Knight Triumphant

by Heather Graham

  He looked down into the beauty of her face and wondered why he had not seen it from the day he had met her. He smiled. She wasn’t aware that, aye, he was in danger.

  But not quite so gravely as she might think.

  It wasn’t time to tell her yet what might be dangerous for her to know.

  “Eric, please, I am so afraid—”

  “Igrainia!” they heard, and there was a tapping at the connecting door. Aidan, from the next room. “Igrainia, is all well?”

  Their eyes locked. “It is only the woman with the bath, and she is leaving!” she called.

  “She is leaving now!” she whispered vehemently to Eric. “You must get out of here, and away, and you cannot worry about me, I am safe, with Lord Danby here. Do you understand? You must be forewarned; they will hunt you down in the forest and kill you. They’ll be gone in a few days time, riding to join Edward’s great army. Where . . . I’m certain you must be as well to join Robert Bruce.”

  “Bide your time carefully!” he told her in return. “We will be coming for you.”

  “No! You must get away, and leave me to my devices. Don’t let them catch you in the forest. And, dear Lord, Eric, please leave now. I could not bear it if you and Aidan were to meet here, if you . . . you and he were cast in a battle of arms where one had to kill the other. Please!”

  Her eyes were shining again with a hint of tears.

  “I’m going,” he assured her softly. “As soon as I fix my nose.”

  A moment later, he held her in his arms a brief second, then started for the door.

  “Wait!” she cried, running after him. “How will you leave? There are guards in the halls.”

  He pulled the horsehair wig down over his head. “Don’t worry. The guards let me walk on by. I’m the ugliest woman they’ve ever seen.”

  He touched her lips again. Then, scooping up two of the water kettles, he knocked on the hallway door. A moment later, it was opened. The guard, looking at him, shuddered. “They do breed some fine lasses in Scotland, and some damned ugly ones as well!” the man said crudely. “Get back to the kitchen, woman, and for the love of God—stay there!”

  Eric started down the hall, feeling the man watch him as he went. He heard the footsteps as the fellow came in his wake.

  “Wait! You, there!”

  He paused, as directed. Turned slowly.

  The man had unsheathed the long sword at his side as he approached. Eric waited, making no move. The man had to be closer to him. He didn’t want him crying out an alarm, or calling others to assist him.

  He waited, waited . . .

  The guard came close enough. Eric took one of the heavy kettles and swung. The thud of the metal against the man’s skull seemed very loud in the darkened hall.

  The guard fell to the floor, making no more sound than an expulsion of breath. Eric bent quickly to retrieve the body, and hurried down the hall to dispose of it. He was tempted to go back to Igrainia at that moment.

  There might still be too great a risk tonight.

  Soon. Neville and Mason needed ‘details’ to hunt him down?

  By morning, he determined, they would have their details.

  With the light of dawn, there was a great flurry of activity about the castle. Igrainia came down quickly, anxious, terrified that she would discover it was all because Eric had been caught on the castle grounds in the middle of the night.

  She was greatly relieved to discover that was not the case.

  She was pleased at first to discover that both Robert and Niles were gone, riding with a party of armed men.

  But then Lord Danby informed her, and not without a gentle empathy, that they had discovered the hideout of the rebellious Scottish outlaws, and had gone to corner them in their forest lair.

  Fear filled her heart, and she knew that she could wait no longer.

  She lowered her head before Lord Danby, and prayed that he would forgive her, but she felt that she must be alone, and would spend the day in her room.

  She did return there. But only to procure the plainest brown wool cloak that she could find among the belongings of the late Lady Danby which had been so generously bestowed upon her. She took the knife as well that had graced a plaque on the wall, the one she would have used against Robert Neville had it been he attacking her in the bath—the one she had raised against Eric, and nearly driven into him

  In her days of constant watching, she had learned that the troupe of players came and went, but they departed the walls of Cheffington at dusk, and she could not wait that long.

