Knight Triumphant

by Heather Graham

  All these things they discussed and more, and when she spoke, even when she argued, they listened. When Peter’s favorite hound was injured, taking a fall from a crag while chasing a rabbit, he came to her for the balms to heal its wounds. She began to visit the tenants again with Father MacKinley, tending to their sickness, sympathizing with their woes.

  She continued to read, finding herself more intrigued with the use and history of mail, armor, and weaponry.

  Again, she removed Eric’s offensive coat-of-arms. Nothing of Afton’s family had been left in the room.

  But no one had disturbed any of her sewing or embroidery supplies. She found everything she needed—and she certainly had the time—to create a coat-of-arms of her own. She designed a wall hanging with lions and lilies, the crest of the house of Abelard. She was pleased with the way it looked upon the wall, and found a certain peace and independence upon seeing it each night across the room as she lay down to sleep. She needed that sense of herself. Though he was gone, it seemed that he remained. He had made his impression here. His judgments were part of daily life. At Langley, the land was Scotland, Robert Bruce was the only king. But life was sacred, and cruelty was not practiced upon the people, and the tenants and servants had not been beaten down. The men did not ravage the homes of those who had survived the illness, nor the homes of those who had died. Men were not slain, women were not raped, and crops and fields and animals were not destroyed. There was, of course, a logic to that. Eric’s great determination was to recruit and train more forces for his king. Fighting men needed food and supplies.

  But those who knew him best were completely loyal. They waited each day for news of their king, the fighting, Edward’s movements, and most important, the fate of their leader. None among them planned for his demise, or coveted his position as their leader. Father MacKinley told her that he often heard the men speaking, and that Eric held such sway because there was no danger he would ask of any man that he would not face himself, nor would he refuse any fight to defend those in his ranks, nor would he put his own welfare ahead of that of any other man. He was a natural strategist, and yet, also a man aware that numbers could be defeated by determination. He had assured his men that they would seize Langley, even when they fought with few weapons and no armor, because they were fighting for those they loved. They would prevail, because they had to.

  As the days passed, she was certain that the door to freedom remained open, but she began to question what freedom meant. She should have prayed that Eric fall in battle. She was dismayed to realize that she watched for his return. She needed to believe that she could escape, even if it might not be wise for her to do so.

  Her only fear in remaining where she was without attempting to escape was for her brother, and it unnerved her, but as of yet, she’d heard no reply from him. If he had written an acknowledgment of her letter to him, delivered to Peter MacDonald, as steward of Langley in Eric’s absence, Peter had refrained from telling her. And she dared not ask in case Aidan was trying to slip word to her through the good graces of a tinker, farmer, or milkmaid.

  Messengers did come and go from the castle. At supper in the great hall one night, Peter informed her with pride that the Bruce’s men had repelled a heavy English attack on Loudon Hill, and that following that victory, they had gone on to attack a force led by the Earl of Gloucester sent to relieve Pembroke. Gloucester’s men had put up a better resistance, but they too had retreated from the battlefield, returning to the safety of Ayr Castle.

  She had been surprised to feel her heart quicken. If there had been bad news regarding the man he followed so faithfully, Peter would not have spoken with such pleasure. And still she found herself asking, “And what of the men of Langley?” Despite her promise to personally slay Eric, she realized that she had feared for him after he had gone, an emotion she would certainly not share with him or any of his people. But Peter had been quick to assure her that the men of Langley had performed ably and valiantly in both engagements. They had not lost a man, and the only injury had been a broken arm suffered by one young man-at-arms.

  The tide seemed to be turning.

  Bruce was prevailing, but King Edward had sent out a summons to all of the leading men of England, all who owed the king feudal service. They were to assemble at Carlisle on July eighth, and be joined by the king’s Welsh levies. This time, the king would lead his own troops against Bruce.

  She wondered if the Scottish king’s strategy, cunning, and pure willpower could still give him victory when King Edward himself took to the field, demanding obedience and solid courage from all the men he could muster under him. She knew the king. He was called Longshanks for his great height, and he was respected as a warrior king with good reason. His personal courage was legendary. He was intelligent, and before the death of his first wife, his beloved Eleanor, he had been compassionate as well at times. Though his policies against Scotland had become merciless and brutal, there had been times when he had shown unusual temperance. Usually, those times came when he knew that diplomacy would serve him better than cruelty.

  As she stood upon the parapet, enjoying the gentle kiss of the sun and the soft caress of a pleasant breeze, she heard movement at her side. She turned to see that Peter had come to stand along with her, looking out on the great sloping field to the east.

  “Listen!” he said softly.

  She arched a brow, and at first heard nothing. But moments later, she heard what Peter had. In the distance, a murmur. A trembling of the earth at first, felt rather than heard, but then she detected the unmistakable sound of the slow beat of horses’ hooves against the earth, and a murmur in the wind that was the sound of a troop of men riding hard for the castle.

