Knight Triumphant

by Heather Graham

  “A frisky one, eh? And you think you’re going to stab me?”

  He circled around her, apparently amused.

  She knew that in minutes, his companions would be behind them. She had to escape him now, before the rest of his murderous crew could reach them.

  She lunged at him, bringing forth a startled cry as her knife ripped through his shoulder.

  He grasped at the wound, stared at the blood that covered his hand, then looked at her anew, fury in his eyes.

  “Now . . . now, you’ll suffer!” he promised her.

  As he stared at her and she stood, poised and ready to strike and fly, she became aware of the sound of hoofbeats on the road behind them. His companions were coming fast now. Any second they would be upon them.

  She lunged again.

  This time, she caught the man in his midsection. But his force against her was great, and they both went crashing back to the ground.

  He managed to keep his weight heavy on her, and though she brought her knife up again, he caught her wrist with both hands, and exerted such pressure against her to release the knife that she screamed in pain.

  Yet held on.

  She twisted, bringing up a knee against his groin. He rolled to his side, bellowing in pain but still maintaining his deadly grasp upon her wrist. She lashed out with her feet, but he rolled again, leaning half his now bloodied form against her.

  She clawed at his wrists with her free hand, bringing her nails desperately into his flesh. He swore, cursing at her with a fury.

  The hoofbeats came near . . .

  Stopped.

  She could see nothing, but she knew that at any second, he would have help with his companions at his side, aiding him.

  She couldn’t see. There was now too much road mud and dust in her eyes, and she could only stay locked with Gannet, fighting to the end.

  Then, arms wrapped around her.

  Gannet was dragged away from her.

  And she was dragged up.

  “No!” she let out in a scream of rage and fury and desolation. She tried to claw at the hands holding her.

  Her fingers did nothing. She was clawing against heavy leather riding gloves.

  She brought her hand to her face, clearing her hair from her eyes, wiping away the dirt and tears that had so blinded her.

  Gannet was screaming, she realized suddenly. And when she looked before her, she saw that a man in mail and a hood had taken the man and hurled him across the road with such strength that he had landed hard against the trees.

  She heard the snapping of bones.

  And then Gannet was silent.

  The mail-clad warrior who had wrested Gannet from her side then turned to her.

  “You!” she gasped.

  The man behind her released her.

  She had been fighting against his hold with such energy that her own strength and determination brought her surging forward.

  She would have fallen.

  But she was caught against cold, hard, steel mesh.

  And she was staring into eyes that were even colder, and harder.

  CHAPTER 6

  He didn’t say a word to her, but steadied her on her feet and spoke to the man behind her. “Allan, see that she’s not hurt.”

  Then he turned and walked to where Gannet had fallen against the trees. He stooped, turned him over. “Dead,” he said briefly, and rose.

  The man was dead. She couldn’t feel sorrow. He had been trying to kill her.

  He and his companions had plotted carefully to kill all of them.

  The sounds of hoofbeats came again, and they all turned to see that Merry and John were trotting along the path in front of two more men in mail and tunics that bore the colors of Robert Bruce.

  Merry, seeing Igrainia, called out, and as fast as her round bulk would allow, she dismounted and rushed to her, ignoring everyone else. “Oh, my lady!” she cried in alarm, seeing the condition of her clothing and the blood that spattered it. “You’re hurt!” she said, reaching up to put her arms around her and hug her tightly.

  Igrainia wasn’t seriously injured, but she realized, as Merry’s arms came around her, that she was sore in every muscle of her body. Her throat hurt her and she had banged a knee and her hip hard against the ground when she had fallen. But the blood spattered over her was Gannet’s, not hers.

  She tried to reassure Merry. “No, I am not really hurt,” she said quickly as she eased herself from the caring yet tight hold around her and squeezed Merry’s hands.

  Eric left Gannet’s body on the road by the trees where it had fallen. He remounted his horse. “I’ll see to the others,” he said to Allan, “if you will escort these three.”