  There was, however, a wagon that left the stables mid-morning, filled with the rushes that were swept from the great hall each dawn when they were replaced with new. They were usually filthy, what with the hounds that lay within them and the mud from the boots of the men who came and went so constantly from the hall.

  But only one man drove the wagon out of the gates to discard the old rushes in the distant fields, and she didn’t think that anyone would think to search through dirty rushes for a woman they did not expect to find trying to escape.

  She left her room quickly, certain that were she to come across any of the guards, she would sweep by them, and if she was stopped, she would merely say that she was looking for Lord Danby. But the halls were empty, and she easily made her escape from the inner castle walls, and started a brisk walk through the walled city.

  It occurred to her as she walked that she did not know if Aidan had accompanied Robert and Niles and their men-at-arms to the forest. She felt a terrible quickening in her stomach as she worried about her brother. She couldn’t go back. Nor could she change her course of action.

  She walked quickly to the stables, hesitating at the stall of a silversmith as she watched the wagonmaster come and go with his sacks of rushes. During one of his trips outside the stables, she slipped in, and when he came back almost immediately, she dived into a fresh pile of hay that lay stacked deep against the walls. She waited. When the man departed again, she crawled quickly from the hay and headed for the wagon.

  Before she had quite figured out how to reach it and crawl beneath the filthy rushes, she felt a hand on her shoulder. She spun around in instant fear.

  “Aidan!” she gasped, seeing her brother there, his eyes grave as he surveyed her.

  “Where are you going?” he asked quietly.

  “I . . .”

  “To warn the Scots,” he told her.

  “Aidan, I have to leave here!” she told him desperately. “The king will rule in Robert Neville’s favor . . . please, God, Aidan! You have to let me escape a life with such a man.”

  “Igrainia, you have no faith in me.”

  “You have admitted that you cannot fight King Edward!”

  “I am an English peer. I cannot allow you to betray the King of England.”

  “I am not trying to betray the King of England, I am only fighting for my own life.”

  Her brother stared at her with eyes too much like her own. “Your life has never been threatened, Igrainia.”

  “Aidan! As you have said, you have watched them, come to know them . . . my life might as well be ended, were it to be at the mercy of such a man as Robert Neville.”

  “I cannot let you go to the enemy.”

  “Aidan, please! Aidan . . . Aidan, I am married to him. I’m going to have his child. Neville has said that he will kill it if a child is born. And he will do so, don’t you understand? I must leave here!”

  “Will you use that knife you have stolen against me if I refuse to let you go?” he asked.

  “Aidan! My God, you’re my brother, and I love you, but I must leave!”

  She suddenly realized that he wasn’t listening to her. There were sounds coming from the alley and courtyard beyond the stables.

  There was a hint of smoke in the air.

  “By God, what has happened!” he exclaimed suddenly. Turning from her, he rushed to the stable doors. Igrainia ran after him in time to see that armed horsemen an
d sword-swinging foot soldiers were running everywhere. Buildings were on fire; people were screaming, rushing about.

  “Sweet Jesus!” Aidan breathed, and drew his sword, stepping out into the melée.

  “No!” she shouted.

  He had gone after a man fighting one of the men in Lord Danby’s guard. The fellow turned on him, and Aidan gave a good accounting of himself pressing forward.

  But another man in mail and armor joined in the fight. And then another. Aidan’s sword went flying from his hands.

  “No!” Igrainia shrieked, rushing forward. She picked up the sword, and rushed forward, putting herself between the men and her brother, wielding the sword from side to side before the two attackers.

  “Igrainia, give me my weapon, I’ll not hide behind your skirts!” Aidan cried. He reached around her, grabbing for the sword, then pushed her aside, ready to leap forward. His sword clashed with that of one of the attackers. She stood in stunned amazement for a moment; the smell of smoke was stronger now. Buildings in the walled town were burning.

  Aidan was fighting for his life. He fought hard, but again, his sword flew. And again, Igrainia dived to retrieve it, coming between Aidan and the man he faced.

