Knight Triumphant

by Heather Graham

“Please, before God, may I pass?”

  “Whether I am here or not, you will find yourself resigned to remain at Langley.”

  “You may command many things, sir, but never my thoughts or feelings.”

  “It doesn’t matter what they are—as long as you’re not foolish enough to act on them.”

  “I am duly threatened and well put in my place. May I pass now?”

  “Will you be joining us this evening?”

  “I will not.”

  “You’re not wanting to hear music, and enjoy stirring tales of valor and honor?”

  “I am afraid that mixing a meal with the boasts of braggarts would be disturbing to the digestion. Again, I ask you, may I please go?”

  To her surprise, he inclined his head in a grave bow and his hand fell from her arm. She fled, trying to walk slowly, her footsteps moving quicker with each step. He didn’t follow.

  His gaze, she was certain, did.

  When she reached the steps, she was running. She didn’t feel free from that gaze until she had skimmed the stairs to the hall, slipped quickly through the gathering horde of men there, and nearly flown up the stairs to the second landing and her room.

  Her room—her cage. What had been a prison now seemed a haven. She brought her palms to her cheeks, which were burning.

  She waited, wondering if he would take his time, then follow her to her room with some new way to challenge her.

  But he did not. And she remembered that he had just returned—there were matters that would be of importance to him.

  She was not one of them. She was a prize of war, like arms and armor and the walls of a castle.

  Time passed, and no one came. When she opened the door to the hall, she could hear voices from below, and she knew that the men were exchanging information about events at the castle, and at the battle site, and perhaps discussing what direction the war would take when the king commenced his march against Bruce.

  She was startled, though, to be caught with her head poked out the door. “Igrainia, are you coming down? Is there something that you needed?”

  Jamie had brought a stool to the hallway and was whittling at a piece of wood.

  “Yes . . . I’d like to send for the kitchen lads, and have the bath brought.”

  “Of course.” He moved to the stairs. She tried to listen to what was being said below without appearing to be eavesdropping. Once Jamie was gone, she could tiptoe to the landing and listen.

  But Jamie didn’t leave. He called to someone below who went about her bidding. She retreated to her room.

  The tub was brought, along with a multitude of kettles, and then one by one, the servants all left, and she was alone again. She bathed, watching the door, ever wary of a rude visitor who might not knock. She took her time, wondering why she risked so much. She washed her hair, and rinsed it clean. And basked some more, always watching the door.

  But Eric never appeared. When the water grew cold, she emerged, determined not to leave her room, not to attend any celebration for the triumph of the Scots. She dressed for bed in a lace-trimmed, unbleached linen bed gown. She sat before the fire and brushed her hair until it dried.

  At last, she curled up with a book. Tonight, tales of the Greek gods would be her company.

  No one arrived to urge her to join the group below. Not even Father MacKinley. Jennie didn’t come, and neither did Rowenna.

  The sun began to fall, twilight came, and then darkness.

  Jarrett arrived with a tray bearing her supper. He was cheerful, friendly as ever, but eager to leave. She failed to draw him into a conversation.

  Not long after, she heard the sounds of revelry from below.

  Feeling an irritation that seemed to fester and swell, she thought that indeed, the conquering heroes had returned.

  It was impossible to ignore the music and laughter and shouts that sounded from the great hall. She stared at a single page for long moments before she realized that she had not understood a word.

  She could not help but wonder what they were saying, what they were doing. It would be in her best interests to know.

  When her curiosity could bear no more, she opened the door. Looking down the hall, she saw no one on guard. She silently trod the length of the hall to the top of the stairs and there looked down on the merriment.

  Several men had pipes, and Jamie, who had boasted of his prowess with a lute, was proving it. He and Dougal and other men were standing near the fire. There were a number of women in the hall as well, wives of the many fighting men, who had joined in the meal and entertainment. She had seen some of them about the courtyard, and even spoken to a few.

  One woman she recognized from the dire days when so many had been so ill. A survivor from the plague.