  There was something utterly dismissive about the way he spoke that sparked anger in Igrainia.

  She walked to him quickly. “They murdered people, simply murdered them in cold blood.” She was startled when she added, “Don’t be deceived by the women, they are the ones who killed first. The young men, if they are back there . . .”

  “They are aware of what they face.”

  He started to turn his horse.

  “Wait. Perhaps I can do something, help. They may not all be dead—”

  “You wish to help?” he said. His eyes were still cold and somewhat scathing. “They tried to kill you. They were common thieves and murderers.”

  “No . . . just that family. The others were just trying to reach a new life, they were riding with us for our safety.” The irony of the last filled her and her words ended on something of a high note that threatened both laughter and tears. “That you . . . that you should have come along to stop them . . .”

  “Ah, and there’s a wonderful note of gratitude!” he muttered.

  “They stabbed them, and struck them . . . someone may still be alive,” she said, ignoring his words. “I can perhaps help—”

  “And perhaps not.”

  And she knew by his tone that he referred to the fact that his wife was dead.

  “I saved your life!” she told him.

  “Perhaps a will to live saved my life.”

  “There’s a wonderful note of gratitude!” she mocked.

  She was startled as he dismounted from his horse. Perhaps because of her very near brush with death at Gannet’s hands, she backed away.

  He reached out, grabbing her hand. “What in God’s name ails you, woman?” he demanded. “We did not take the time to follow in your thankfully slow footsteps to murder you ourselves.”

  She tried not to wince as he caught her roughly about the waist, and she managed not to cry out, or wonder too long at his intent. He set her atop his great warhorse, mounting behind her. He said nothing more, but nudged the horse, and a second later they were moving at a heady lope back along the path until they came to the place where Anne and her party had tricked the young men.

  Joseph and Jacob had apparently attempted some fight; the two were dead, locked in a strange embrace where they had been deposited by the side of the road. Anne and her lethal sisters now cowered together near a tree, all but ignored, as two of Eric’s men, easily recognizable in their mail and tunics, worked over the fallen men. Two were prone and crumpled, but Brandon was obviously breathing; the one called Timothy was holding his head in his hands and trying to explain what had happened, yet still so stunned by the events that he didn’t seem to be making sense.

  “We never thought . . . who would have feared . . .”

  “It was them!” Anne called out. “They attacked us! We had no choice. And now you’ve killed my poor husband!”

  Igrainia cried out, “You wretched liar!”

  Eric reined in. Before he could dismount or help her down, she was sliding from the horse, nearly tripping and falling in her haste. She approached Anne with loathing and hatred, seeing that Thayer remained on the ground, not moving. She started for Anne, her fury so deep she didn’t know what she had intended. “You liar! You murdered good people, people trying to help you, my God, how
could you—”

  Anne let out a scream as if she had been gutted. “She! She caused this. She knew that we had coins in our hems, she bewitched the men, she told them to attack us, it was her! We might have all died, and now our poor men are fallen for trying to defend us—”

  “Liar!” Igrainia charged, and kept coming, not at all sure of what she intended, only that she was so angry she had to strike out at the woman. But as she came near Anne, the woman let out another shriek and came tearing at her, a knife, which she must have hidden in her skirts, suddenly glittering in the sun as she moved. Igrainia saw the blade in time and sidestepped. Eric had seen the danger as well, and caught her from behind as she moved, casting her far from harm’s way. She fell in the dirt, but there was no need for anyone to go after Anne. Her force brought her crashing past the place where Igrainia should have been, and she tripped upon a pothole in the trail and fell flat upon the earth. She remained where she fell, and didn’t move.

  “Anne!” Lizzie shrieked, leaving Beth to stand alone as she raced to the spot where her sister had fallen. She turned Anne’s prone form, and Igrainia saw that Anne had unwittingly brought about her own destruction; she had fallen upon the blade of her knife. It protruded from her chest, and the blood that soaked her breast made it apparent she had managed to drive the blade into her heart.

