Knight Triumphant

by Heather Graham

  Then he shouted, “Men, you’ve done it! By God, today we have proved that Scotland is a sovereign nation, and that we honor our own king, Robert the Bruce!” A roar of approval went up, a great salute to the king. “He knows that he will win his country, not just through the nobles of his realm, but through the spirit of every man among his people. Because we are a free people. And we will continue to prove it to the English!”

  Cries went up again, and then he knew that they could afford no more time basking in their glory. “We’ve injured on the ground, men. Our friends, who have fought as we have!”

  He was lowered to the ground, and as one, the men began to move, covering the field of battle once again.

  Clearing the ground would take until nightfall, and they would still be finding the dead and injured of their own, as well as the English, tomorrow.

  Set down upon the ground himself, he charged Allan and Raymond with the task of moving into the forest, and following like silent wraiths in the wake of the English. Angus was left in charge of seeing that parties were formed to bring in the wounded, and to see that the dead were delivered to biers at the small chapel, that the proper rites and all honor might be bestowed upon them.

  Only when his orders had been given did he mount Loki again and ride back over the drawbridge.

  Peter came rushing up to him, white-faced and tense.

  “Igrainia is gone.”

  “Gone?” He didn’t believe it at first. “She is not gone; I ordered Jarrett to take her to the dungeons, to break the seal on the tunnel should they need to escape.”

  “She is gone,” Peter persisted. “Come into the hall; Jarrett can tell you what happened.”

  Tense as a strung bow, Eric slipped down from Loki and strode in fury for the great hall. He was immediately ready to go for Jarrett’s throat, until he saw the man, and the gash and bruise against his forehead.

  “What happened?” Eric demanded.

  “She saw her brother—”

  “How did she see her brother from the dungeons?”

  “We did not make the dungeons,” Jarrett said, shaking his head. “I was packing what meager supplies we dared take, as you had told me. You were out of the hall and she was in the courtyard before I ever knew you had brought her down.”

  The sickness and the fury that seized him were so great he was still ready to fly at Jarrett, and pummel him into the ground, if only to ease his anguish. He felt a hand on his shoulder. Jamie. He fought for control.

  “Then what?”

  “I found she was not in her room. I searched for her; Garth said that he had seen her in the hall, with you. I came out.”

  “I found her on the parapets,” Peter explained. “But I couldn’t force her down because the battle had commenced. Then she was gone—”

  “And I found her. On a horse.”

  “And you didn’t stop her.”

  “Oh, aye! I went to stop her. But she screamed something about her brother and all but put her foot through my head. I’ve not received such a blow from the enemy in many a match!” Jarrett said, shaking his head. “She kicked me!” he repeated, and he was indignant, but looked as sick as Eric felt. “I fell on the ground, blacked out entirely, woke. . . and saw that it had ended, and the lady was gone.”

  Eric stood very still, a tempest racing through him. His fingers flexed in his palms, his head felt as if it would burst.

  “So she was ready to betray us,” he murmured.

  “Eric,” Peter said, “Don’t be so hasty.”

  His eyes flashed like ice on his old friend.

  “Hear me out!” Peter said. “On the parapets . . . she grabbed my sword and dislodged a fellow about to scale the wall. She saved me from his knife, and helped me topple a few of the ladders. She was fighting with us Eric.”

  “You let her fight?” he demanded.

  “Well, now, I did not command her to risk life and limb in the fury of battle, but neither did I forbid her to lay that sword against a man about to take my heart. Jonas MacFadden, at my side, caught one of the first arrows. The lady was a formidable warrior, taking his place.”

  “But then she seized a horse and rode from the castle,” Eric said.

  “It might well be true that her brother was in grave danger.”

  Eric turned, striding for the door. “Peter, come with me. We’ve got to see the bodies of the dead and injured English. I’ve got to know if Aidan is among them . . . and Niles Mason and Robert Neville. After, Peter, you’ll begin what repair is needed. Jamie, form a party of our fleetest men, those most capable of moving in silence, attacking in stealth. We’ll need pack animals to carry arms and armor . . . there are abandoned wagons in the field, we will need them.”

  “Eric,” Jamie said, stopping him. “They’ll take her to Cheffington. It’s their base, and Ewan Danby is a decent man, and an honorable one. He has never come into a town or village and slain the innocent.”

  Eric nodded. “I know.”

  “Cheffington is a walled fortress, just as Langley. “To attack with a small party would be suicide.”

  “There is always a way into a fortress,” Eric said. “Always.”

  And he strode out, praying that he would find the slain bodies of Robert Neville and Niles Mason on the field.

  By nightfall, it was evident that the men were not among the dead. Nor was the body of Aidan—dead, injured, or moving—to be found. But among his own were those who had seen the English retreat, and at last, a man who had seen the Lady Igrainia ride to the field and fall to the side of an English lord.

  And he had seen, as well, that one of the mounted knights had taken her with him upon his warhorse before following the thunder of the retreat.

  “Did you know the man’s colors?”

  “Aye, Sir.” And the man spat in the dirt. “He was in mail and plate, but I know his coat-of-arms well. She was taken by Sir Robert Neville, while her brother’s body was lifted from the field by the butcher who began this all, Sir Niles Mason.”

