Knight Triumphant

by Heather Graham

  Eric had weighed the matter. After Timothy’s initial confusion—natural, considering the blow he had received to his head—he had made a good appearance, speaking articulately and concisely, while also conveying just how deeply stunned they all had been by the strange twist in the intents and purposes of the “pilgrims” with whom they had been riding.

  “Though, in truth, we did not linger and ride slowly for that group,” Timothy had said. “Rather, we feared for the young woman riding with the older couple. They claimed that she was riding to London to wed a blacksmith’s son, but Thayer didn’t believe that could be the truth. He was certain that she was an heiress running away, but her kindness and courtesy to those at the priest’s village impressed him deeply, and he thought that she might be in need of help. We thought we would slow our gait long enough to see her well past the border, and then perhaps, pick up some speed of movement.”

  “But you were headed south. To fight with the English.”

  “Aye,” he admitted gravely.

  “You are Scottish.”

  “I am from the Borders. And have no lord who remains among the living to serve. But I can say freely, for my companions and myself, that we owe you our lives. And we would gladly serve a Scotsman with the strength and will to stay alive and fight the English. There is nothing for us, anywhere, except that which we can earn for ourselves.”

  “We shall see,” Eric had promised.

  He tended to be a fair judge of men. And he judged this one as an honest man, deeply sincere. But time would tell.

  Time.

  The single day dragged. At Langley, Peter MacDonald would be securing the formidable walls, and strengthening the structure in any way that he could. Peter was far more fond of building than he was of war. Eric had left Langley in the best of hands, and in so doing, he knew, he was fighting the most important part of the war for his king. But now, Margot was gone. The moments of peace when he could rest beside her and talk, perhaps rant angrily until she had soothed his temper, and talk about the strategy that had worked, or what had failed, and who had rallied to the king, and who had not. Margot was gone, as Aileen was gone. There was nothing left, and to be caught here, in this forest cove with nothing but the prison of his own thoughts was worse than being held captive behind any wall of metal or stone.

  Raymond Campbell strode over to where Eric leaned against one of the old oaks close to the water and far from the fire.

  “They live, still. All three men.”

  “The one called Thayer Miller was the most sorely injured, nearest to death. How do his wounds appear now?”

  “His bleeding has stopped; he is well bandaged. The lady of Langley made him a number of strange poultices from the mosses and mud at the embankment. As yet he has no fever, and his breathing is regular and deep. However, we surely have no fears of his running tonight and looking for a party of the English. Nor, do I think, will his friend, Brandon, rise to escape into the darkness. Timothy no longer seems affected by the blow to his head, and you have the lady, and her companions.”

  “One of us remains on guard through the night,” Eric said.

  “Aye, Eric, but do you think we need secure the captives in any way?”

  Eric smiled grimly. “I would wager a great deal that the old couple are going nowhere. Nor would Timothy desert his friends. But as to the lady of Langley . . .”

  “Where would she go on her own?”

  “Oh, I believe she might find another road upon which to find murderers and thieves. She is foolhardy and stubborn enough. She is not to be alone. At any time. Whatsoever.”

  “Aye, then, Eric.”

  “I’m sorry. I believe she must be watched every minute. In my present temper, I do not believe I am the right man. You’ll have to share the duty.”

  Raymond started to smile, then sobered. “Aye, Eric.”

  Eric frowned. “You were about to laugh.”

  “I had forgotten how much we have lost. It occurred to me only that watching such a beauty is not such a hardship of duty—there are many responsibilities that are indeed drudgery . . . but this . . . believe me, this will not be so tiresome.”

  “You think not?” Eric said. “I’ll be curious to hear your opinion on that matter in a few days’ time. I will take the first watch, while she is still dedicated to the wounded man. Take your rest by that tree, yonder, and have Angus sleep at the next. The lady will be between you then. I’ll wake you at midnight.”

  “Aye, Eric. And I assure you, I’ll not complain of this duty.”

  “Um. Well, we shall see.”

  Igrainia was grateful, and a bit amazed, that the Scots waited so patiently for the injured men to be able to ride.

  She was cautiously elated as well that her ministrations seemed to be working magic with Thayer. The injuries he had sustained had been serious and potentially fatal, but his wounds were already beginning to close. She had stitched the worst of them carefully with horsehair, packed them with moss and mud, and they appeared to be healing cleanly and well.

  As yet, there was no sign of infection. Though he was still sleeping most of the day, he opened his eyes and spoke now, and Timothy had informed him with the greatest pleasure that it would be no time at all before he could rise, and at the least, make it behind a tree for personal business.

  Under the circumstances, she couldn’t ask for much more.

  Except that the constraints put upon her were making her mad.

  Perhaps Eric wanted to throttle her, rip her limb from limb, or see her eternally caged within a prison set outside a castle wall, but for the time being, he kept as far away from her as the copse allowed. He brought in the meat, conferred with his men, disappeared completely—and was yet never really gone—and never spoke a word to her.