  “Please . . . !” she gasped.

  “Igrainia!” Aidan roared. “Give me my sword!”

  But the attacking swordsman lowered his weapon, then he lifted the visor of his helmet.

  “Jamie!” she gasped.

  “Get out of the battle, Igrainia!” Jamie told her furiously.

  “No, no, you cannot . . .”

  She broke off. A mounted man in full armor appeared in the doorway of the stables. The sun, casting strange rays in the smoky air, hid his visage. His horse pawed the ground for a moment, then he ducked his head and rode in.

  CHAPTER 21

  The glittering knight on the great warhorse lifted his helmet and visor from his head, casting them to one of the foot soldiers who ran in closely in his wake.

  Eric. Magnificent upon the horse. The knight triumphant.

  He stared down at her.

  “My lady, you are covered in hay. And throwing yourself before sword blades once again, casting yourself into the middle of the fight to protect another man. Who also appears to be wearing a fair amount of hay. What is this man doing, hiding behind your skirts, my lady?”

  Aidan stepped forward indignantly. “I do not hide behind my sister’s skirts, and I am more than willing to fight and die for the honor of the king!”

  “This is your brother?” Jamie demanded.

  “The earl?” Eric inquired.

  “I’d thought that you had met,” Igrainia said.

  Eric’s eyes fell on Aidan’s. “Metal to metal, but never face to face,” Eric said.

  “I will still fight and die, sir, for the honor of England!” Aidan said with great dignity.

  Eric’s horse pawed the earth again, nervous at the smoke. Eric reined him in and spoke to Aidan. “England’s honor has never been at stake, Lord Abelard. Only Scotland’s freedom. Jamie, will you see to it that the earl and his sister are conducted back to the great hall? I will be along at all speed, as soon as I have seen to it that the fires are put out and the gates and prisoners are secured.”

  He started to turn his horse, now visible through the haze as Loki. Igrainia ran after him, causing him to pause.

  “Secure the gates . . . ?”

  “Cheffington has fallen,” he told her.

  She stared at him, not believing it was possible. “Any power can be destroyed from within,” he added softly.

  “And . . . Lord Danby?” she asked.

  “Ah, he is well. He was accosted at the castle, and was never able to draw a weapon, nor was one used against him.” He kneed Loki, and was gone.

  Dead men lay in the alleys where commerce had so recently taken place. Igrainia could not look down, choking as she stepped over them on her return to the great hall. She wanted to talk to Jamie; she wanted to know how the Scots had managed to slip in and take Cheffington with such uncanny speed. She felt the tension between her brother and her outlaw, and she felt as well that Jamie seemed no more certain of her than of her brother, and so she walked in silence.

  The great hall was empty when they reached it.

  But there were spatters of blood upon the walls and floor. She lowered her head, sorry that unknown men had died. Unknown men, bred to a different loyalty, cruel men who rose high in the ranks when wars were fought. They rose for their ability to kill with blind determination. And as well, there were decent men in every war, those who fought as they believed their duty demanded. She felt ill.

  They died as well as the others. And she was sorry. And sick.

  Aidan took Lord Danby’s chair at the head of the table.

  “And what now?” he asked Jamie.

  “We wait. Sir, Igrainia, please.” He waited until she had taken a chair, then chose one at the end of the table himself, easing his long booted legs upon it as he watched the two of them. Igrainia stared at him, then her attention was drawn as two women entered from the direction of the kitchen, bearing a large flask of ale and goblets.

  At first, Igrainia barely noticed the two. Then she stared at the one woman and nearly gasped aloud. It was Rowenna.

  She set the ale before Jamie, pouring him a cup, which he accepted with thanks. The other young woman was pouring ale for Aidan as Rowenna brought a cup to Igrainia. Igrainia bit her lip, longing to strike out and send the cup flying. She restrained herself, refusing the cup, which Rowenna set before her. She had been certain that the woman had been about to speak to her; whatever she had to say, Igrainia did not want to hear.

