“He has a gift, he is not omnipotent.”
Rowenna was certain, absolutely certain, Igrainia realized. She walked back to the window. “Thank you,” she said briefly.
She listened as Rowenna went about her work. She couldn’t bring herself to speak to the girl further. Finally, she heard the door close.
Far below, she could see that Jamie was shouting orders, and that the activity was increasing. Animals that had been out in the fields grazing were beginning to fill the courtyard, and herders urged them into the stables and loft in the lower levels of the inner tower walls. There was still no sign of Eric.
She flew back to the door, throwing it open.
Jarrett was still whittling.
“Jarrett . . .”
He looked up at her. His eyes did not conceal his mistrust.
“Jamie is down there. Eric is not.”
Jarrett stared at her. “No, he has not returned as yet.”
She returned his stare. She wanted to exclaim that she had done nothing, but she heard shouting then, and went back to the window. She leaned out and craned her neck, trying to look in the direction of the great gates. Again, men began to pour into the courtyard.
She was halfway out the window when hands were upon her waist. She screamed with instinctive fear, not certain if she was about to be tossed to the courtyard below, or dragged back in. But a second later she was standing on solid ground, and Eric was before her.
She hadn’t realized how afraid she had been for his life until she saw him. He wasn’t in mail or any plate armor, but the padding beneath his shirt and tunic made his shoulders and chest immense. Dried blood spattered most of his clothing. His face was lined with dirt.
She wanted to throw herself at him and begin to laugh and cry hysterically. He was alive. The worse for wear, but alive.
Somehow, she managed to stay still, looking at him, awaiting what would come next.
“Two more inches, and you’d be a pile of broken bones below,” he told her.
“I know how far I can go,” she said. “You’re covered in blood.” The temptation to reach out and touch him was almost overwhelming.
“Not much of it is mine. It’s time for you to go.”
“To go?” she repeated, trying not to betray the dismay that seemed to hit her like a physical blow. What had happened? Had an arrangement been made at last and she was to be exchanged for a prisoner dear to the Scots?
He reached out his hand to her.
Like the rest of him, it was streaked with dirt, specks of blood. He noted it before he touched her. Stared at it, turned it palm side up. Then he said, “Come on.”
She didn’t accept his touch. A tightness formed in her throat. “I didn’t write letters to my brother to be slipped out the castle walls,” she said.
“It doesn’t matter now.”
Perhaps he didn’t want to touch her, so heavily encrusted with the blood of battle. But he was going to.
She backed away a step. “Where are you taking me?”
“Below.”
“To the dungeon?”
“To the tunnel,” he said impatiently. “If things go badly. . . there will be someone to take you out, and north. To the highlands.”
She thought she was going to fall, she was so relieved. She stumbled forward, and he had to catch her with both hands, holding her against his chest.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Nothing. I just . . . tripped.”
She didn’t care about the remnants of battle that so stained his clothing and person. She was glad to be next to him.
He caught her chin gently, lifting her face.
“You’ve seriously wronged me, you know,” she told him.
“Maybe . . . and maybe in many ways,” he said softly, the tip of his thumb moving over her cheek as he studied her eyes.
“I’m glad you’re alive,” she told him.
“I’m grateful. And I will do my best to preserve myself, since I don’t want to distress you further in any way.” There was a slight mischief in his eyes. She smiled, and laid her head against his chest. She felt his fingers in her hair, cradling her there. “We have to move,” he said softly, and with a regretful sigh, she thought. He cupped her face in his hands, standing back. “I’m not locking you away. You’ve got to understand, if this does go badly . . . Jarrett will be with you. He’ll see to it that you escape, and he’ll take you so far into the hills that the English will never find you . . . unless you choose, one day, to be found.”
“Don’t—” she began.
“Let’s go.”
He took her hand then, leading her from the room, and down the stairs. Jarrett was at the table, busy with Garth. She saw that he was in process of securing supplies in a satchel, should they be needed. Igrainia felt a tremor of fear in her heart, seeing how they were preparing for any contingency.
Before Eric could approach Jarrett, the great door to the courtyard burst open and Jamie came striding through.
“The men reached their positions, and just barely in time. The English are coming on us now. Hard.”
“Go with Jarrett, Igrainia,” Eric said, and went out with long, determined footsteps, Jamie at his side.
Igrainia glanced back. Jarrett was still absorbed in his task. She skimmed lightly across the floor, reached the door, and slipped out.
She didn’t understand the battle plan. There were men mounted in the courtyard, which made little sense. The drawbridge was up, but the inner gates had not been closed. Men were rushing around her in all directions, some in heavy armor and mail, and some in the simple clothing of their everyday life. She saw some of the men ushering the women and children into the comparative safety of the stables, storerooms, and armories along the base of the tower walls.
One of the steep flights of stone steps to the parapets lay directly across from her position. She sprinted across the distance and ran up the steps. If the men in their haste to follow orders knew that she was not supposed to be about, they were too concerned at their tasks to waylay her.
And maybe Eric had never let it be known, except to his intimate circle, that he had ever suspected her of corresponding with her brother, his enemy.