  Jamie was with him when he learned for a fact what he had so dreaded in suspicion.

  “What is your plan?” Jamie demanded.

  “To get her back.”

  “How?”

  “That we’ll decide as we ride,” Eric said.

  “Against a horde!” Jamie murmured. But he shrugged. “Ah, well, it’s not as if we’re ever favored by the gods! I had always said that if I were to go down, I would want it to be in a blaze of glory!”

  “My intention is not to die in a blaze of glory, but to live by it,” Eric informed him. “Time is everything now, Jamie. We must ride.”

  “Aye, we must ride.”

  “Peter will stay and hold Langley,” Eric said. “We need everyone but a skeleton crew here.” He hesitated a moment. “The priest comes with us again. And Gregory.”

  “Gregory?”

  “Aye, I want the boy with us. And Rowenna, as well.”

  During the long ride to Cheffington, Igrainia was in a fury.

  Lord Danby recognized that they traveled with many injured. He was the supposed true leader of the forces, but he was aging now, a man of sixty-plus years, and he had given a great deal of control to the two young knights who commanded the men under him.

  He was a handsome aging fellow, with clear green, thoughtful eyes, and snow white hair and beard. He would not allow Igrainia’s tumult over Aidan and the other injured to slow them down, but he rode at her side, and they both rode behind the litters carrying those who could not walk.

  There would be no stopping. Every heavy piece of equipment had been abandoned. The charred hulk of the once mighty catapult had been drawn, at the end, across a trail, there to waylay the Scots, should they come in pursuit.

  Though Robert Neville had insisted to Lord Danby that she must not have her own mount but should ride with him, Lord Danby had scoffed at his fears regarding her loyalty, and assured him that there was no way the lady was leaving her brother, certainly not after she had da
red the swords, arrows, and trampling horses on the battlefield to come to his side.

  And so, at first, she had ridden with Danby, and near Aidan. But by the second day of their continuing march, Niles Mason had convinced Danby that they might soon be ambushed from behind, and Lord Danby himself had given the order that Robert Neville and a small party of men should ride ahead, and thus bring Igrainia to the safety of Cheffington as quickly as possible. Igrainia protested that she would not leave her brother, but by then, Aidan had risen from the litter himself, and insisted that he had been winged, and was ready to ride hard. He didn’t want his sister exposed to the danger of the road any longer. She had been a prisoner of the Scots for long months, and he wasn’t about to let her out of his sight.

  And so, with Robert Neville and her brother forever dogging her every movement, she reached Cheffington.

  When they arrived, she begged exhaustion, and was brought to a handsome chamber in Lord Danby’s fine fortified castle. Servants were quick to bring her water, food, a bath, fresh clothing, anything that she might require. What she wanted was time. She didn’t want to be around Robert Neville until Danby arrived. She believed that Aidan would support her in her desires, but she couldn’t be certain. Danby, a devout Christian, would be deeply concerned about the marriage vows she had already taken. He would defend her and stand between her and Robert Neville until . . . .

  Eric had already suspected her of trying to reach Aidan with secret letters. Rowenna would tell him the truth, of course . . . and Rowenna was his dear friend, but . . .

  She had deserted the castle and ridden out to the battlefield herself. She wondered if he would ever understand that she could not leave her brother in the dirt, abandon him to death.

  The Scots hadn’t the power to seize a place as grand and fortified as Cheffington, not even if they would have the desire to do so, if even a prize of war such as she would be worth the risk. Especially if Eric believed, even in the smallest way, that she had been willing to leave.

  She was in a desperate situation. And probably on her own. But as yet, she didn’t want Robert Neville to know that his bid to marry her had become more repugnant than ever, and that she would never consent to being his wife. She had never imagined that she would actually be afraid of him.

  But then, when she had known him day by day before, Afton had been alive.

  When she was at last alone in the chamber that had been given to her, she ate, bathed, and dressed, knowing that she had to keep her wits about her at all times. She sat by the fire in her close quarters, and thought carefully of every word she would say to Aidan, and then she rose and walked to her door, ready to discuss everything with him.

  But when she reached the door, she found that it would not give. She pulled harder, and jerked at it, and still, she could not open it.

  The door was bolted from the outside.

  She had indeed left one prison for another.

  Tomorrow, Lord Danby would arrive. And she would be indignant and furious, and demand to know how Robert Neville dared to lock her in, and keep her from the young earl, her brother.

  She tried to still her growing sense of fear with the reassurance that Danby could, and would, protect her.

  Until the time, at least, when she might be given over to the King of England.

  There would be a way out before then, she assured herself. Edward would be very busy right now; the day was drawing near when all the men he had summoned to serve their feudal duty would arrive at the chosen meeting ground, and his great march to smash Robert Bruce would begin.

  She was physically exhausted, and at last, with at least the illusion of assurance in her mind, she lay down to try to sleep. At last, she dozed, and then her sleep became deeper.

  She didn’t know what had wakened her, but her eyes flew open suddenly with a true sense of alarm.

  “Igrainia.”

