Knight Triumphant

by Heather Graham

  But there were more important issues at hand.

  “We leave Peter again in charge of Langley. Jarrett and Angus will remain as well. Any man we’ve gained and trained ourselves rides with us; we can cut down a traitor in battle, but all of Langley could fall if one man destroys the defenses. The ride will be hard; the town and castle of Ayr are in English hands, and we don’t want to be seen riding to join the king at Galston.”

  “Aye,” Jamie said. And they continued to trace the route they would take, and what alternate paths they might take were they to run into English scouting parties as they joined the king.

  Then Jamie left. Eric sat in front of the fire, studying the flames, and wondering why he was so irritated with King Edward’s dismissal of his marriage to the Lady Igrainia. She meant nothing to him. His wife and child rested in the walls of the castle, far below.

  But, perhaps, he realized, she did mean something. He enjoyed his verbal encounters with her; she was a challenge. She had not shied away from tending any illness. He had watched her compassion for injured men and seen her loyalty to those who had intended to help her. He had watched the fury of her fight against the cutthroat on the road as well, and known her instinct for survival as well as her courage and hatred.

  And there was more, of course. He had taken Langley. They were engaged in a greater war, and he didn’t know if he could hold what he had seized or not. But she was part of what he had taken, and therefore, his.

  And then there was the matter of Sir Robert Neville.

  She had said that she didn’t want to be married to any man, but were she in the hands of King Edward, she would be given to Neville, and there would be no choice in the matter. Igrainia would prefer him to Eric, since he was kin to Afton and loyal to Edward.

  But Eric loathed Neville, just as he loathed Sir Niles Mason, the Englishman who had rounded up his family and friends and dragged them to Langley to die. The pompous knight who had so easily seized women and children—and fled at the first sign of sickness.

  Since Afton of Langley had been dead when he returned to free the prisoners, Neville had surely been giving the orders. The orders that had kept so many of the dead and dying confined in the wretched cells in the castle’s dungeon.

  His fingers curled over the arms of the carved wooden chair.

  He’d die before he allowed Neville to take anything more from him.

  Including the woman Neville coveted.

  The prize. The beautiful, black-haired witch of a prize.

  Now, his . . .

  His wife.

  CHAPTER 12

  The English army was three thousand strong. They were an incredible sight.

  From atop Loudon Hill, a cone-shaped upthrust of rock that dominated the countryside, Eric, mounted on Loki, watched with Robert Bruce, James Douglas, and a few of the king’s closest supporters, as the army moved.

  The army gleamed. The sun touched upon the burnished basinets, mail and plate armor glimmered and glittered. Shields caught bright rays coming from a blue sky, and reflected light from every angle. Banners flew, pennants waved, and the horses were as well arrayed as the men, caparisoned in a multitude of colors, plumes lofty upon their headgear.

  They seemed to come in wave after wave.

  Bruce’s men numbered in the hundreds.

  But they knew the terrain, and they knew Loudon Hill. Below it, a highway stretched across a wide strip of high ground. On either side, the highway was flanked by morasses that were treacherous and deep, spans horses could not pass. They had cut trenches, three of them, in parallel lines from the morasses to the road, closing the gap of the space which they would have to defend.

  Closer, closer, closer . . .

  “So many,” Robert Bruce murmured. “Oddly beautiful, aren’t they?”

  James Douglas, at his side, spit into the mud. “Aye, like the old man’s arse!”

  “So many of them,” Bruce murmured quietly. In his mid-thirties, he wasn’t just a powerful man, but one who had learned to use his wits, strategy, diplomacy, and raw courage.

  “We’ve need of all the arms and armor they will leave when they fall,” Eric said.

  Robert Bruce slowly smiled, casting him a wry glance. “Aye, and so we do. They’ve the numbers, but we’ve the battle cry to best them, as we’ve done before. It is time!” He raised his sword, and let out a cry as he began the descent to the assembled rank. “For Scotland, and for freedom!”