  She thanked God. She didn’t think that anything would ever ease the pain of losing Afton, but being busy and useful was the sweetest balm for that kind of anguish. She knew the limitations of man and woman, and that she could only use what she had learned about herbs and the properties of the earth to help heal any man. God alone decided who would live and die.

  But the longer she knew them, the dearer Timothy, Brandon, and Thayer came to be to her. She couldn’t help but feel certain that she had been the target of Anne and Joseph and their family all along, and that giving the coin to Rowenna had alerted them to the money in her possession. And because Thayer and his friends had decided to ride with her to be protectors, Reed was now dead and the others would never make the journey they had planned. Like her, they were prisoners of Eric and his band.

  Except that they didn’t seem to feel that they were in any need to escape.

  But, she realized, Timothy and Brandon would never leave while Thayer still lay dangerously prey to infection. And perhaps the Scots knew that.

  By the third morning in the forest, Eric’s followers and the young men who had been heading south to join with Edward’s army were becoming well acquainted. Timothy was learning sword maneuvers from Angus, and being corrected by Geoffrey, who was far more slender and had determined that Timothy, being more of his own shape, needed to learn to move more lightly and depend far more on craft than on muscle.

  Nor did Merry or John seem disturbed by the change in their fates. Both spent the days serenely preparing whatever catch the men brought down, smoking meat or searing it for the next meal, finding what berries they could in the nearby woods, repairing rips and tears in tunics, and helping to oil mail or sharpen swords or do whatever useful work there was to be had.

  It seemed, however, that they had been warned to keep their distance from their mistress. Yet despite the fact that they slept far from her and hurried about their daily tasks with little contact, and despite Eric’s remove from her proximity, she was never alone.

  Never.

  And it was driving her mad.

  She could scarcely get either Angus or Geoffrey to stay ten feet away when she slipped into the forest.

  If she dipped h
er face into the stream, they were there.

  When she slept at night, if she turned one way she saw one face. If she turned the other way, she saw the other face. And, she knew, of course, that she wasn’t trusted in the least.

  She longed to shout at Eric that he was an idiot, an ass. Where on earth could she possibly go? There was no escape here unless she managed to seize one of their horses in an instant, which was surely impossible with Angus, Geoffrey, and Eric himself about. There was also the last man who remained from his party, the giant of a man called Raymond Campbell, who seemed to have the ability to bring down the fastest, highest flying bird with barely taking time to set an arrow to his bow.

  There was the fact, too, that she had, at first, taken to heart Eric’s threat that he would kill the others if she attempted to escape.

  However, she didn’t believe that he would do so. He made his decisions on what he would do to a man or woman based on that particular person, and she realized that more thoroughly as each day went by and it appeared that her young friends did not intend to leave; they weren’t really held by any restrictions.

  She was the only prisoner here.

  And a prisoner ready to jump out of her skin.

  She longed to bathe.

  She could hear the trickle of the stream so near them, and she could reach it, and touch it, but she longed to immerse herself in it. The clothing she wore was encrusted in Gannet’s blood. There seemed to be mud and muck ingrained in the fabric of her clothing and her own flesh.

  But she never went near the stream without her two followers, Angus and Geoffrey.

  She was coming to know them so well.

  Angus was a huge burly fellow with long red hair and brilliant blue eyes. His beard was as long as his hair, and he might have been a mad, mythical god in an ancient tale. He was pleasant, courteous—and big. If he chose to make a wall of himself, no man could pass by.

  He carried a sword that seemed larger than a lightning bolt. He hailed from the highlands of Scotland, and there, each chieftain was a small king unto himself, and his clan. He had grown up near the north isles still ruled by Norsemen, and had known Eric and many of his kin for years. Listening to them speak, she knew that Eric had often lived among Angus’s family, and that his own kin stayed there often, though they hailed from the lowlands. The highlands were most often distant from the battles and dangers that had raged for well over a decade now.

  Geoffrey was a far slimmer man, but like all the warriors who had been taken prisoner before they turned the tide, he was deceptively well muscled. Once, when she would have gone down the little path to the stream alone, he caught her arm, and she knew that his grip was as sure as any metal vise. His hair was brown and shaggy, but where once the prisoners had been as filthy, bloody and muddied as she now felt herself, he appeared none the worse for wear. The mail the men had been wearing had surely come from the arms storage at Langley. The colors they wore were their own, and their clothing had been cleaned; their hair had been washed and trimmed. At times, she had heard the men in the stream. They were delighted by the cold stream, and of course, could count on their privacy, since she and Merry were now the only women in the group. Merry would never intrude.

  And she would surely die before she would do so.

  And so, it seemed that the rest of the little world around her was doing well enough while she lay awake at night, feeling encrusted and caked with blood and debris, while the others took pleasure in the abundance of their surroundings.

  There were times when she told herself that nothing about her person mattered in the least. Afton was dead.

  Then there were times when she realized that she was alive herself. And while living, she craved air to breathe, water to drink—and a stream in which to bathe.