She reached the top of the steps without being waylaid. She stood, watching, and as she did so, she saw the English troops coming. She knew Ewan Danby, Lord of Cheffington, knew his colors and his crest, and she knew that he rode at the head of the troops. She saw Robert Neville’s colors as well, and the ostentatious mail of Sir Niles Mason.
Trumpets sounded as they came, dragging war wagons and a huge catapult at the end of their ranks. She watched as they crossed the trail to the north and began to descend the slope that led to the moated castle at the base of the hill.
“Igrainia! Good Lord! What are you doing here?”
It was Peter, Peter with miniature catapult, dragged to a position where his burning missiles might be hurled at the point just beyond the bridge. Other men were rushing to him. In the narrow confines of the parapet, they were bringing huge vats of heated pitch.
“I had to see!” she told him, eyes in torment. “Peter . . . you must believe . . .”
“Get down!” he commanded. “They are forming their archers!”
She ducked as he commanded her, but couldn’t force herself low enough so that she could not see. She realized that Eric was not far from her, across the rise and machinery of the drawbridge. As she watched, he dropped an arm, signaling someone or something that she couldn’t see.
As the English came forward, dragging their equipment, there was suddenly a wild, savage cry from the forest. She understood then, some of the battle tactic.
The Scotsmen seemed to pour from the forest, trapping the English invaders between the dense growth of trees and the stone walls of the castle. At the same time, the men at the parapets began to fire, and Peter’s small war machines went into action. Huge balls of stone, metal and peat were set into the catapults and sent flying down on
the English forced to the walls.
The invaders fought back valiantly. Their massive catapult was being drawn into position. From the walls, she could see that the archers, with burning arrows, were aiming for the machine.
She looked around wildly. Eric was gone from his position.
Below her, she saw that men were streaming into the moat, ladders were being rushed forward to be drawn up against the walls.
An arrow whizzed by. She heard a cry from the man beside Peter. She turned to help, but saw that the weapon had pierced the man’s heart. He died as he struck the floor of the parapet.
She saw that his job had been to light the missiles placed in the catapult. She scrambled over the fallen body, and picked up the torch he had used. Peter stared at her.
She lit the missile in the machine. Peter used his great strength to let it fly. Again, he turned, creating another burning ball to fly.
She rose slightly and saw that there were men climbing up a ladder that had been wedged in the mud next to the wall. Peter’s head was bowed over his work. She rose quickly, catching the rungs of the ladder, pushing with all her might. One of the Englishmen was nearly at the parapet.
“Peter!” she cried.
He rose instantly, and added his strength to hers. The man crawled with desperate vigor to reach the parapet before the ladder could crash back to earth. She saw his hand grasp the stone, saw the knife caught in his teeth. He was nearly over the stone while Peter still shoved againt the rungs of the wedged ladder.
Against the stone lay Peter’s sword. She dived for it, and gritted her teeth against the weight of the weapon. She drew it up in time, and tried to remember everything she had read about weapons and war in Afton’s books. Weight, counterweight, balance . . .they could mean everything. She watched until the man teetered on the brink, ready to throw his leg over the stone. She swung, catching him right against the steel of his helmet. For terrible seconds, he wobbled there, almost on the stone, not quite.
He lost his balance. She watched in horror as he went crashing down, hitting the ground at the base of the stone first, then falling into the water.
Peter at last heaved the ladder over. It crashed into the moat. They heard the screams of the men upon it as it went down. They both stared into the water. Then Peter stared at Igrainia, as if amazed.
“He would have killed me, had he come over,” Peter said.
She just stared at him, white-faced, knowing that she hated battle more than ever, now that she had killed a man.
Another arrow whizzed overhead. Peter caught her shoulders, pulling her down. They both rose again as shouts rang in the air, and another wave of battle cries sounded.
The archers had managed to set a fire on the huge catapult on the slope; it was burning with a vengeance. The drawbridge was lowering, and as it did, armed men went riding out of the castle, joining in the hand-to-hand combat that ensued when the Scots had attacked from the their ambush in the forest. Eric was leading the men from the castle, immediately entering into battle, his great sword swinging again and again from his perch atop the mighty Loki.
“Peter!”
This time, a ladder had reached the parapets at their side. A man was about to step cleanly upon the stone edge.
She grabbed one of the peat balls and threw it with all her might. The man, taken by surprise, offset by the weight of his mail, instantly went falling over. Peter thrust the ladder from the walls. Igrainia raced down the parapet and watched as the battle continued. It had been reduced to pockets of men, recognizable by their colors, and the crests on their armor banners. She saw that Eric was still horsed, and heavily engaged near the drawbridge. At a distance, she could see Lord Danby, on the ground, fighting valiantly. She didn’t see Niles Mason or Robert Neville, but the fighting was so tight and fierce in many places, they might well be in the midst of any number of groups.
Eric, surrounded by other men, was forcing the enemy outward, away from the gates. Her eyes were suddenly attracted by a glint in the sun and she looked forward, outward from the gates. And there was Aidan, her own family crest etched into the plate of his chest, and in beautiful color on his mantle. He was valiantly pushing forward.