  “Gregory had said that they would return today. He is a remarkable lad.”

  Gregory was indeed remarkable. She was beginning to learn to read his lips when he spoke. He had told her exactly when a colt would be born, a day when it would rain, and a day when the sun would shine through, even though the morning had dawned dark and ominous.

  The sound of a trumpet came along with a cry and the wave of a banner from the guard high atop the eastern ledge, and Peter said with pleasure, “They are returning.”

  Igrainia felt a curious sensation of both dread and anticipation. In Eric’s absence, the days had been good, a time to function again, and to assess her own situation. His men had been as courteous to her as if she were one of their own.

  But now . . .

  “Well,” she said lightly. “I am glad for you that your people have all survived the blades and bludgeons of war. You’ll excuse me.”

  She fled from the parapets, suddenly eager to escape.

  Peter was too occupied with the returning troop to follow her, nor did she see Jarrett, or any of the other men, slip silently behind her as she walked.

  She meant to return to her room, her retreat, her private space. But when she came back into the tower, she found that the great hall was empty, and she found herself drawn to the steps that led down to the dungeon. Fires lit the stretch of the stone underbelly of the castle, but the long hall of graves and cells was empty. She wondered that it did not make her feel the least uneasy to walk among the tombs and rows of the dead; once it had. Now, Afton rested within the wall, and she knew that if his spirit walked, it would offer nothing but comfort and protection. She paused, touched the stone, and felt now a sweet pain of memory rather than the agony of loss. Then, she found herself turning, curious to know just how they had walled off the secret tunnel.

  For a moment, she paused, damning herself for finding this the time to explore the bowels of the castle. But then, the conquering heroes had just returned. They would all be gloating in pride and triumph, toasting one another, Robert Bruce, and Scotland.

  No one would be looking for her.

  She walked down the long hall, passing by the dungeon cells which remained empty, wood and iron doors ajar. She didn’t pause at the room that was a torture chamber, but s
he felt a prickle of discomfort against her nape. She hurried on, to what appeared to be a dead end, yet slipped around the pillar that appeared to be a part of the wall, and reached the place directly behind it where the tunnel had once begun as a low, barely discernible archway. There had been a gap there, and directly behind it, another walkway that slanted low as it led beneath the moat to the southern side of the river.

  She touched the line of the arch in the stone, and realized that what had once appeared to be a wall was now one in truth. Mortar rimmed the stones that had been inset. Still, she thought, Eric wouldn’t have made it impossible to use the tunnel for his own purpose. She was certain that the wall had not been built strongly, and that it would fall the moment an axe or pick was brought against it.

  Naturally, she quickly noted, no such tool had been left close at hand.

  Glad that she had this further knowledge for later use if need be, she turned away from the shadowed end of the long hall and started back toward the cells, the tombs, and the stairway to the hall. Deep in thought, she walked along several feet, her eyes and head lowered, until a strange sensation along her spine and a deeper darkness against the dimly lit hall gave her warning that she was not alone.

  She came to a halt, and saw, at first, in the wavering light of the sconces, only what appeared to be a massive obstruction before her. Then the small, flickering wave of flame from the wall gave structure to broad shoulders, the sweep of a mantle, and the glowing gold of a man’s hair. Her heart thumped hard in her chest, and she stood very still. There was no sense in going back. And no possibility of going forward. And though his blue eyes were all but black and deeply shadowed in the dimness, she knew that they were fixed upon her with displeasure.

  “Ah,” she murmured, determining for lack of any option, to still the trembling in her limbs and speak as casually as she might to Peter, Jarrett, or Father MacKinley. “I suppose that all hail and laud are due. The triumphant warriors have returned. You’ve survived. How . . . pleasant for you.”

  She hadn’t realized that he had held his hands behind his back until he suddenly moved them forward. He held a pick.

  “Looking for this?”

  She barely glanced at the pick, meeting his dark eyes.

  “I came to visit the graves.”

  “They are at the other end of the hall.”

  “I had heard that the tunnel was walled in.”

  “So you came to see for yourself?”

  “Naturally. It seemed a foolish idea to me. You never know when you may need such an escape route yourself.”

  “When I may need it? Or when you choose to use it yourself?”

  “You’ve been gone some time. And I have been the model captive. You may ask your men.”

  “But you don’t mind my men being here. Perhaps life was even pleasant. But now I’ve returned.”

  “So you have,” she murmured. She decided that further conversation would get her nowhere. Alarmed at the way her heart continued to hammer and her breath to come too quickly, she decided that a dignified escape was in order. She started walking, though the distance between them was short. “I’ll return to my cage, the ever dutiful captive, sir, if you will be so good as to let me by.”

  But he didn’t intend to allow her an easy way out.

  He caught her arm as she tried to pass. She was forced to halt at his side, wedged between the stone wall and the steel of his frame. She met his eyes with a cool bravado. She glanced at the long fingers cast against the white edge of her sleeve.

