Knight Triumphant

by Heather Graham

  “Though perhaps it does merit mention first.”

  Merit mention?

  “I have not, since we have come here, meant to hurt you. I know what you have suffered, and in truth, there was nothing I, or anyone, could have done that was worse than what the plague wrought upon us all.”

  She lowered her eyes. “You didn’t hurt me.”

  “I know.” Again, that supreme confidence.

  Her lashes flew open again, but there was a brooding quality in his eyes that silenced her. Then that was suddenly replaced by a look of amusement.

  “You might have mentioned at some earlier point that you were not quite so hostile to me, in particular, as you so often pretended.”

  “But I am hostile,” she assured him.

  She tried to keep her eyes on his, aware that he had read everything about her last night, as easily as someone might read the pages of a book.

  “All right, then, my lady. My own pride is great; I’ll leave you with yours. But nothing will be turned back. Your crest may stay, as will mine. Your ”cage” has become shared space.”

  She didn’t respond.

  “You understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t seem overly disturbed. But then, neither did you last night.”

  “Would it have made a difference?”

  “We’ll never know, will we?”

  “There was nothing I could have done. There are no weapons—”

  Um, well, you could have taken a needle to my chest.”

  “I’ll remember that for future reference.”

  “Remember what you like, admit what you like. Live with whatever dreams make you happy. Close your eyes, and in the dark, imagine that Lord Afton has returned. But don’t try to change anything.”

  He stood up, grabbing his shirt, hose, and boots. The shirt went over his head. He seated himself, pulling on hose and boots, before she spoke in reply.

  “Is that what you do?” she asked softly. “In the darkness. . . imagine that you are somewhere else, with someone else?”

  His right boot was on; he pulled on the left, rose, and walked back to the bed. “I’m afraid that I am forever and completely grounded in reality. I never imagine anything, Igrainia. Even in the dark, I am always aware of what is there. But I do not begrudge anyone else the escape of fancies and dreams. Now, as to the subject we need to discuss. . .”

  “What?” she asked thickly.

  “I have news regarding your brother.”

  CHAPTER 15

  She was so startled that she nearly bolted out of the bed, but she refrained, clutching the covers to her chest.

  “What about Aidan?”

  “You’re aware that he’s in Scotland? He is at Cheffington, with the lord of the manor, Ewan Danby. A decent man—a rarity among the minions Edward has sent to Scotland. But he has believed every word he has heard about your mistreatment and abuse at the hands of the Highland rabble who have so viciously seized Langley. Among the knights gathering there are Sir Niles Mason and your own Robert Neville. From what we’ve learned, they are planning on marching here, within a few weeks time—before answering Edward’s call to arms—with a party of nearly three hundred.”

  She looked down quickly. “That is a large body of men. When you cannot have more than a hundred or so here, if that many.” She looked up at him and met his eyes again. “Since I’m assuming you left a number of the men you had armed and trained in the service of Robert Bruce.”

  She was right, and she knew it, and startled when it didn’t seem that he was the least afraid of the number of men who would come against him.

  “Large numbers—but not enough to take Langley.”

  “They’ll come with siege machines.”

  “Aye, they will.”

  “Perhaps you should abandon the castle.”

  “Perhaps I will have to—one day. But not now.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know what response you want from me. Naturally, the English are going to try to wrest Langley from your hold. And with such a party of armed men, with the money and supplies they will have . . . it’s likely you’ll be defeated.”

  “No, I won’t.”

  “Then . . . I still don’t understand what you want from me.”

  “I want you to write to Aidan again.”

  “Do you think he can stop Niles and Robert from coming?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Then . . .”

  “I’m warning you.”

  “Warning . . . me?”

  “To tell Aidan not to ride with them. He might well be killed.”

  She stared at him, her eyes widening with incredulity. “You might be killed. The walls could be breeched, and if a flood of men break through . . . the castle could fall.”

  “It will not,” he said.

  She shook her head. “I can write to Aidan. I can tell him that it is a foolhardy mission. But . . . it’s not likely he’ll pay heed to my words. He is in the company of seasoned warriors. He is certain to think that his own honor will be forever in question if he doesn’t ride to rescue his own sister.”

  “Write to him. I’m sure you’ll think of something to put on paper that will warn him, at the very least, that he is taking a grave risk. You might think of finding a way of setting the truth down on paper—that your wedding was performed by a priest, and that your marriage is real in every way.”

  “But you said yourself before—it is the king who is determined that he will do what he wants as regards my future.”

  “King Edward is not rising from his bed to ride against Langley—he is too concerned with cornering Robert Bruce. It is your brother you must convince that you have no desire of rescue.”

  “You are afraid of that many knights and men-at-arms coming at Langley!” she accused him.

  “Actually, I rather relish the thought of meeting Sir Niles Mason face to face,” he told her, and in the harshness of his tone, she felt chilled, knowing he spoke the truth. “Believe me when I tell you this, the warning is a courtesy I am extending to you. I owe you that much. Do with it what you will. Good day, my lady.”