Her hand went to her throat, terrified. He was surrounded by so many Scots!
A sword sent a harsh blow against his chest. She was certain that she heard the clamor of it all the way to the parapets, over the deafening din of the battle itself.
“Aidan!” she breathed.
The Scots moved on. They were forcing the English back to the north.
She spun around. Peter was busy setting the machine again. There were no ladders drawn to the walls; the English had given up that form of entry.
She raced down from the parapets. A few horses, animals that had lost their riders just beyond the gates, had wandered back in, and stood as if lost about the courtyard. Men were still rushing about. The cries she was hearing were of victory. The military tactics of the defenders, executed with craft, cunning, and brash courage, were proving effective.
But she could feel little jubilation. Aidan lay in the dirt, perhaps dead already, perhaps bleeding to death.
“Igrainia!” She heard her name bellowed. Near the great doors to the tower, she saw that Jarrett had by now realized that she was not within the castle. He was stopping men as they rushed by, demanding to know if they had seen her.
Her brother lay in the dirt.
She ran swiftly, her decision made that she must be the first to reach Aidan. She caught the reins of one of the riderless warhorses, and swung into the saddle.
Even as she did so, Jarrett came rushing to her and grabbed the reins of her horse. “Igrainia, have you gone mad?”
“My brother is out there; let me go.”
“Someone will see to your brother.”
“Someone will put a sword through his heart!” she cried.
Jarrett didn’t intend to let her go. He was close enough so that she could kick out at him with all her might.
The stirrup caught the side of his head. He staggered away and fell.
She winced inwardly, praying she had not hurt him too badly. But Aidan might be dying. Her brother, her flesh and blood, lying in the dirt in his pursuit to free her.
She kneed the animal with a vengeance, low against its neck as she raced over the bridge, her heart pounding along with the thunder of its hooves. Within a few minutes, she had reached the spot where Aidan lay, a prone, sprawling pile now of shimmering armor in the sun.
She swung off the horse at his side. He lay facedown. She caught his arm, struggling to roll him over, looking over his form for blood and injury. She got him onto his back, and saw the great dent on the plate that covered his chest.
She struggled with his helmet, drawing it from his head, then struggling with the circlet of mail at his throat.
“Aidan! Aidan, are you breathing?” she whispered, not aware of the riders around her, barely hearing the constant clash of steel, the screams, the commands. “Aidan!” She leaned low against her brother’s face, and felt the stir of his breath against her cheek. He was alive. She had to get him up, and on the horse, and into the courtyard, where she could tend to him. Black hair lay matted over his forehead. She touched it, praying that it was damp with sweat and not blood. “Aidan . . .”
He groaned. His eyes closed again. “Aidan!” she said more desperately, seeking the straps and buckles to the plate upon his chest. His eyes opened again. “Igrainia . . . not . . . cut. Just . . . winded . . . breathing . . .”
He tried to rise to a sitting position, and nearly crashed down again. She caught him, and he shook his head, and smiled at her. “Black . . . stars . . .” He blinked then, and it seemed that his senses had returned. And suddenly, he was yelling at her. “What are you doing on a battlefield! Foolish girl!”
She drew back. “You may be the earl,” she informed him. “But I am your older sister, and I am trying to save your fool life!”
She screamed th
en suddenly, because someone had come behind her. There were arms around her, hands on her midriff, drawing her up.
“We’ve got you!”
She twisted about to see the visored image of Robert Neville.
“Let me go!” she demanded. “Aidan’s hurt. I’ll see to him; your battle is lost, you must retreat!”
Robert Neville ignored her entirely; she might as well have not spoken. “Aye, the battle is lost, but the prize is gained. You are rescued, Igrainia!”
“No, Aidan is down, I don’t know if he has broken bones! Let me be—”
But he ignored her. He grabbed her with a rough strength, spinning around, and throwing her on top of his horse. He mounted behind her. She twisted and turned, furiously trying to push him from the horse, to break his grip upon her, to make him understand. She wasn’t even aware of the depths of her own peril at that moment; she only knew that her brother was on the ground.
“Aidan is injured!” she screamed. She slammed a fist against him. Hit mail and plate armor. Agony burned through her hand. “Robert! Aidan is down, let me go!”
“Niles has Aidan,” he said curtly. “And we are in full retreat.”
His horse reared suddenly as he spurred it with a vengeance. She grasped the animal’s neck, but it was an unnecessary gesture. Robert Neville had hold of her with his left arm that would have defied a full forward flip by the animal. The horse pawed the air, then leaped forward as if flying into a breakneck gallop.
Her hair whipped into her eyes.
She could see nothing.
She could hear the trumpets sounding retreat.
The Scottish cries of triumph were deafening.
Eric was pulled from Loki by his men, and lifted high among them as their shouts of elation filled the air. He caught the hands of his men as they moved him through the throng of victors at his side. Jamie, who had led much of the action, was picked up as well, nearly thrown into the air, and, as if they were going to meet for some great mock play battle, they were brought together in the middle of the field. Eric grasped his cousin’s hand in a tight clasp, the thrill of the total rout they had given the English deep in his own heart as well.
Knight Triumphant Page 31