Knight Triumphant

by Heather Graham

  Within the room, she closed the door, and leaned against it.

  As if that could stop him from entering.

  A moment later, she heard the rapping.

  “No!” she said. “No, you can not enter here, go away.”

  The slam of his shoulder against the door sent her away from it. He entered, closed the door, and leaned against it.

  She watched him with narrow, hostile eyes. “Why are you doing this? Why kind of a cruel jest are you playing now? You certainly don’t intend to marry me, you can barely stand the sight of me.”

  “It’s a matter of expediency. Marriage among your class, my lady, tends to be a property contract, and little more.”

  She shook her head. “I am barely widowed! And you . . . for God’s sake, why would anyone devise such a ridiculous joke?”

  “You are about to be married because it seems that King Edward plans a wedding for you next week. By proxy, of course, since he is playing at the bargaining table, refusing to release his own prisoners for your return.”

  “You’re still making no sense,” she said, forcing the words.

  “Sir Robert Neville has convinced a number of powerful men that he can raise an army and seize the castle in Edward’s name, come up with an amazing military victory while the king continues to pursue Robert Bruce. So, he has let it be known that you will marry Sir Robert in one week’s time, as I said, by proxy. I believe it’s supposed to be some kind of warning to us—the king really believes that we will deliver you for your wedding. Of course, we won’t. We will prevent it. As you can imagine, Robert Bruce is deeply disappointed and furious that there will be no exchange. And so he has ordered this course of action.”

  “He has ordered it!” she said contemptuously. “And you will follow such an order?”

  “It doesn’t make the least difference to me.”

  And it didn’t, she realized. He had lost the woman he loved. What was said of his status on a legal contract meant nothing at all to him.

  “Surely, you consider yourself an intelligent man. You must realize that this is quite impossible. I am English. The English king has rights over me and my property. And though my father is dead, I have a brother. He must give his permission.”

  “I can only remind you again that this is Scotland. You are the widow of a man who might have feared and honored the English king, but this land is claimed as Scotland—whether it is bitterly contested now or not.”

  “Edward will not accept this. It will just be an illegal ceremony.”

  “It will entangle you in a legal issue that would cast doubt on any of your heirs.”

  “The pope would annul such a sham! Your king already stands excommunicated for his misdeeds!”

  “But there is a strong church in Scotland, lady, and by that church, you will be legally wed, and therefore, any arguments would take years. At which point . . . we can hope that none of it will matter.”

  He was quite serious about it, she realized, and she could even see what satisfaction of revenge it might create for Robert Bruce, bitter and furious over his own loved ones.

  “I will not marry anyone,” she said. “And that must be accepted. I remain in mourning.”

  “You will be married one way or the other by the end of the week. Ah, Igrainia! You deceive yourself with so much pride. To the Scots and the English, you are a prize of property, and your king intends to bestow you upon a man for his prowess in war. Granted, you are worth a great deal to Sir Robert Neville. With your properties and rents in England, and with the castle here, you can make him a very rich man. But then, he was your husband’s kinsman. And certainly, you would prefer to be forced into such a situation. But I’m afraid it’s not to be.”

  “You don’t understand. I will not agree to any marriage. I am in mourning. And my brother will understand. He will not give his permission.”

  He started to laugh, and it angered her deeply that he could find it all so amusing. It was as if he spoke to a child with no concept whatsoever of the ways of the world. “My lady, you’ll excuse me, but your brother is a lad who has yet to prove himself. Do you really think that he can stand up to Edward and tell him no, he will not give his permission to such a marriage?”

  “You don’t know my brother. He is young but very honorable. Something rare in all men.”

  “He might be the most honorable man ever to draw breath, but he will not be able to stand up to Edward.”

  “He knows my will,” she murmured, her eyes falling.

  “Yes, of course, he does. Such a touching letter you wrote.”

  Her gaze flew back to his. “You—took my letter?”

  “No, actually, I didn’t. I allowed it go through. After making sure that you weren’t trying to get the young fool riding out haphazardly to rescue you from the castle.”

  Her cheeks flooded with color and she didn’t think that it was possible to hate anyone with greater vengeance. Her words, urging Aidan not to think of rescue in any manner, but to have faith—had been filled with tenderness and the assertion that she had married as their father had planned from her birth, and that she would not marry again. She had written that she was well, and not in terrible extremes, as were so many of the enemy hostages, and that no retaliation had been taken against her.

  Her fingers curled into her palms. She wished desperately that she could have the letter back—and rewrite it.

  “No one can make me marry against my will.”

  “Igrainia, you are blind. If Edward holds a ceremony with a proxy in your place, you will be married. Unless you are married already.”

  She still couldn’t believe his intent. “I think I might prefer being murdered, sir, to being married to you.”

  Her words didn’t even anger him, and his indifference was chilling.

  “You’re not being given a choice.”

  “No? Fine, bring on your wedding. I will shout no firmly to every vow. And Father MacKinley will not perform such an immoral and illegal service!” She spoke determinedly, then gasped, remembering the grim faced priest who had arrived with Eric and his men.