  Eric and the others joined him as they raced down the hill, joining the men prepared to meet the first assault. The king called out orders, and each of his commanders shouted to their own body of men.

  Then, the English trumpet of the Earl of Pembroke sounded. The English began the attack.

  They came on, the first wave of English horsemen, at full speed. Their colors continued to wave brilliantly in the sun. Their armor glinted . . .

  They hit the first rank of defenders, men with long poles forming a wall of lethal steel. And before the steel, the first ditch. Some men charged into it and were unhorsed, and those behind them floundered on the fallen. Those who avoided the ditch came racing at reckless speed, and came upon the wall of men and poles and pointed steel. In the first minutes of the attack, the outcome was decided.

  Horse crushed horse. Riders and animals screamed alike. The ranks of the English were thrown into death, confusion, disorder, and more death. In the first few minutes, more than a hundred of their number went down. Then the second wave of Englishmen, sent too tightly upon the first, trampled those in their way, but by then, the order to advance had been called and the Scotsmen leaped from their places with their poles, swords, axes, maces, and sticks, rushing the enemy, picking up the weapons of the fallen, and rushing forward with a vengeance.

  Eric slashed his way through the men on the ground. He toppled mounted man after mounted man, and they fell into the mire of blood and dirt and humanity that came to litter the ground. The knights who fell were weighed down with the beauty of their glittering armor, as the Scottish foot soldiers set upon them. The confusion was horrible, the numbers remained great, and in the midst of it, there was no room for anything but the knowledge that a man fought and fought, and moved forward, and trusted in his fellows to watch his back as he watched theirs. His sword swung again and again. The sound of steel against steel was shattering.

  And then, it was over. The disorder in the English ranks had become too great. They were called to retreat.

  Trumpets sounded, banners waved.

  Colors still flooded the horizon, and the English armor glittered and glimmered . . .

  In its wake.

  A roar went up from the men. They pursued the English, and many more fell as they fled. Caught in the tumult of the pursuit, Eric found himself leaping from his horse to come to a highlander fighting kilted and barefoot, a sword in his hands, but no shield to protect him from the blows of his opponent. When a second helmeted and faceless man came up behind him, Eric accosted the enemy, then found himself fighting on both fronts, worthy opponents. He was being assailed with shattering sword slashes, barely meeting one in time to stem the other, and finding little time for an offensive. His chance came when he saw his opponents raise their swords simultaneously. Deftly stepping back, he let the enemy bring their weapons down upon one another.

  Even as they fell, he felt a rush of air at his back. He turned in a fury, catching his opponent in the middle, but causing no mortal injury due to the man’s heavy mail. His opponent’s sword came down heavily, catching his arm, sliding off the mail, but numbing his limb. In desperation he swiftly cast his sword from one hand to the other, and sliced upward, slashing his enemy in the thigh and groin. The man fell. Prepared for another attack, Eric whirled at the sound of a horseman at his back.

  It was Robert Bruce. He dismounted quickly, clapping Eric on the shoulder. “It’s over, over for today. We’ve a victory that might swell our ranks anew, and bring more men to the cause of Scotland.”

  Ar
ound Eric, the fighting had ceased.

  A cheer went up from the men. A wild, sweet cheer, it grew loud, and echoed over the hill and the highway and even into the morasses. And words began to form amid the echoes.

  “To Scotland!”

  “To freedom!”

  “To Robert Bruce, king of the sovereign nation of Scotland!”

  Bruce returned to his horse, mounting to declare the victory loudly, then to thank each man for his love of Scotland over his life, and bid them gather up their wounded, and tend to them well. “The battle for Scotland,” he reminded them, “has just begun.”

  Later that night, with the dead buried, the injured tended, strategy decided, Robert Bruce made a point of speaking to the barons and knights who had joined his forces, and brought men and arms as well.

  He had learned from watching William Wallace the value of appreciating every man, and he was, by nature, a compassionate man with an innate charm. After the death of Comyn, he had learned as well the dangers of offending the values of others, and before setting on his crusade to prove himself king, he had done absolution for the act, though it was said he had stabbed Comyn and his companions had been the ones to finish him.

