Knight Triumphant

by Heather Graham

  Only then did he take her arm.

  And she found herself hurrying before him up the steps, head lowered as they entered the room he had chosen. She heard him close the door, and she knew that he leaned against it, and that he watched her.

  “Well?” he said softly.

  She couldn’t find the words she should have spoken quickly.

  He walked to her, not touching her yet, just the sound of his voice brushed her ear.

  “Aren’t you feeling just a wee bit ashamed?”

  “Yes,” she said simply.

  Then he did touch her, pulling her into his arms. She looked into his eyes, and admitted, “Very ashamed.” Then she was free, she knew, to throw her arms around him. To press her lips to his with a wet, open-mouthed hunger, and die a little in the rough plunder of his tongue, the force of his hands upon her. She felt that she melted against him, into him, like snow on the mountains, or steam rising into the cool air of a summer morning from a stream that had been warmed by the sun the day before. Their clothing was shed, and she lay with him, in a tempest of triumph, in the tenderness of time, and in a strange, sweet and savage ecstasy of belonging. And when at last they lay together, spent, sated, and exhausted, she was newly thrilled when he suddenly rolled over her, pinning her fiercely, and saying, “What a little fool you are! In truth. We bested an impregnable castle for you! Do you think that I would lead such a force if I were so easily entertained elsewhere?”

  “I am the wife you have now!” she reminded him.

  He looked down for a long moment. Blond hair fell over his forehead, somewhat shielding his eyes from her view.

  “You are the wife I cherish now,” he said simply, and lay beside her again, pulling her against him.

  After a while she told him, “Gregory is right. We are going to have a child.”

  “I never doubted his word,” he said, his voice slow and heavy, as he was falling asleep.

  And yet, she added, “It’s not going to be a daughter, Eric. Not a girl with hair like wheat in the sun.”

  “You will have my son,” he told her. And she could not read the emotion in his voice, but his arms were around her, and so she chose to rest in them.

  “You must sleep,” he told her. “Tomorrow, we will ride hard, in different directions.”

  “Tomorrow?” she said in dismay.

  “We dare not risk the time. Edward’s troops have assembled. The men and I must reach Robert Bruce, and you must be far away from here.”

  “Tomorrow!” she repeated with dismay, turning in his arms.

  “Igrainia!” he said, as she rose against him, her eyes damp. He let out a soft moan, and cradled her into his arms, giving way to a new rise of passion. “We can sleep along the way,” he decided.

  Allan would lead Igrainia and her party north, Eric had decided. He was most familiar with the trails to the highlands, and with Eric’s family who resided there.

  There were still a few last minute details to be settled before they rode. But while Allan and several of the men were already mounted, as well as Aidan Abelard, the women had yet to leave the castle and mount their horses.

  Seated atop Loki, Eric gazed down at the bodies that had been gathered in the courtyard. Those which they had hidden in their secret war against the castle by night had been removed from their hiding places, since Eric did not mean to leave Cheffington riddled with any form of disease that the rotting corpses might bring about.

  But along with those of the men who had been killed was that of a woman. Beginning to rot and bloat, it was a horrible sight. And yet recognizable.

  “Jennie,” Father MacKinley said, mounted by Eric’s side.

  “She must be buried quickly. I don’t want Igrainia to see her.”

  He was startled when young Aidan brought his horse around to view the pile of the dead. He looked at Eric. “Who killed her?”

  “I don’t know,” Eric said evenly. “She was the one sending you information from Langley. And she left Langley. Apparently, she came here.”

  Aidan looked down again. “Her throat is cut.”

  “Aye, so it appears.”

  Aidan stared at Eric again. “Lord Danby would never order such a vicious and senseless murder.”

  “I sincerely doubt that Danby ordered it.” Eric waited for Aidan to accuse the Scots—since they were the ones she had betrayed.

  “Neville,” he said softly. “Or Mason.”

  “So it must have been,” Eric agreed.

  Aidan looked at him strangely. After a while he said, “I remain your prisoner—or a prisoner of your king. But you can rest assured that I will guard my sister as passionately from certain Englishmen as any of your outlawed men.”

  Eric smiled, but sobered, nodding solemnly. “Thank you, Lord Abelard.” Then he looked at Father MacKinley again. “See that the bodies are quickly removed; I will go in and hurry along the women.”

  Igrainia stood in the hall, far more prepared for the journey north than she had been for the abrupt ride here.

  But she was loath to go.

  Once they had reached a certain distance, Eric would turn, and ride away to join with his king. A great battle was about to commence.

  And she might never see him again.

  He came striding with purpose and determination into the hall, looking for her, she knew. And he saw her, standing before the great fire, still and pale.

  “What is it?” he asked her.

  Her heart seemed to quicken. It was so strange. It was as if she couldn’t remember a time when his towering gold presence was not the looming factor in her life—and in her heart.

  She threw her arms around him. She shook, trying to hold back sobs.

  He held her, smoothing back her hair. “We must go now.”