  “I am here!” she said, afraid that her voice was starting to sound too desperate. “I came to pray . . . and wandered. Curious, no more.”

  “Ah, so it’s not your pick.”

  “Of course not. Did you think your men would supply me with such a tool?”

  “I think that this has been your home for some time and that you are surely aware of where such tools can be found.”

  He looked all the better for battle, she thought. Noble, powerful, and, as ever, completely confident. She remembered how ragged he had been, how drawn, bedraggled, so much like a wild man, the first time she had seen him. His clothing now was clean, his hair rich and combed, his face shaven, strong, and definitely both interesting and compelling. Still, there remained a tension in his features, perhaps a weariness, and the pain he had not let go.

  He had ridden home without mail, apparently certain that the way would be clear. But his sword was belted low on his waist, and the knife he always carried was sheathed at his knee.

  “Prisoners are supposed to look for a way out,” she said impatiently. He seemed too close, and far too real suddenly. As a man. Flesh and blood, with a pounding heart, eyes that saw too much, and a power that leaped too quickly to the fore. “I am here!” she exclaimed. “When I was not among those fawning at the sight of your triumphant return, did you think that I had, indeed, escaped the pleasant life I lead as your prisoner?”

  “Oh, no. I knew that you were here. The moment I saw Peter. He would have died to protect what we have seized.”

  “Stone walls, arms and armor, and a woman, all one and the same.”

  “All prizes of war,” he agreed pleasantly.

  “Except that some stay where they are placed.”

  “Ah, so you do remain eager to escape. Right into the arms and bosom and marital bed of a man who was dreaming of taking your husband’s land, title, property, and woman before he had even grown cold in death.”

  “Listen! I do believe that someone is calling your name in the hall above. Surely, you are needed by your men, after your long absence.”

  “I don’t think that you were a model prisoner at all, Igrainia. I think that you are a rare intelligent woman, and you know that you cannot stand against Edward, if he gets his hands upon you.”

  “What difference does it make?” She asked desperately. She could not stand being here a moment longer, so aware of him. She would scream and cry and go running like a madwoman along the corridor at any moment. “My only real escape would be the death of you all! May I please pass by? Surely, sir, you are needed above so that your adoring companions might shower you with laud and praise?”

  “It’s good that you didn’t try to escape.”

  “Really? What would have happened? Were your men ordered to take a lash to my back? Lop off my head?”

  “No,” he said evenly. “They would have been forced to lock you within a cell down here again until my return.”

  “Were they able to stop me.”

  “I assure you, they would have done so.”

  It seemed he still didn’t intend to release her. He studied her as they spoke, and he seemed to be searching for something in her eyes, or in her words.

  “It doesn’t matter, does it? You’ve returned—I am here. Still the bird in the cage, simply given flight in a larger cage.”

  “This war will be a long one. And I will leave again. And whatever logic moves within your mind and rules your reckless soul, you must be warned. Right now, you feel you rule your cage, and you’re now dismayed by the rules within it. That may change. The fact that you are a prize of war will not.”

  “I haven’t the least idea of what you are saying to me!” she exclaimed in dismay. The moment was coming closer and closer when her control would break, when she would become the madwoman, ready to hurl herself against stone to escape him. Her heart hammered; she felt she couldn’t breathe at all, and yet each breath was coming far too quickly. “I am not bent on escaping; I am resigned to the confines of my cage and even the smaller space and solitude when you are in residence.”

  “You may have to resign yourself to far more,” he said.

  “I will resign myself to anything, if you will just let me pass now! You have to be wanted and needed in the great hall now.”

  “Alas, I am. And tonight, of course, there will be drinking and feasting, something of a celebration, naturally. You are welcome to attend. I hear that your place at the table has not been le
ft empty for many nights. Don’t let my return interfere with your dining habits.”

  He was still holding her arm. She managed a deep breath and a cool reply. “I don’t celebrate death and destruction.”

  “Not that of your countrymen at the least. I must apologize for the poor manners I have offered you by returning with my head upon my neck.”

  She tried to break free from his hold then, but his grip was such that she couldn’t begin to escape. And so she replied with honesty, glad that her answer would not be one to change his strange mood of insistence to one of anger. “You’re mistaken. I was not eager for you to lose your head.”

  “You’d prefer my heart to be sliced out?”

  “I was not willing for your death in the least.”

  “Take care, I will believe that you were even eager for my return.”

  She hesitated, wanting to take extreme care with what she said. But he suddenly laughed then. “Ah, I see. You weren’t particularly eager for my death, but neither were you eager for my return. You did enjoy the time while I was gone, yet believed that my existence meant that you were actually rather safe at Langley. And here, in the tunnel now, it’s true—you were doing nothing more than assuring yourself that you could find an escape route in the future. If you deemed it necessary. You have decided that I am the lesser of two evils, especially when I’m far from Langley.”