  Lizzie let out a terrible wail.

  Igrainia picked herself out of the dirt, wincing as she did so, realizing more and more with each passing moment that she was bruised and sore.

  Again, she could feel nothing but a terrible coldness in her heart where once she would have felt sorrow at the sight of death.

  “What do we do with the other two?” one of the men asked Eric.

  “I don’t know—yet. But tie them—they seem to have weapons everywhere. Yorick, gather the horses you can find,” he commanded, speaking to another of the men. “It seems we will have a strange party returning.”

  Igrainia hurried to where Thayer lay, falling to her knees and trying to ascertain just where he had been struck, and how many injuries he had received—indeed, if he had survived at all. She let out a small sigh of relief; he was breathing. Slowly, laboriously, but his chest rose and fell at regular intervals. One strike of the knife’s blade had struck just beneath his shoulder, and another had gone through his side, and she could only pray that the blade had not damaged his insides. She began to rip at the hem of her linen gown for bandages to stop the flow of blood.

  As she wound material and pressed it against the wounds, she realized that large booted feet were at her side. She looked up. Eric was standing there.

  “He was trying to find a way to survive, and get money home to his mother and family. They were all off to make new lives . . . their lord was killed, their lands were decimated. . .”

  She was afraid that he meant to stop her. She was startled and nearly jumped when he came to her side.

  To her amazement, he took one of the makeshift bandages from her and expertly applied pressure to one of the wounds.

  “He has a chance, I think,” he said.

  “But he can’t ride.”

  Eric was silent. After a moment, he stood, and Igrainia realized it was because Merry and John had reached them. Merry had come to see what help they could give the fallen men.

  Eric moved off. She saw him speaking with the man he had called Allan.

  “He is a strong one,” Merry told her, amazingly calm for the events that had been occurring around them. “If he has just a few days’ time, and the rot does not set in . . .”

  Igrainia leaped to her feet, gasping, as Eric strode toward them with a sudden determination. He hunkered down by Thayer’s side, and Igrainia placed a hand on his shoulder, trying to stop whatever it was he intended to do. “I’m telling you, these were decent men—”

  He ignored her, casting off her touch, and lifted Thayer with an amazing care. He started straight for the trees, and she found herself running after him. “What are you doing? Wait! If you mean to throw his body into the woods to hide it and leave him to die, I will not let you. You can’t. I don’t care about your cause, or Scotland, or the English, or . . . any of your bloody intentions. You cannot just leave a man to die!”

  He stopped dead, turning on her with anger and impatience. “There is a cove with a good stream just a few feet in. If you want this man to live, his wounds must be cleansed, and if you want any of us to live, we’ve got to get off the roads. Do you think your evil friends are the only monsters preying on the remnants of war? Nor am I particularly willing to die myself in this wretched pursuit of you, and the health and happiness of the companions you acquired along your escape route.”

  She fell silent, staring at him. He started walking again and she followed him, and realized that the path behind her was filled with soft voices and the rustling of trees as the others followed behind them.

  It seemed that they walked far, yet perhaps the path seemed long and winding because her every footstep seemed a painful chore. Her shoulder ached now as well as the rest of her bruised and battered flesh and muscle. But they came at last to a break in the dense forest and brush. There was a fast rushing stream before them, beautiful as it sparkled suddenly in the sunlight that was no longer obscured by the green wealth of the trees in the forest despite the trampling of armies upon the land. The bank of the stream was richly carpeted in pine needles, and the earth here was soft with the wealth of moisture provided by the stream.

  As she walked, she heard soft words.

  “Pardon, my lady.”

  As he spoke, Allan passed by her side, and laid down a woolen cloak at the base of a tree, and it was there that Eric paused with his heavy burden of the wounded Thayer, and set him down with the same care to his injuries with which he had first lifted him.

  And then he turned to her.