  Eric had been consulting with Jamie when Bruce approached him, thanking him and all the men for their part in adding to his ranks, and bringing about the victory. Then he asked Eric to walk with him, and under a canopy of trees he paused and asked him, “Langley remains well in your hands?”

  “When I left, all was well.”

  “Since the earl’s army has been here,” he murmured wryly, “I imagine it remains so.” He hesitated, then added, “My spies tell me, though, that Robert Neville and Niles Mason are gathering troops at Cheffington. And, you know, young Lord Aidan has made his way from England. Now these two men will have a nobleman in their vanguard—they will be able to put out the cry that he has been wronged, that his sister is not your wife but your prisoner, and they will make her a cause to awaken the hearts of my enemies—and those who might be neutral, waiting to see which way the wind will blow, for Scotland and me, or the English king.”

  “They would still be fools to attack Langley.”

  Robert Bruce nodded. “That is true, which is why I asked you to help goad the English through this marriage. The lady is a rich prize to any Englishman, to any man at that. I know her. Were you aware of that? At least, I have seen her several times. She was often at the English court, since her father was not just a titled man, but one of illustrious deeds in many of Edward’s campaigns in France.”

  “No, I was not aware that you were acquainted. She hasn’t mentioned it.”

  The king shrugged. “I imagine I am a vacillating traitor in her eyes, and we did not speak more than courtesies, ever, but . . . though Edward has stubbornly refused to exchange the lady, I’m certain that he will support a plan to get her back. He is studying the legalities of her marriage while denying that there can be any. I’m certain that he is plotting for her return. I used to see him watch her. He had an eye for such a beauty, and I could always see him estimating just what such a prize was worth. He bought the loyalty of Langley when he blessed her marriage to Afton, which, of course, had been arranged for years.” His tone suddenly changed. “Don’t let him get her back. My God, the man imprisons my child! You cannot imagine the service you have done me by this small piece of vengeance. I know that it meant little to you, with Margot . . . gone. Yet I am grateful.”

  “There was a certain sense of vengeance to my agreement, my lord,” Eric assured the king. “I have my reasons to despise those who want her.”

  “Do whatever you must do,” Robert continued, his voice growing harsh and tight again. “In my name. And for Scotland.” The king hesitated, his teeth grating. “Edward thinks that he can make a marriage I have sanctioned null and void! That he can crush me as he crushes every man who vowed to free Scotland from his tyranny. He must not get her back. If he is ever able to seize her, there must be a way that he is prevented from using her in his plays for power, his alliances, his rewards for those who serve him. The bishops have written to Rome, but in the meantime . . .” He paused again. Then he smiled. “If there is a God in Heaven, and He loves us at all . . . she will have a child. That would definitely damp the value of the prize when Edward plays his dynastic games of marriage, riches, and barter. He will be forced to recognize Scottish authority. He will be defied at every turn. For the honor of Scotland.”

  Robert Bruce placed a hand on Eric’s shoulder, then walked on into the night.

  A cool breeze whispered over his head.

  God, how he had loved his wife. How Margot’s unwavering, undemanding love for him had suffused his soul through time until she had been a part of him.

  He was human. And battle camps were always attended by women.

  But the king had just given him more of an order than a suggestion . . . to do something he had probably been tempted to do from the moment he had first watched Igrainia at the stream.

  She had her own grief, and that he had understood as well. And just as well, the anguish they had witnessed with one another had made him hate her at times . . . as much as he had been enticed by innate physical urges, like the need to draw breath, drink water.

  A breeze touched him again, and he laughed out loud, a hollow sound in the darkness.

  She was, after all, his wife now.

  And therein lay the tempest in his soul.

  His wife. Beautiful, dark-haired witch, a prize, a pawn. And as tempting as a siren.

  Another battle to be waged . . . with her. With himself.

  Again he laughed. Another battle . . .

  For the honor of Scotland.