  She had been rescued from a life with Robert Neville.

  She didn’t think that she liked any man at all. Her brother somehow added to her sudden sense of fury when he spoke to the young woman serving him, catching her wrist. “You are the singer, are you not? With the players that Lord Danby so welcomed here.”

  She flushed and pulled her hand away. “I am a singer, aye. But Scottish,” she said proudly, and quickly walked away. Rowenna paused to exchange low words with Jamie, then both women retreated to the kitchen.

  She, Jamie, and Aidan sat. Jamie seemed completely at ease. Igrainia felt a growing tension. Time passed, then at last, Eric came striding into the hall. He smelled of smoke, as if he had been engaged in dousing the fires. He had cast off his mail and defenses, but his sword was sheathed in the belt around his hips.

  “Lord Abelard,” he said, addressing Aidan, “you are a prisoner of Robert Bruce, King of Scotland. Soon, you’ll be escorted north, until such time as either your exchange, or your fate, shall be decided. For the time being, you are welcome to your quarters here, and every possible courtesy will be granted to you.”

  Aidan sat in silence for a moment. “Perhaps, as one of your courtesies, you’ll be so good as to explain why you think you will hold this castle.”

  Eric shrugged. “I’m not certain I intend to hold this castle. But as to the difficulty . . . the one element in this war the English continue to forget is that the land, castles, and towns they hold are Scottish. Our war is not just fought by men-at-arms, but by every man and woman with a yearning to be free. We came in here because the people were willing. We didn’t break down the gates, they lay open to us. We’ve been in for days now . . . just waiting for half the forces to ride out, seeking to find us and slaughter us.”

  Igrainia listened to him incredulously. Then she knew why he had dared so much last night. His men had been in Cheffington—to what extent, she couldn’t know—for days. They were the reason for the disappearance of so many men. They had been befriending the people who lived and worked in the walled village.

  She felt her cheeks grow hot, wondering if the only danger he had faced last night was the fact that her brother slept in the next room. He hadn’t been afraid of the English forces riding after him—he had been waiting for their number to be gone so that he could come in with
full force and arms when the odds were more in his favor.

  “So,” Aidan murmured. “I am courteously confined to my quarters. What about my sister?”

  “Your sister, my wife, will be with me.”

  “You do realize that I am the earl, and the head of Igrainia’s family, and since she was widowed at the death of Lord Afton, she can legally be no man’s wife without my blessing,” Aidan said coolly. “The King of England has made other arrangements for her.”

  Igrainia stared at her brother in astonishment. “Aidan!” She glanced nervously at Eric, who appeared tired and irate. Despite her own simmering anger with him at the moment, she rose and walked to Aidan’s chair. “You know that I loathe Robert Neville.”

  “Perhaps there are better things than to choose between a Scottish wolf and an English viper,” her brother told her.

  “And perhaps there are not other options, and therefore, I would have the wolf over the snake!” she said.

  Aidan stood abruptly then, staring at Eric. “Well, then. She has chosen a wolf. You have my blessing.”

  “Thank you,” Eric said politely, then glanced at Jamie. “I’ve a few more matters to attend to. If you would escort Lord Abelard—and his sister—we’ll meet back here.”

  Jamie led the way up the stairs, bowing as Aidan entered his room.

  “Igrainia can enter through here as well,” Aidan said.

  “Igrainia will be staying elsewhere.”

  Aidan looked as if he would disagree.

  “Aidan, I will be all right,” she said.

  “Yes, of course. You chose the wolf yourself,” he said, and she bit her lip against the strange look he gave her. His door closed sharply.

  “You’re down the hall,” Jamie said.

  “Why? Why am I being sent up here at all? Why am I being separated from my brother?”

  “It’s just for the time being,” Jamie said pleasantly. Then he reached a door and opened it for her. She still stared at him accusingly. “Igrainia, your brother is an English nobleman. And he is your brother. Eric will be along shortly. There is a lot to be considered and planned now, Igrainia. Be patient.”