Knight Triumphant

by Heather Graham

  He walked to where she stood and she backed away a step, facing him like a cat with hackles raised, knowing she had nowhere to go.

  He reached for her, drawing her to him. “You’re a little fool, Igrainia. If I hadn’t wanted you, God himself could not have ordered me to touch you.”

  “Really? But then I’m not at all sure that you believe in God, so that doesn’t really mean much of anything does it?”

  “This is an absolutely ridiculous argument!” he exploded.

  “Let go of me,” she said stubbornly. “You’ve served king and country.”

  “You are my wife.”

  “No. Your wife lies in the crypts below. I’m just part of the great cause for freedom, and I don’t care to be a part of it anymore.”

  “You are a part, whether you care to be, or not.”

  “Do you intend to force me to be with you?”

  “Madam, I’ve never needed or desired force in my life.”

  “Then let me go!”

  Before he could respond, there was a hard tapping on the door. His eyes, hard on hers for a moment, promised that they were not finished. He released her, and walked to the door.

  Jamie was just outside. As he started speaking in a hushed tone, Eric stepped into the hall, and closed the door. Igrainia nervously waited.

  A moment later, Eric stepped back in, his hands behind his back.

  “A very curious correspondence has just come to light,” he said.

  “Oh?”

  Her heart seemed to cease its beat. She had been in such a state over Rowenna’s words that she had forgotten the importance of finding Jennie.

  And seeing that Aidan’s letter to her had been burned.

  When he strode across the room then, she knew that her anger had cost her dearly. The letter had not been burned. It had been found.

  He drew his hands from behind his back. He held the letter.

  “Where did this come from?” he demanded harshly.

  “What is it?” she bluffed.

  But he knew her too well. Knew that she was lying.

  “You haven’t even glanced down, Igrainia. You know full well what it is.”

  “I—don’t.”

  “How have you been getting secret letters to your brother out of the castle?”

  “I haven’t been. I swear it.”

  “But you have this. And someone is bringing word to the enemy about our movements, and our defenses.”

  “Well, this may be Scotland, and the people may be happy, as you insist, but you must remember that Langley was held by a man loyal to Edward before your arrival.”

  He watched her for a long while, then turned, heading for the door. In the hall, he shouted to Jarrett. “Watch her—see that she doesn’t move!”

  She heard his footsteps in the hall, down the stairs.

  More footsteps . . .

  And voices from the hall. He had gathered his men; they would be discussing the letter, creating new strategy . . .

  Searching for the one who had betrayed them.

  She began to pace the confines of the bedroom again, wondering what would come next. He didn’t believe her, she thought. Didn’t believe that she wasn’t the one writing to Aidan. And he knew that there was someone else involved, someone who was a traitor among them.

  Jennie had to be stopped, of course.

  But she didn’t dare give her away!

  What would Eric do? It was imperative that they stop the flow of information. She felt chilled, then hot as fire. Through the ages, men—and women—had been tortured to force them to give information.

  She had to warn Jennie. Warn her that they knew someone was sending information. And that way, Jennie could get away.

  And then, when they asked her, she could tell the truth, that she had thought that Jennie was just rambling with resentment, but that she was gone, and she had been the one giving away every little bit of information she could glean.

  She ran to the door, threw it open, and found Jarrett across the hall, leaning against the wall, arms over his chest. His gaze now was hooded and mistrustful. And he didn’t speak to her. He just stared at her, as if he were warily keeping his eyes upon a caged but rabid dog.

  She backed into the room and closed the door.

  Hours later, she had worn herself out walking around the room. She finally lay down, exhausted.

  But sleep eluded her. Hours passed. Finally, she closed her eyes.

  She woke with a start.

  Morning had come. Yellow shafts of daylight poured into the room. She glanced around, seeking for signs that Eric had come, and slept beside her.

  He had not.

  When she rose and stepped into the hall, Angus had taken Jarrett’s place. He stared at her not with anger, but with sorrow.

  “You’re not to leave the room, my lady,” he told her, his tone apologetic and softly accusing.

  “May I see Father MacKinley?” She asked.

  “The priest is not here.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Gone.”

  She inhaled a deep breath, praying that Father MacKinley had not paid the price for someone else’s action.

  “Will you tell Eric that I need to talk to him, please,” she said.

  “I cannot, my lady. He is gone as well.”

  “Where?”

  “I am not to say.”

  “Angus, please, I need to speak with him.”

  “It’s impossible now.”

  “But when will he be back?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Aggravated, she slammed the door. Then she opened it again. “For your information, I didn’t write letters and have them spirited out of the castle. Though if I had, it would have been right. This was my castle, and you have taken it over!”

  He just stared at her.

  Again, she slammed the door.

  “There . . . there!” Allan exclaimed.

  “Where?” Eric demanded.

  “East, northeast, in that break of the trees . . . you can see them.”

  From the height of an old gnarled oak, Eric peered in the direction Allan indicated. And he could see them. Hundreds of them. Canvas tents stretched out, arms and armor rested around them, and men moved about, settling into their camp for the night. As the light began to fade, the blaze from their cooking fires and the smoke rising above them became apparent.