  “Madam, you may tend to your new friend, but one of us will be with you at all times. And if anyone makes any attempt to part company with us again, they will be slain upon the spot. If you decide that you have given your best efforts and must again leave, your friends will suffer for your actions. I don’t believe that you are stupid, Igrainia, and therefore I will trust in your efforts to keep those around you alive. You do understand me perfectly, I’m sure. But I will have your word that you will not leave, and your sworn oath that you will do nothing to bring English troops down upon us should they wander down this stretch of the road.”

  He stared at her hard. She drew in a deep breath. He hadn’t come to murder her. Nor did he intend to explain what he meant to do with her. Nor did she think that he intended to murder the others.

  “I can’t . . . willingly accept whatever you may have in mind . . .”

  “You can’t? But you must. And will. Swear now that you will not attempt to escape or let out any cry of alarm.”

  Still, she hesitated.

  He took a step toward her.

  She took a step back.

  “The others will fall first!” he said softly.

  “I swear,” she murmured.

  “Louder, please.”

  “I swear.”

  She jumped back again as he came closer. But he didn’t intend to touch her. He passed by her, going on to help the others bring the horses back into the small cove in the forest by the rushing brook.

  By nightfall, the cove in the trees had become a campsite. A fire had been built, water had been boiled, capes and cloaks had been laid out as makeshift beds, more bandages had been made. Eric and Raymond Campbell had brought down a stag, supplying them with fresh meat for however many days they dared linger, waiting for the wounded to heal enough to ride—or to die.

  Eric had sent the two surviving women from the strange party of murdering pilgrims back to Langley with Allan MacLeod, not willing to risk having them among the dangerous assortment of people then in his care or confinement: the injured men, the lady he had come to retrieve, and her two retainers.

  He expected no trouble from
Merry or John; both were excessively grateful to be living and to be in the company of men who might be political enemies, but seemed trustworthy, for the time, although he didn’t trust Igrainia.

  She would run at the first possible moment.

  He chafed at the time this was taking him. There had been no choice but to come after her; he couldn’t have let her go, she was far too valuable a prisoner. And there was a certain satisfaction in the fact that in their pursuit, they had happened upon a clutch of criminals who had evidently been making their way in life by preying upon the innocent and unwary for some time.

  There had been occasions when they had been forced to flee from battlefields, knowing that they left men among their number wounded, perhaps mortally so, and at the hands of their enemies, and still, such was battle—men had to desert the field if they were to live and fight again to win not just the day but the war. No man ever learned to come to peace with himself for leaving a companion either dying in agony—or not dying quickly enough to avoid whatever brutal end the enemy might intend. And so, since they were not on a battlefield and not being pursued and in no imminent danger, he couldn’t leave these injured young fellows to die, even if England had been their destination. They had ridden slowly to protect those they thought weaker than themselves. They had fallen to treachery, but there was a certain nobility about their behavior that appealed to Eric, and therefore, he could not leave them behind to die.

  But cooling his heels in the forest was the least productive use of his time that he could imagine, and he wished that he had sent one of his men after the lady of Langley, rather than riding out himself. He had considered taking the two knife-wielding women to Langley himself and leaving Allan behind with this group, but again, he did not trust the lady of Langley. He would not let her escape again.

  He studied her where she knelt by the man she had called Thayer Miller. Miller was a survivor, he noted, which was a quality that appealed to him. He had lost a lot of blood, surely enough to take the life away from most men, but still, it was as if he had determined not to die. He had yet to regain consciousness. His friend, Brandon, remained prone, his eyes opening upon occasion and closing again. He was able to whisper, and had given Eric much the same picture of the events that Eric had already heard and surmised. The man named Timothy had regained his senses, and helped Igrainia tend to his friends, but earlier, he had come to Eric when he had stood by the water, idly watching the horses drink, and once there before him, Timothy had fallen on his knees, thanked Eric and his men for his life and the lives of his companions, told his own rendition of the story, and sworn eternal loyalty, if Eric would have him in his service.