  And there was Jennie, as she had expected, silently and sullenly serving along with Berlinda, Garth, Gregory, and Rowenna.

  At the head of table, naturally, there was Eric.

  His chalice was before him and an empty plate. While many others in the room were laughing, chatting, even shouting to one another across the room or urging the musicians on, Eric seemed engaged in serious conversation with Peter MacDonald, seated at his right. Rowenna walked behind the men with a pitcher, bearing more ale. As she poured, Peter absently thanked her. Eric seemed to notice her especially. He smiled, and spoke to her. They exchanged words and both laughed. He was at ease. He had bathed as well, she thought, washed away the dust of the road. He wore a shirt and breeches, and the ever-present mantle, his tartan, his name, evidence of the clan he honored as much as his battle for his sovereign nation.

  Rowenna laughed and blushed at whatever he said. Other women apparently found him attractive, strong, virile . . . compelling.

  A moment later, as if sensing her presence, Eric looked up.

  She froze where she had hunched down by the hard wood banister. It was too late to retreat, though she shrank back against herself. He had seen her.

  He stared at her for a long moment. She could not draw her gaze from his.

  There was something different about the way he looked at her. His eyes burned with a strange blue fire, and the heat seemed to cross the distance between, and burn deeply inside her.

  The feel of fire that touched her flesh spurred her to action.

  She rose as gracefully as she could. She didn’t give in to her desire to flee. She continued to meet his gaze. His eyes remained hard upon her.

  Then she purposely turned, as if dismissing him cleanly from sight and thought.

  She headed back toward her room.

  As she walked, her heart began its thunder again.

  And this time, he did follow her.

  CHAPTER 13

  As she heard him on the stairs, she tried to quicken her pace. But he reached the landing and called her name. “Igrainia!”

  His tone was pleasant, but hinted at a certain sarcasm or mockery. She stiffened where she stood, not turning to him.

  “You’re intrigued by the activities in the hall. It’s absurd for you to watch from the stairway. Join the company.”

  “I’m not intrigued. I’m wondering if the noise will ever lessen.”

  “Not until very late. Or very early,” he said, crossing the distance to her. Before he could turn her to face him, she turned herself, back stiff against her door.

  “Come down.”

  “I really have no interest.”

  “You’re lying. You’re bored in your little cage, and dying of curiosity. Come down.”

  “No.”

  “Yes.”

  He took her arm, and slipped it through his own in a fluid and determined motion. She could fight to get her arm back, but she wouldn’t win.

  And he was already walking. She had to move swiftly to keep up with him.

  “I am not dressed!” she protested, and he glanced down at the linen gown she wore with its delicate and elaborate lacework. The fabric was thin, but voluminous. In the shadows, it was a concealing and elegant gown.r />
  “You’re too modest. That’s a lovely garment.”

  “It’s a nightdress. My feet are bare.”

  “Ah, well, bare feet will keep you from running far,” he replied.

  “I haven’t been running.”

  “Thus far. We’ve established that fact, haven’t we? You’re not the customary captive. I believe my men actually vie with one another for the pleasure of serving you.”

  She ignored him, for they had reached the hall.

  The music stopped. There was a silence as all eyes turned to her.

  Then Jamie spoke. “Igrainia! Welcome. Jarrett, lads, surely we’ve a ballad to welcome the lady?”

  They began to play again, a surprisingly beautiful tune that the pipes made haunting, about a maid in a tower, and the young man who watched her night after night.

  Eric had maintained his lock on her arm. He moved her through the hall to the head of the table. Peter had vacated his place.

  “Sit,” Eric said.

  “It is Peter’s chair.”

  “Peter no longer requires it.”

  She wasn’t really given a choice. She found herself seated. “Gregory! Ale for the lady!” Eric called. He lifted his chalice. “Indeed, for myself,” he said grimly, staring at the chalice. It seemed for a moment that his tone was bitter, yet not against her, but more for himself. Gregory brought the ale, poured it.