  Igrainia stood upon the parapets, looking over the field. Word had come that there had been a battle. That the lesser Scots had routed the great army of the Earl of Pembroke. Edward was spitting with fury, raging that he was the only man who could lead his army to victory.

  She had found a certain freedom—within the walls of Langley. And she had realized that, with careful planning, she could escape.

  But she wasn’t certain that she wanted to do so. There was danger in escape. Here, at Langley, the “outlaws” were courteous and respectful. Eric was gone. She had written the letter he had “suggested,” and his men had apparently been left with word that she was to have the run of the castle—with a guard in tow at all times, she was certain, but in the past few days it seemed that they had grown lax. There might be many opportunities for escape. Merchants had begun to arrive here with their wares, with carts that rambled back through the gates before dusk. Farmers, milkmaids, servants, others, all came and went.

  There was a way.

  Jennie urged her on daily.

  Rowenna pointed out the courtesies she received, and how she was loved by the people when she walked through the courtyard, how they looked for a word from her, smiled when she smiled, came running to do her slightest bidding.

  She had come to love Langley.

  But she would have escaped . . . to be free. Except that there really was no escape, because to leave here, she would have to seek help eventually from the English. And go to the king. And he had determined that she would be married to Robert Neville, and . . .

  He had been Afton’s kin. But it disturbed her that he was so desperate for Langley, so desperate for a quick marriage. He was not like Afton. Afton had loved books and learning, and the art of reason. In all the arguments regarding the prisoners, Robert had been irate, indifferent to the fate of the women and children, as determined as Sir Niles Mason that the men be executed. Most men would have accepted the king’s decree that all such traitors should perish, but something about the way Robert Neville seemed to relish the judgment disturbed her. Just as his eagerness to claim what had been his kinsman’s holding. And wife. Especially since her revenues in England were so great.

  She didn’t dislike Robert Neville. But it had made her uneasy, the way he would touch her at times, a hand o
n her shoulder, too fervent a kiss in greeting, a chance brush as they passed in the hall. She had never mentioned it to Afton. And at the time of all the illness and death at the castle, she had not thought of anything but the darkness and the pain.

  So now . . .

  She was certain that she had found a means of escape. She had used the greatest tactic against her enemy—obedience. They were lulled.

  Yet her only escape would be to a greater, perhaps more dangerous, imprisonment. If not more dangerous, one that she couldn’t help but believe would be even more confining. There were certain facts in life she had to accept. Afton was gone. The idyllic life they had led was over. She did live in a world where birth, property, and position were the guiding factors of life, and it had been nothing less than a small miracle that she and Afton had been friends as children, and then slipped into compatibility and comfort as husband and wife. Perhaps he had even been too fine a man for the position into which he had been born; he had learned all the things the heir to such an estate as Langley must know, but he had preferred books and art, riding in the fields, and such things as a May Day fair to the act of practicing for war. He was eager to listen; her thoughts and words mattered equally in all things. In so many areas of life, men had rights, and women did not, but that had not been a situation she must examine in her own heart and mind, because she had been married to Afton.

  With Eric gone and Peter and Jarrett guarding and guiding the daily life at Langley, she found that she preferred being a respected prisoner here to finding herself a different kind of captive—under the dictates of King Edward and the man who had bargained for her, just as he had the lordship of Langley. Allowed her freedom from the confines of her room, she began to live again, and in strange ways, life did become similar to what it had been before. She spent long afternoons in the hall with Father MacKinley and others, and the news they discussed and argued sometimes had little to do with the situation in Scotland. Philip the Fair of France had begun a persecution of the Knights Templar, which horrified Peter, who had befriended many of their number on his journeys to the Holy Land years before. Father MacKinley thought the persecution deplorable as well, yet argued that the highly secretive order of knights had grown rich and powerful since the early days of their existence, when they had lived by a code of chastity and poverty. There was also the matter of the current pope, whom Philip had worked so strenuously to promote into the holy office, and now seemed to be using for his own purposes and gains. The French king had a sadly depleted treasury, and it was true that the Knights Templar had riches across the known world.