  “Father Theobald is from Annandale, my lady, an old, dear, and valued friend of Robert Bruce, and an important man in the Scottish church. He is here for a purpose.”

  “I—still won’t do it.”

  “But you will.”

  “And how will you manage? Drag me from the tower to the church? I can cause an uprising here that will shatter your belief that you have turned all these people from their loyalty to an English king to a Scottish one. Try it tomorrow morning, and you will see.”

  “My lady, you have a point,” he acknowledged. “We could, of course, perform the ceremony here . . . but it should be in the chapel, beneath the eyes of God.” He turned away suddenly, opening the door and shouting for Jarrett to come. “Excuse me, my lady,” he said politely, and for a moment, the door shut.

  Igrainia looked desperately around the room. There was no way out except . . .

  She walked to the window and looked to the courtyard far below.

  But she knew that she did not intend to jump.

  Eric reentered the room, and saw her there.

  “I shall jump!” she said.

  He leaned against the door, crossing his arms over his chest. “Will you?”

  “If you come anywhere near me, I swear, I’ll do it.”

  He moved away from the door, crossing the room slowly to her.

  “No closer!” she whispered.

  But he was there. And he gave her no time for any further argument or threat, caught her firmly by the waist, and lifted her over his shoulder. She immediately beat and struggled against him, screaming. Then, to her surprise, she found herself cast down upon the bed. He meant to leave her. For a moment, she felt a wild sense of triumph.

  Then he came on, grimly. She tried to rise as she saw that she was being wound into the knit cover that had lain upon her bed. The more she struggled, the more wound into it she became. Wit
hin minutes, she was as bundled as a sack of grain, and lifted again, like a sack of grain.

  She couldn’t move enough to offer any force against him. And when she tried to scream, she sucked in the wool of the bed cover.

  He moved quickly. She bounced hard against his shoulders and back with his every step. She wasn’t even sure when they crossed the hall, went out into the night, and crossed the courtyard to the small chapel that stood within the castle walls.

  A moment later she was standing. She tried to struggle again to free herself from the fabric, but strong arms were around her. There was candlelight in the small chapel, and she heard voices. She started protesting again, her words muffled but furious.

  Over the covering, a hand clapped over her mouth.

  “Proceed, Father,” she heard Eric say. Then she was forced to her knees.

  And the priest talked, saying the wedding rites. Eric gave grave vows. She could scarcely kneel, she was suffocating in the maze of fabric and the tightness of his hold upon her. She tried to calm down, to bide her time. She could hear when the priest asked her to give her vows. She opened her mouth to protest and end it all. She wasn’t able to speak. His hand was over her mouth, and his fingers had such a grip on her that he forced her to nod her head. Then, though she continued to hear, it all seemed to blur. She was fighting too desperately for breath. If she weren’t held so tightly, she would have fallen over.

  She was drawn to her feet. And then, suddenly, the covering was drawn from around her. For a moment she was aware of the grim priest standing before her. She saw the people assembled around them. Geoffrey, Angus, Dougal, Allan, Peter, Raymond, Jarrett, Father MacKinley, white and drained, even old Garth . . .

  The faces before her began to spin. She started to fall.

  She was caught. Lifted.

  “She needs air.”

  Eric’s voice.

  “She needs to sign the documents,” someone said from behind them. The priest.

  “No,” she breathed.

  But there was a quill in her hand. And she was crushed between men, and she still couldn’t breathe. She wouldn’t sign on her own . . . wouldn’t. But strong fingers were around hers. And her fingers were moving. In a blur, she saw her name in ink. She wanted to take the quill and slash it through the document. The quill was taken from her hand.

  She was still in a scoop in Eric’s arms, and he was walking. The scent of the candles faded away, she was dimly aware of the stars in the sky. Clean night air rushed into her lungs. She looked up into his face. “I should have let you die.”

  “It’s too late now.”

  They had reached the hall again. He was striding with her through the hall, and up the stairs. “This . . . I saved your life, when I might have thrown you in the river.”

  “My men would have cut your throat.”

  “I could have just let you die!” she insisted.

  “And if you had, you’d be dead by Gannet’s hand now.”

  “You had no right to do this . . . to me. And . . . I—I will kill you!” she promised as they neared her room. “In the night . . . somewhere, sometime, I will kill you.”

  His crystalline blue eyes fell upon hers, and the tension in his features was so startling that in fear, she curled her fingers against his shoulders.

  “Igrainia, you’ll never be near enough to me in the night to manage such a feat.” She didn’t know what surprise her features might have betrayed, but his next words were both damning and relieving. “You set far too high a price upon your person, my lady. And forget that every time I look at you, I am only reminded of everything that I have lost.”

  They reached her room. He kicked open the door with a power that might have shattered it. She found herself let loose at the foot of the bed.

  She was still too weak to stand.

  He never noticed, because he had already departed the room, slamming the door in his wake.

  She crumpled to the bed, and lay there shaking, still drawing desperately for air, and wondering why the fact that he was gone had left her feeling suddenly lost.

  Time passed slowly.