  “Let’s toast, my lady. Lift your glass.”

  “I won’t toast your victories,” she told him.

  “Fine. Toast life, then, my lady, and the sanctity of it! Hell, drink to old King Edward, may his body rot beneath him!”

  She hesitated, her fingers curled around the chalice.

  “Toast the memory of your husband then, Igrainia, but lift your cup and drink!”

  She had a wild vision of him grabbing her by the jaw and forcing ale down her throat. He wouldn’t do such a thing. Or would he? She lifted the chalice. She was feeling the need for a long, long swallow of the hearty ale herself.

  He drained his own, set the chalice down with a thump, and stared at her, blue eyes dark and brooding. She drank herself . . . and drank, finishing her own ale, imitating his thud upon the table. “Will that suffice?” she inquired coolly.

  He smiled, leaning back then, his eyes never leaving hers. “I don’t know. Will it? You were obviously eager to see what was happening. Or else, you were sorely in need of some ale. Or wine—I believe there is wine, if you prefer.”

  “I prefer not to drink here.”

  “Why not? Drink enough ale, and we will all become more bearable to you.”

  “There is not enough ale in all the world,” she murmured.

  “You’d be surprised what enough ale can do.”

  Their attention was drawn from one another as a cheerful shout rose in the hall, drowning the murmurs of more intimate conversations.

  “Jamie, sing the new song to our good King Robert!” Allan called. He was down the table from where they sat, his arm around a young woman. Igrainia couldn’t recall if she had seen the woman before or not, but she was pretty and young, and seemed to be content in Jamie’s arms. Her clothing was fine; she wore a tartan mantle with colors in blue, green, and red.

  “Aye, then!” Jamie cried, and began.

  He had a pleasant voice, and a way of telling a story as he plucked at his instrument. His story was about the Scottish king, of dark days and sad, of the deaths of those he loved, and of a night when he was ready to let all be lost, but then saw a spider, endlessly toiling at a web, beginning anew each time the rain destroyed what she had worked so hard to achieve. The sun rose, and the web she then spun was so beautiful that the king knew he could give no less for Scotland, because the sun would rise again.

  His song was followed by wild applause, and he blushed and laughed and thanked them all. Igrainia was dismayed to find that he had caught her eye as he turned around bowing and called out to her. “Igrainia! Come, please. Eric, you’ve not heard her, have you? Neither have I. But Peter tells me she has the voice of an angel, a lark, and that she played and sang in the hall at supper while we were away. Igrainia! You must uphold the honor of Langley. Come!”

  She froze in her chair, and felt Eric’s eyes again.

  He leaned forward. “So . . . you have not just dined with the enemy during our absence, but entertained as well?”

  She moistened her lips. “I really don’t think you’d care to hear any ballad I have to sing.”

  “Oh, but I would.”

  “No.”

  “Yes. I command it.”

  “I will sing whatever pleases me,” she threatened.

  “Do go ahead.”

  She rose suddenly. “As you wish, then. Who am I to deny a conquering hero?”

  She swept from the table, walked the length of it, and took the lute from Jamie. He smiled warmly, handing it to her with a deep bow.

  Her song was about a love lost, about a knight of infinite wisdom, aware of the power of the written word, the beauty of a field, the wonder of a child. A knight far too gentle for the sword, but born to live and die by it. She was certain that many would know that in the song, the gentle knight was Afton—though he had perished from disease rather than the sword.

  Of course, that he was “slain by an enemy, savage and bold,” might have surely sent a message into some of their souls. Especially since the enemy was savage, barbaric, from the north, and with a heavy force of arms, but lacking of wisdom, knowledge, and chivalry.

  Even as she sang the last of it, only willpower alone kept her from faltering. She was a fool, mocking them all. She meant only to anger Eric. To arouse him to emotion, find a certain vengeance in what power she had herself.