  And unbelievably, it seemed that a time not so long ago was yet already far away. She was alarmed at times to waken and know before her eyes opened that Afton was gone, and had been gone. The day when her husband had breathed his last was beginning to feel like a different lifetime. Afton had been dead no more than a month and a half. Yet the world had changed. She hated herself for the feeling. She didn’t ever want to forget him. She had sworn to herself at his death that she would be true to his memory all her life. And already . . .

  She knew in her heart at every waking moment that he was dead, and no longer a part of her life, and there was nothing at all she could do about it.

  Nothing.

  Except despise and mock herself at her own misery for being so terribly filthy.

  Eric’s wife and child had now been dead more than a month as well. But he hadn’t forgotten a single emotion, she knew. His love stayed with him.

  As well as his hatred, and his bitterness.

  She knew it every time his eyes touched hers.

  But at least, that was it. Every once in a while, their eyes would meet. He didn’t come near her, but rather left her to his men.

  And they were like flies. Always upon her. So near . . . giving her only seconds to slip behind a tree when absolutely necessary.

  And that was it.

  She was smothering. Desperate.

  On the sixth day in the forest, she could bear it no longer. She awoke feeling as if she were becoming a part of the forest floor herself. She lay quietly for a moment, then looked to the right, and to the left.

  Both her guardians seemed to be sleeping. Looking across the copse, she could see that Thayer, Timothy, and Brandon still slept as well. And taking a glance around, she could see no one else near them. Eric had left the encampment with Raymond Campbell, as he was prone to do by day, hunting for meat.

  She stole away as silently as she could, hesitated, then tiptoed into the trees that led to the stream.

  She walked to the water, yet hesitated again, listening. She urged herself to hurry—to strip quickly, jump in the water, jump out. Ah, but then, how could she put back on the loathsome clothing that still carried the dry remnants of Gannet’s blood?

  She had an extra shift and gown, packed for the long journey to England, but she had left them back at the camp.

  And if she went back to the camp, she might wake someone.

  And, she told herself ruefully, if she jumped in right there, they could also too easily waken and come rushing down to the stream.

  So thinking, she began to walk downstream.

  When she reached a point where she felt safe, she slipped her overgown from her shoulders, yet even as she did so, she suddenly heard a cry in the forest.

  “Gone!” Geoffrey shouted.

  “Gone, she can’t be gone!” Angus bellowed in reply.

  “The horses, get the horses.”

  “Nae, lad, she didn’t leave by the road, we’ll try the stream!”

  She quickly slipped back into the trees, trying to get her gown back on. A thrashing in the forest warned her that the men were near.

  Instinctively, she ran, deeper into the trees, farther downstream.

  “Lady, stop!” Geoffrey cried.

  “Go away! Damn it, leave me be for five minutes!” she cried in return.

  “She’s running, aye, she’s trying to run!” Geoffrey called.

  “Run her down then!” Angus roared in return. “We cannot lose her!”

  “No!” she shouted, ready to explain that they didn’t begin to understand.

  She was halfway tangled in her own clothing. Far from dignified. She stumbled through the brush by the water, trying to adjust her dress as she went.

  A second later, she felt the trembling of the damp earth as one of them hurried after her.

  “No!” she shouted again. “Wait!”

  But it was Angus.

  Huge, his red hair flowing behind him, like the wrath of God.

  She couldn’t help herself. She ran farther.

  She was fast, and she sprinted from the water through the trees, finding a forest path. She felt a moment’s wild burst of elation—she actually could run if she chose to do so. The freedom
that suddenly pounded in her heart was a sweet feeling.

  Her pace quickened instinctively. Logic filled her mind. She could run, yes. Run, because she could outmaneuver them. Run, because Eric bluffed when he threatened murder. She wasn’t worth the lives of others to him. She wasn’t worth anything at all to him, she was nothing but a valuable chess piece in the game of war, a token to be delivered to his king . . .

  And what that king would do with her, she didn’t know.

  She hadn’t meant to run, but now there seemed no turning back. The thrashing in the forest seemed far behind her. She had an incredible head start. She couldn’t move far without a horse, but she could stay hidden within the trees. Alone, she could travel almost invisibly. If she crossed the border and reached the north of England, she could buy her way south. She had learned, from the treacherous Anne and company, to trust no one.

  She was moving with such speed, her feet seemed to fly. And again, the sense of elation that filled her with each step seemed to give her the power to fly. She wasn’t winded, she wasn’t sore, she was simply soaring . . .

  She was stunned therefore when a towering block suddenly invaded her path, stepping from the trees.

  She couldn’t stop herself from running.

  She plowed into the block.

  Teeth, nose, chin, hands, crashed into his chest.

  She tried to steady herself and fingers wound into her hair. The thrashing behind her came to a halt. She hadn’t been so terribly far ahead.

  Angus and Geoffrey were now standing behind her in the path. She could see them because she was in a death lock, and the strands of her hair that weren’t tied into Eric’s fingers were falling over her face, blinding her.