  With that, he left.

  Igrainia stretched out on the bed again, far more weary than she had been the night before, and very afraid for Aidan. He would ride in the front. She knew that the castle could withstand strong efforts, and she knew as well that any fortress could fall.

  But Eric was far too confident, so she was certain as well that he would be prepared for the attack, and since he had given her the warning, she knew that Aidan would be in danger. She would write; she would write anything she could think of, any lie and any truth, that might prevent him from coming.

  But her prospects of success seemed bleak.

  And if he came . . .

  And they were successful in their attack?

  So many men she had come to know, to care about, would die. And if Robert and Niles seized the castle, they would die horribly; the prescribed death for traitors would be dealt to every last man.

  Tears sprang to her eyes and she found herself hating both kings—Edward Plantagenet and Robert Bruce. Men vacillated in this war, and their greed was usually the strongest part of their loyalty. There were many as Aidan had been, sympathetic toward one, yet recognizing the power of the other. Both had turned far too many decent men into butchers.

  And they had destroyed her life.

  She lay then with her tears drying, her eyes open, as a wave of guilt assailed her. She could write that her marriage was real in every way. She could tell her brother that she was resigned. She could tell him that . . .

  She mourned Afton, she would never love another man again. But whereas Robert Neville had the ability to make her uneasy, she was, at the least, shamefully attracted to the enemy who had seized the castle and made her his wife.

  She prayed for sleep, to forget the night. To forget the world. To forget that she had set out to enrage and arouse the enemy, and succeeded far too
well.

  For a long time, the haven of sleep eluded her, and she stared into the dying embers of the fire, and thought again that the Scots were mad, like wolves howling in the wind, and that they would never break the might of the English. They might win skirmishes . . . seize castles . . . but in the end, they would have to give way.

  She had betrayed Afton. Here, in the room where they had laughed and read and dreamed like children.

  Where he had died.

  And now Aidan could die.

  And if he prevailed, then others would be hanged until half dead, dragged down, disemboweled, castrated . . . and at last, mercifully, beheaded.

  Even the embers began to die in the hearth. Cold, she clutched the covers more tightly around her. She mentally planned her letter to Aidan. And she began to wonder if it wouldn’t be better if she were to escape, and ride to Cheffington, and throw herself upon Lord Danby’s mercy. If she could prevent so many more deaths . . .

  But no one wanted her alone, she thought bitterly.

  It was Langley they were coming to seize.

  She closed her eyes. For a while, the tempest of her thoughts continued to plague her. Then, at long last, she slept.

  Eric spent most of the day with Jamie and Allan, scouring the countryside that surrounded Langley. They followed the route that led to Cheffington for a distance, encircled the castle, and rode into the nearby woods, determining the natural geography of every line of defense.

  Late afternoon, he returned to the great hall to find Angus worriedly awaiting him. “Igrainia has not arisen,” he said. “One of us has remained at her door during the morning. Breakfast was brought to her, but she has not opened the door . . . she has not asked for the bath and water to be brought.”

  That seemed the most dire omen of all to Angus, who didn’t mind a good washing now and then, but still believed that the lady of Langley was washing away her skin and her life with every long soap and scrubbing. “I have been tempted to burst into the room, but she could not have drowned in the bath, since she has not called for one, and. . . I even looked in the moat, so I know that she did not. . . did not decide to cast herself into water.”

  Eric was tempted to laugh, yet Angus was so sincere in his concern, that he placed a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll see to her immediately.”

  As he walked up the stairs, he wondered if he had pushed her over the edge of reason last night. But he didn’t really believe that. Time could work mysteriously, or life and instinct itself, but he felt certain that he had not caused her any great hardship. It was almost as if she had been waiting.

  She had been a captive at Langley, she had been forced into marriage, but last night she had not been forced, and living with her own desires was surely going to be harder for her than anything he had wrought against her.

  And so he found himself taking the stairs two at a time, passing Jarrett quickly in the hall, and opening the door to the master’s chambers with a force that nearly took it off the hinges.

  He looked around the room and saw a crumpled mass beneath the pile of linen sheets and furs on the bed. His throat constricted, his every muscle tightened, and he quickly strode over the distance to the bed, sitting, pulling the sheets back, and seeking through the tangled blanket of black hair.

  She suddenly let out a little cry, trying to disentangle herself from the sheets, her hair, and his touch. Drawing wild, stray tendrils from her eyes, she stared at him in alarm.

  “What is it?”

  The relief that filled him brought laughter to his lips. He leaned back against the bedpost himself, drained. “Nothing. I’m sorry that I’ve awakened you.”

  He rose and left the room. There seemed to be little sense in letting her know that they had been afraid he might have made her so desperate that she had taken her own life.

  He was tempted to stay, because finding her in such a pleasant state of disarray definitely stirred thoughts of shirking duty, but he could not afford to lose the daylight hours.

  Night would come.

  He rose and left the room, closing the door quietly in his wake.