  Eric remained in the tree, studying the layout of the camp, and every trail that led to and from it. A twisted little spit of stream ran behind it, making it a sound location for troops to rest the day before an assault.

  Eric nodded at Allan, and they both skimmed down the tree, jumping down the last few feet and landing softly on the earth beneath them. Jamie waited with their horses, and the men he had chosen to ride with him were gathered in a nearby copse.

  “They’re settling in. We’ll strike at midnight. Jamie, you, Allan, Raymond, and I will go in first,” he said, hunkering down to draw a diagram of the camp and the trails leading from it. “Allan, you’ll take the stream, Jamie, you’re here, Raymond here . . . and I’ll be here. They’ll have guards out. We’ll have to take the guards first. We’ll leave the horses here . . . bring the men this far, and after we’ve silenced the guards, we meet here . . . so . . . then give the signal to the men. What we have to work with is speed and surprise. I’m certain they were expecting to find men at the posts we planned guarding Langley when they reached it, but they can’t be in the least afraid of an attack at their camp. This is important—we scatter their horses. If we have to make a hasty retreat, we don’t want them following.”

  Grim nods assured him of their understanding. He and Allan mounted their horses, and rode back to the others, troops silent except for the occasional soft sound of a restless hoof moving or the brush and clink of riding accouterments. He outlined the plan. The force of fifty he had brought against the hundreds in the camp was well aware of their odds, and all that stood in their favor as well.

&n
bsp; “Father MacKinley,” he said, addressing the priest. “Will you say a prayer for us?” he asked, watching the man all the while. He didn’t think that MacKinley had been guilty. He hoped that he was not, because he had come to like and admire the priest.

  “I will gladly say a prayer for the souls of all men,” he said.

  The company dismounted, and went down on their knees. MacKinley invoked the Most Holy Father. He prayed for the souls of all men, and at the end, he prayed for the lives of those down on their knees before them.

  MacKinley had either been fully conscripted to their side of the fight, or he was a priest in need of defrocking.

  Eric hoped it was the first.

  They rode as close as they dared to the camp, dismounted, left Father MacKinley and two men with the horses, and slipped through the high summer grasses and trees toward the camp. They waited, low in the grass, watching the movement they could see through the trees and brush. By midnight, all the horses had been tethered. The men slept on the ground, or in the tents.

  Eric gave a signal and he, Raymond, Allan, and Jamie started out, splitting off in the darkness. Each followed his prescribed course, taking care every step of the way, knowing that there must be guards set out, whether the enemy expected an attack or not.

  His own trail brought him straight toward the center.

  He saw the posted guard and held back, watching. The man slumped against a tree, and yawned, bored with his duty. Eric silently trod the few steps to the tree, and attacked in a swift, fluid motion from behind. The guard’s head slumped down. He looked as if he slept, except for the pool of blood that trailed from his throat.

  Eric listened sharply all the while, heard the call of a night owl, and knew that Jamie had found another posted guard. He circled around carefully. Allan, hunched low, was padding around the outer circumference of the camp. Jamie came from his left, Allan from his right.

  He stood, waving his hand in the night.

  A flurry of movement was borne on the breeze.

  But it wasn’t heard by the men sleeping so peacefully on the earth until it was far too late.

  Many of them died before ever waking.

  Some lived to fight.

  A few were trampled by the horses, sent into a commotion as Eric’s men forced them to run from torches they had seized from the dying campfires.

  Though the raid was a stunning success, creating far more havoc than Eric had even imagined they could achieve, he dared not make a real battlefield of the campground. When too many of the living began to rise and seize weapons, he shouted the order to retreat. His men seized what arms they could easily carry while running on foot, and departed.

  MacKinley, his men, and the horses waited. They mounted with all speed, and galloped into a darkness barely illuminated by a pale moon.

  He put distance between his men and the camp. When they halted at last, he and Jamie made a count of the men, asking about injuries and losses. None dead.

  Four wounded.

  “They won’t follow until daylight!” he announced, when they were gathered in the woods. “They won’t be able to hunt down enough horses until then. We can take a few hours’ rest, but be on guard. Peter, you and I will take the first watch, Jamie, you and Allan the next.”

  He thought he would have no difficulty staying awake. His mind was restless, churning. But he’d had no sleep in hours now, and he jerked himself awake several times.

  Finally, the watch changed.

  He lay beneath the trees, and his eyes closed. He thought that he was still planning further strategy, but he was suddenly aware of someone walking through the trees. It seemed that it was a long time ago. He had been younger. He had come from the sea, his real love. The earth seemed to rock, as it was prone to do, after so many days in a boat. The rocking gave a sweet comfort. Hair as gold as the sun streamed down the woman’s back. He knew her face. So pale, eyes so blue. Smile so quick. She came straight to where he lay, gathered the folds of her shimmering white dress in his fingers, and straddled him. She whispered to him, bending low to brush his lips.