  She bolted up. Robert Neville was in her room. Clean and shaven, elegant in an embroidered tunic. He was a handsome man with rich sable hair and smooth features, and he had apparently determined to look his best. He sat by the side of the bed, and was ready to set a hand upon her.

  She skimmed back against the headboard, staring at him.

  “What are you doing in here?” she demanded sharply.

  “Igrainia, I’ve just come to see to your welfare. We are to be married, you know. You must be hurt, afraid, feeling very lost. I’ve just come . . . to be with you.”

  “I was sleeping. Therefore, not hurt, afraid, or lost.”

  “You have been in the hands of the barbaric enemy far too long. Forgive me if I want to put my arms around you, and comfort you.”

  “Robert, you have to understand this—I wasn’t hurt. And I can’t marry you—I cannot marry anyone. I am already married.”

  “Not by law!”

  “By the Church, and the law of Scotland.”

  “There is no sovereign Scottish law!”

  She was on dangerous ground. If there truly was a God, he knew all about the evil in men. He would certainly understand any half-truth she gave in her desperation to ward off a man she was beginning to believe might be just as evil as any other. “There is the law of God, and I don’t care to imperil my immortal soul.” She spoke both sincerely, and passionately.

  And, at first, she thought that he had taken her words to heart.

  He rose, walked to the fire as if thoughtfully, then turned on her. “You whore!” he said very softly. “You barely buried my cousin before entertaining the most wretched and evil of the men who killed him in the very bed where he died.”

  The gentle compassion and pretense of care he had given was swept away with the fury of his tone.

  She fought to keep her temper. “Get out, Robert.”

  He came back to the bed, sitting at her side again, and taking her hand. “I’m sorry. They terrified and abused you. You were a victim of force and rape. I will try to remember that, though it may be hard at times to forget that the filthy hands of such a brutal wild man were on your flesh.”

  She snatched her hand away. “Robert, understand this. I was not abused or harmed in any way. Nor was I raped. I cannot, will not, marry anyone until my case has been thoroughly studied by the most learned men in the Church.”

  She saw his knuckles grow white against the sheets. “Who do you think you’re talking to?” he suddenly demanded. “And who do you think you are? The king has said that I will have you, and Langley, and so I will.”

  “It doesn’t seem to me, after today, that you will have Langley,” she couldn’t help but reply.

  It was a mistake. He lunged at her, seizing her shoulders so quickly that she was given no chance to fly or fight back.

  “I will take back what is mine by right!”

  “Yours by right! Langley was Afton’s, as I was Afton’s wife. Afton is dead, and no thing of his is yours by right. Certainly, not I!!”

  “And you would spurn me, but accept a highland savage in my stead!” She remained dead still, jaw clenched, staring at him. “Maybe I’ve not been forceful enough. I’ve not simply seen what I want, and gone for it.”

  His fingers fell to the lacing at the top of her borrowed nightdress.

  She screamed, as loudly as she could, shoving away his hand, using all her strength against him. To her amazement, she managed to push him down to the floor. He fell with a plunking sound, and sprawled there. For a moment, he stayed flat, then he pushed himself up to where he sat, and stared up at her, still stunned at her force of power, rage contorting his handsome features.

  She had pushed him off a bed. That didn’t mean that she could fight him and win if he was determined on force.

  Retreat, and finding help, seemed her only salvation.

  Robert Neville was starting to rise.

  She turned and fled for the door, screaming again, shouting her brother’s name.

  She reached the door.

  Robert Neville’s fingers threaded into her hair, jerking her bac
k with such brute force that long strands tore away in his fingers . . .

  And yet he held her firmly, still.

  She shouted for her brother again. Screamed.

  Neville’s hand clamped over her mouth so tightly that, in a matter of minutes . . .

  The room began to spin to black.

  CHAPTER 19

  It was late at night when the defenders of Langley caught up with the remnants of the English invaders on the road.

  Eric was deeply disappointed. He had assumed that the party would stay together, keeping their force and numbers full in anticipation of an attack from the rear.

  But they had not. They had chosen the best tactic for eluding capture. They had deserted anything heavy that they carried, they had left their wagons behind.

  As they had left behind their own people, those who could not keep up.

  Eric and his men had caught up with the injured, deserted on the road save for three women and two priests. The priests were reluctant to give information, and acted the part of men ready to become martyrs to their cause. There was no reason to press for information from them—one of the women was eager to talk. She was contemptuous of the great lord and imperious knights who had so easily left the injured and dying on the road.

  They had sacrificed those who could not ride, and those who could not so much as walk or stand, those with broken bones, those bleeding to death. They did so, according to the sharp-faced, sharp-tongued Sir Niles Mason, in honor of their king, Edward of England, the rightful lord of this domain. The woman called herself a laundress, and was obviously a camp follower, but in her disdain for men who would leave their fellows to die, she was noble in her anger.

  Eric could ill afford the men to remain with their injured enemy. But he had discovered that men, abused by those they had served loyally, had a tendency to become avid followers of a different man, and, in their bitterness to one, find a lasting loyalty to the other. It was decided that Jarrett, with a group of five able men-at-arms, would take on the slow and tedious task of returning with the injured to Langley.