood, faces, eyes . . . eyes of death, haunted, the gray of agony, the white of death, the red of all the blood that had spilled . . .

  He woke with a start.

  And lay there, feeling numb. His wife, and his daughter were gone. Blood, horror, battle, sickness, death, gone.

  There was only the numbness . . .

  He rose, restless in the night.

  Aye, numbness, he felt numbness. But when he forced himself to move, he realized that there was more.

  He had regained his strength.

  And his fury to fight.

  It was time to ride.

  Before the dawn broke, they were prepared to strike out on their journey again.

  They could move faster now. They were mounted.

  Igrainia found little fault with the shaggy horse Father Padraic had found for her to ride. Her name was Skye, and she had a sweet disposition, even if she had a slow lope.