  The kiss was sweet. She drew away. He opened his eyes lazily, ready for whatever sensual pleasure she had in mind.

  With a start he saw that it was not Margot at all, and time had passed, and wild, tempest-torn violet eyes were staring down at him. She had a knife gripped in both hands, and she was ready to slam it into his heart.

  He rolled . . .

  And smacked his head into a tree. Wincing with the pain, he woke. He rubbed his forehead, then came to his feet. Across the clearing, awake and on guard, Jamie watched him, frowning.

  He looked up, and saw that Allan had found the tallest tree.

  “Are they in sight?” He asked.

  “Aye, but only a small party, searching for our trail.”

  “Where?”

  “Due north.”

  “How many in the party.”

  “Thirty-five, forty.”

  “Aye, then, come down.” He strode across the clearing, booting awake those men who hadn’t already begun to rise. “Come on then, what—would you have them come across us in like fashion?” he inquired. He reached Jamie, who was now standing, waiting for him.

  “We split. I’ll double back with twenty-five, you move forward. We’ll catch up. There will still be a sizable force, but if we can foray back and cause a greater loss, we should be able to test their mettle. When we arrive, lower the gates. Then we wait until they are full upon us, and come out after them. It is the last thing they will expect.”

  “And maybe the most foolhardy we can do,” Jamie commented.

  “You came up with half the idea.”

  Jamie shrugged. “We’ve been foolhardy for years. Why change things now?”

  Eric called out the names of the men who were to follow him. They mounted first, and he explained their purpose. All were eager.

  Jamie waved as he rode north, then called to the others to mount.

  Eric and his force rode until it was time to dismount. He gauged his distance ahead of the riders coming their way. Half of them climbed into the branches of the trees. Then they waited, in silence.

  Allan, sent ahead, let out a soft whistle of warning.

  A few moments later, the mounted riders were beneath them.

  They burst from the bushes, dropped from the trees. The English had the advantage then of their armor. The Scots wore only padded breast coats, the only protection they could have used with such tactics. And still, they struck with such surprise that their enemy were toppled heavily from their horses, and cut down before they could gain positions from which to fight.

  The combat was hand to hand, man on man. Someone among the English shouted for rank and order, but the command was ignored. Men began to split into trails and copses; many tried to escape.

  Eric found himself off the trail, not in pursuit, but battling the crafty swings of a man in full, expensively crafted armor. He had the disadvantage of finding the place to strike his enemy that could bring him down, while his opponent could injure him with a glancing blow. And still, though the man was able and courageous, he was far more slender, and Eric came at him with persistence and stamina, striking forward again and again until at last he struck with such a deadly blow that his foe’s sword slipped out of his hand. The force sent him slamming back against a tree as well, then sliding down the length of it. Eric grasped his sword in both hands to thrust down through his enemy’s throat.

  Then he stopped. There was something on the man’s tunic that gave him pause. A coat-of-arms.

  A family coat-of-arms. One he had seen before. It had hung on the wall before him; he had been waking to it every morning.

  The crest of the house of Abelard.

  He heard a roar from the road. Allan raced into the clearing. “Most of the men are coming, it’s time to retreat to the castle.”

  Eric turned back to his disarmed enemy.

  “Do it, by God! Kill me if you will!” the man again
st the tree shouted.

  His fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword.

  CHAPTER 18

  From her room, Igrainia could hear the thunder of hoofbeats and the cries of the men. She couldn’t see the gated entry to the castle.

  When she heard the sounds of the men returning, she leaped up and raced to the door, throwing it open. Jarrett was there, seated in a chair, whittling.

  “How can you just sit there? What is happening?” she demanded.

  “It’s only the first of the troops returning,” he told her.

  “How do you know?”

  “The lookouts announced their arrival.”

  He still looked at her as if she were the greatest traitor alive. She returned to the room. In time, from her window, she could see the riders gathering in the courtyard. She saw Jamie and others she knew, but no sign of Eric. Something was happening, though. Men were taking positions upon the parapets. There were always guards there, watching, but there were more now.

  She remained at the window, seeing the quivers full of arrows that men were carrying up the steep steps to the walls. She could see longbows and Peter’s war machines being dragged into place. There was a tap at her door. She strode to the door and opened it.

  Rowenna was there, carrying linen sheets and a broom. “I’ll take them,” she said stiffly.

  But Rowenna glanced over her shoulder at Jarrett. “There’s work to do in the room.”

  Igrainia turned her back on the girl and returned to the window. But a moment later, she realized that Rowenna had followed her.

  “She’s gone,” Rowenna said hastily. “You have nothing to fear. Jennie is gone.”

  “Gone where?”

  Rowenna shook her head. “I don’t know. But they were questioning everyone. And she could not be found. And Gregory has said that she is gone.” Rowenna made an impatient sound. “You can tell them now, without fear for your friend.”

  “How can Gregory be so certain? There are places to hide in the castle, places where she might not be found for days.”

  “Gregory has a gift.”

  “Then why didn’t he see before that it was Jennie, not I?” she asked bitterly.