  When she woke, Igrainia found that she was starving, and she was surprised to find that Angus was seated on the floor directly outside her door. He jumped up the moment he saw her, ready and eager to acquire anything she might like, and more than willing to follow her anywhere.

  She wasn’t eager to go anywhere, just yet, she was just hungry and would like the bath to be brought up as quickly as possible. She noted that in his curious, touching haste to please her he didn’t pass the order on to anyone else, but hurried down the stairs himself, moving with an amazing agility for a man his size.

  When she had eaten and bathed, she sat down at the writing desk and composed her letter to Aidan, telling him that she was treated with kindness and respect, and that he must not worry that she was in any danger. Knowing that those words wouldn’t restrain a young man eager to prove his valor to himself and others, she began to write about the situation as a whole, and spoke about the losses in Scotland and that the best use of his talents would be to obey King Edward’s summons, and prove himself with the force that the king was sure to wield.

  With the letter written—she didn’t bother to seal it, knowing full well that her words would be read and censored—she sat back, and knew then that it was time to visit the tombs. It was Jarrett who waited outside her door then, and as had become the custom of her watchdogs in the days when Eric and his fighting force had been gone, he merely bid her a good morning and followed in her wake.

  The great hall was empty except for a few servants sweeping, and a few great hounds resting near the fireplace.

  Jarrett followed her down to the tombs, waiting a discreet distance as she knelt in front of the wall where Afton lay in eternal rest. On her knees, she tried to form words of apology. That she had honestly loved him with all her heart was easy to swear, but to pretend that life had not gone on was not. She had loved her husband, with his wonderful ability to see and know life and human nature, but though she still felt torn and in a tempest, there was a strange peace to be had here, even though she had thought that she could not cure herself of the guilt piercing her soul. And as she prayed, head bowed, she wondered if he saw as well that they had spent their time together almost as children, in a life that ran smoothly, with wealth and material beauty, and in a strange union that few people in their position were ever allowed. Theirs had been an arranged marriage of almost uncanny happiness. Perhaps something so sweet had never been meant to last.

  Before rising, she again begged his pardon, prayed that he was at peace, and swore that he would remain in her heart always.

  Returning to the hall, she discovered that it was late, darkness had fallen, and though the hall was not filled, Eric’s immediate advisors were gathering there. Jamie was quick to greet her, as were the others, and their manner was much as if she were one of their own, their courtesy that which they would have extended to the true and honored wife of their leader. Only Eric was missing. She hadn’t decided yet if she would come down for the meal that evening, but after she hurried up the stairs with Jarrett watching from below, she found, when she reached the door to her room, that there was noise within. Eric was there.

  She quietly left the door, feeling a new frustration. She would be a liar to admit less to herself than the full truth; with whatever fancies had stirred her mind, she had wanted him to return, and had wanted him. And she was more than resigned to the nights that would come, though she refused to allow herself to believe that she was eager for them.

  But she didn’t want him living in her room. That invasion of privacy was the most distressing.

  Still, he was there, and so she returned to the hall, and accepted a cup of ale from Jamie, and took her place at the table. It was startling to realize how many men she had come to admire, and to like, among the Scots. Angus, of course, and Peter, Allan, Jarrett . . . and Jamie, who was genuinely the most interested in her, and always a
ble to draw her into conversation. Seated next to him, with Eric’s empty chair at her side, she found that she was smiling at some comment he had made to Allan regarding the finer meat he had provided for the table. His eyes were a fine gray, and his features, very like Eric’s, were well formed and handsome. He made a point of including her in the conversation, and asked if she didn’t think that they did, at least, manage to bring a fine supply of food to the table.

  She agreed, then asked him, “But aren’t you weary of being here? Haven’t you a home, a wife, children?”

  She was surprised to realize that she had touched upon a sore spot within him. For a moment he did not reply, studying his chalice. Then he told her, “A home, yes, just beyond Stirling, and far too close to English power to enjoy. A wife, once. She is gone.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Langley is fine enough,” he told her. “It’s true, that we are all little but outlaws now. There were the very dark days after the defeat at Falkirk . . . and many of us took to the highlands. There, you know, there is little law but what the chieftains say, and they cast the weight of their clans with the man they most admire. Most often, though, they are fiercely independent, and therefore, ready for the call of freedom. Our own clan is such, one that has spread far and wide. Since Robert Bruce has been crowned king . . . for many of us, the fight is reawakened, and we will readily die to follow him, and become one nation where the English are not free to ravage our homes, steal our property, and slay our people. I am a vagabond, madam. There is property which is rightfully mine, but it is laid waste. One day, it will be home.”

  She hadn’t realized how closely she had lowered her head to hear him, or how softly he had spoken, until he raised his head, and looked past her. “Eric, we’ve a great debate going on here tonight, so you will have to decide on which plate of meat you find to be more tender. I contend that I am able to bring down the young and tender bucks, while Allan chases after those old creatures who can barely hobble through the forest!”

  “And I am to judge in this contest?” Eric said. “Cousin, I haven’t the courage!”