  Igrainia lived in a self-imposed exile, since the only time she was ever invited to leave her room was for the evening meal, and she didn’t care to share the hall with the invaders who had usurped her home.

  The castle hummed with activity. From her window high in the tower, she could see riders constantly coming and going. Masons worked on the walls; the merchants’ stalls, deserted during the past days of sickness, began to bustle once again. Farm animals were herded through the courtyard to the kitchens, the best to be chosen as meals. Flocks of sheep entered into the walled area of the castle town at night, and were herded back out by day.

  In the daylight hours, she constantly heard the clash of steel in the courtyard. She often watched as men practiced at arms, with swords, poles, axes, and maces. The smithy was enlarged as work was done to improve, create, and solder damaged mail. Looms wove, fabric was dyed; tinkers ventured near Langley more and more, bringing needles, thread, scissors, knives, and all manner of household objects.

  She spent a great deal of time by the window, watching life go by. Every morning, the gates were opened, and the drawbridge was let down. As she studied the world around her, she began to note the patterns of life. Looking far out across the sloping field that led to the walls of Langley, she realized that at least three of the men who rode out each morning did so to guard the roads to the castle—north, east, and south. She became certain that someone would be posted along the long winding river to the west, watching for men who might arrive at a distance on ships, and try to move by night to take the castle by surprise.

  She saw that defenses were being strengthened as well. Often, she would see Peter MacDonald in the courtyard with a crew of men, sawing and hammering. Eventually, she saw that he had created a number of small catapults, machines that could be used upon the parapets. His catapults apparently had a tremendous range, and could be used to fire upon whatever war machines might be brought against the castle. If filled with deadly fireballs, they could destroy a larger war machine and create havoc among the men manning it.

  She saw Eric every day.

  He didn’t come near her door, speak to her, or acknowledge her existence in any way at all. She saw him because he worked endlessly in the courtyard. He was with Peter, studying every aspect of the war machines. He was with the men practicing weaponry, and they were well supplied, for Langley had been a rich holding, and before their destruction by disease and warfare with the Scots, the men here had been well armored and armed. Langley was an old fortification. The armory had, from the time the castle had been built, taken the first floor of the entire left wall of the tower itself. Though in general the English were well armed and the troops of Robert Bruce still all but naked, such was not the case here.

  She read every book in the room, and there were many—beautiful volumes hand lettered by monks, many religious texts, and many entertaining ones—mythology, the lives of kings, the life of Charlemagne, and many more. She found that she was able to learn a great deal about arms and siege machines herself—Afton had acquired many such manuals, and she found that she had a growing interest in learning about arms.

  Jennie came to see her with regularity, bringing clean sheets, wine, water, and news. But though she had always cared deeply about her maid and friend, she wasn’t sure that it helped to see her. Jennie’s bitterness ran deep, and every time she came, it was with anger. Argyle the smith had died, and there was a highlander working in his place. The kitchens were filled with the strangers. She didn’t know any of the laundresses. And then, there was Rowenna, the girl with the terrible scar. She had the run of the castle, and was always about, looking into everything. She seemed to have some special favor with invaders, because not even old Garth questioned her work.

  The worst of it was that he was there, night after night, lording it over the hall. And the hall was always filled. Someone had br
ought him three new deerhounds, and there were more and more great dogs in the hall. The men played their wretched pipes, and sometimes there was other entertainment. Jennie hated all of them with a vengeance, but most of all, Eric. She was outraged that they had forced Igrainia into a mock marriage, and though she intended to make Igrainia feel better, she usually managed to make her feel worse.

  “Nothing real will come of it—the whole thing was to anger King Edward, and do you know why? He had no intention of exchanging one daughter of an earl for another, especially since the daughter he held was Robert Bruce’s wife.” As she spoke, Jennie moved to the window. “You’re lucky, at least, that he so dislikes you. That you are like a pretty bird in a cage. Every man has his breaking point, but I don’t suppose he’ll ever break on that . . . I don’t think that he’ll need to, not with the scarred girl around.”

  “Rowenna is not an evil woman, Jennie. She warned me when I was going to be in danger.”

  “She didn’t warn you very well,” Jennie noted, “since you’re here.”

  “My situation is hardly her fault,” Igrainia said.

  “I do my best to hear everything, and she is always about. ‘Will you have more ale, sir, is the meat sufficient, my lord, may I bring you anything . . . anything?’ ”

  “Jennie, you don’t need to listen to everything.”

  “If I didn’t listen to everything, I wouldn’t have been able to tell you that men had ridden out to make sure that word of the marriage reached Robert Bruce so that he would know his orders would be followed, just as men rode out to make sure that King Edward would hear the news.”

  “It’s my brother, Aidan, I worry about.”

  Jennie sighed. “I’ve heard nothing about him, I’m so sorry. But I have told you that Robert Neville is in the company of an old Scottish baron, Lord Danby, a man who holds Cheffington Castle, and with him, he is raising a large troop of men. Sir Robert will rescue you, and then you can be married to him, and he’ll hold this castle and it will be as it was before.”