  And still, when she had finished, returned the lute to Jamie, and stood, she was astounded by the applause that thundered and echoed about the room. She felt flushed, being near the fire, and parched, and when someone handed her a chalice, she accepted it, and drank, and then demurred when Allan and his lady and then others cried out, asking her for another tale.

  “No, really—”

  But Jamie, smiling, was at her side, and he asked her if she knew a light and lively tune with no bearing on events other than the argument between a lord and lady, and so he played, and they sang together, and again, the hall seemed warm, and she was applauded and amazed to find so many people beside her, thanking her for the song. The woman with Allan came to her as well, and thanked her for the care she had given her during the plague. Igrainia found herself strangely enjoying the evening, and dancing when Jarrett brought out his pipes again, swirling with the other wives and daughters and lovers, and even laughing when she tripped over Angus’s feet when he joined her.

  She was enjoying herself. The women did not seem to resent her, and the men were admiring, and complimentary. She felt alive as she hadn’t in some time, and she even felt beautiful, their words were so kind.

  She forgot she was among the enemy. She smiled and laughed with Jamie, Jarrett, Dougal, Allan and his lady. At times, she noted Eric, talking to one of his men, or perhaps speaking with one of their wives, sisters, mothers, or lovers. She watched the courtesy he showed others. She saw him touch Rowenna’s hand again, bow his head close to hear her speak against the talk, laughter, and conversation. Indeed, he could charm.

  She turned away from him. For a moment she felt as if she were trying to rage against the wind, to laugh before she could cry, to prove herself a shimmering bird of crystalline colors, strong in flight, untouched by any bars.

  She accepted more ale.

  She discussed the best poultices for flesh wounds.

  She danced again, and again, and listened to the music, smiled radiantly for Jamie, and allowed herself the luxury of accepting his compliments.

  She almost made herself forget Eric . . .

  Until, in the midst of swirling revelry, she spun straight into his arms, and against his hard chest.

  Then, she knew.

  No, she
had not forgotten him at all. She had performed with a vengeance, knowing he watched, had danced with energy, had laughed with reckless abandon, had teased, charmed and . . .

  “It’s time for you to return to the cage,” he told her.

  She felt the supple heat of his body as she was held hard against it. She met his eyes, her own defiant.

  “Why? You insisted I come down.”

  “And now I am insisting you go up.”

  “Why? Because your men do not find me to be loathsome? Not such a terrible danger? Because there are people here who believe I saved their lives?”

  “Because they will come to trust you, and then you will be a really terrible danger. It’s time to leave. I’ll be pleased to escort you up.”

  She inclined her head slightly. “I can imagine,” she murmured with sweet sarcasm. “But I wish to stay here.”

  “You are going up.”

  “Force me rudely, as you are so apt to do, and I will scream.”

  “And you think my men will then draw swords on me?” he mocked.

  “Perhaps they will.”

  “Perhaps you overestimate your position.”

  “Perhaps not.”

  “It’s a gamble you’re welcome to take.”

  She stood resentfully silent, tempted, and yet afraid, and praying that she still kept the threat alive in her eyes. But then, it was likely that he really didn’t care if she screamed or not, if she walked with dignity, or if he simply threw her over his shoulder and neatly deposited her back in the room, the bird returned to her cage.

  “Come along. We have an interesting matter to discuss. It might as well be now.”

  A deepening sense of alarm and dismay filled her. She didn’t want to return to the room, to be shut away. She had disturbed him tonight, she had done it on purpose. She knew it, and she was reveling in it. She was admired in this hall, she managed very well alone with his men, and she wanted him to know it.

  She had stoked a fire for warmth, and was burning in its heat instead. She was painfully aware they danced no longer, that she had somehow come against a wall, and she was still within his hold. No weight was borne down against her, but she was still aware of the pressure of his chest and that she was pinned against him as he lowered his head to speak softly to her. They might have been having an intimate conversation. She remembered that afternoon, in the dungeon. How desperate she had felt when he had held her. A new, deep unease stirred, and threatened again to rise to a raging panic. And yet . . .