  After a moment, she nodded. The waiting was always the misery for women. Whereas . . . Well, he had come for her. He had found her, seized her from the hands of his enemy. She was his wife. She was cherished. Wanted, certainly.

  And yet . . .

  He’d never said that he loved her.

  War awaited. He had done what he had to do. She was moving on to safety, to the heart of his family, where she knew, just as she knew the clan bond between him and Jamie, that she would be protected every day of her life, no matter what his fate in battle for the honor of his king.

  He paused, and kissed her deeply, cupping her chin, and studying her eyes as he was prone to do. Then he said at length, “Come, we must really go.”

  He caught her hand, led her out, and helped her to mount. He leaped atop Loki, and in a mass, they rode through the gates of Cheffington.

  For two hours they rode together, north. Then it was time to split. Allan, in charge of the men escorting her, Rowenna, a few of the players and other men and women from Cheffington, Lord Danby, and Aidan. Gregory would be riding with the men to battle.

  There was little time and no privacy when they parted ways. Eric rode Loki to a point next to her own horse, reached across the bit of space, and pulled her into his arms. His lips touched hers with both tenderness and passion. And he told her, “Guard our child.”

  She nodded.

  Tears blurred her eyes.

  And he was gone.

  CHAPTER 23

  It was Igrainia’s love of water that warned her, the following morning, of the presence of the horsemen so very near to where they had stopped for the night.

  On waking, she had seen Allan, awake and aware, at the edge of the path leading to their encampment. Near her, Rowenna still slept, while her brother and Lord Danby were sleeping nearby, guarded by Brandon and Timothy.

  She could hear the trickle of the stream. She had slept on a bed of soft earth and grass, and had thought that she would awake cool and cramped since they had not lit a fire. Allan had said that they must not. She had realized then that Eric and his men were going after Neville and Mason before joining the king, and that Allan had been warned to take the most extreme care until they had traveled
far to the north.

  She understood. None in their party had questioned the absence of a fire.

  And she had not wakened stiff and cramped. The woods were cool, but not cold; summer had even allowed for some beautiful sunshine this year, and the day dawning through the trees promised to be beautiful.

  Sitting up, stretching, she could look over the brush between her and the stream, and see that a light mist was rising from the water. She rose, and stretched, careful not to wake those around her.

  She trod softly through the grass, weeds, and wild flowers, and moved down a distance, determined not to wake those who had not risen as yet. She cast off her shoes and hose, and waded in. The water rushed over her toes, as pleasant as she had imagined. She hunched down, heedless that she dampened her gown, since it would surely dry in the day’s promised sunlight. The water splashing over her face felt wonderful. It tasted cool and delicious.

  But as she smoothed back her dampened hair, she heard sounds that didn’t belong in the forest. The jangle of a horse’s bridle . . . the sounds of men speaking. She held completely still, and strained to hear. She began to catch pieces of conversation. Snatches of sentences, phrases, words . . .

  “. . . and the tracks to the east are well laid.”

  “And . . . certain that we are on them.”

  “Aye, we’ll pick up the trail this . . .”

  “. . . close, I know that we’re close.”

  “Aye, and the moment we’ve got them . . .”

  “. . . they’ll not all survive the first onslaught.”

  “Any man who survives . . .”

  “. . . the woods will be alive with the smell of burning outlaw entrails.”

  “. . . need only follow . . .”

  As she sat entirely still in absolute horror, she realized that she knew the voices of their speakers. Robert Neville had spoken first.

  And Niles Mason was the second speaker. The one enthusiastic to smell the burning entrails.

  She rose very slowly. The pleasant water at her feet suddenly felt as cold as ice. She swallowed, barely able to breathe. Seconds swept by her as she realized in desolation that something had to be done to waylay the Englishmen, or else every man among the Scots would be captured, and immediately cut to ribbons.

  Neville and Mason were leading a body of armed men. Those who had set out to cut down a large party of outlaws in the forest.

  Allan was leading a group of prisoners and refugees, with perhaps ten able men to wage battle if necessary.

  She knew that the Scots were famed for their lightning attacks, and the defense maneuvers that allowed them to beat back huge forces that offered incredible odds.

  But these odds were overwhelming.

  They would be overcome, and the men would be slain, and she would be captured again. And the hint of what life might have been if she had been free—even to wait in fear for each battle of this war that was waged—had been so sweet that even this moment in the stream was charged with agony.

  “Igrainia!”

  She turned. Rowenna, smiling tentatively, had come to the stream. On the bank, she was stripping off her shoes and hose.

  Igrainia paused just a split second longer, feeling the beautiful breeze in the air, the soft warm kiss of the rising sun on her cheeks.

  One way or another, she was going to wind up back in the custody of the man she loathed.

  She sprang to life then, racing to the place where Rowenna stood, clamping her hand over the other girl’s mouth. Rowenna struggled for a moment in surprise, then seemed to acknowledge Igrainia’s whispered, “Shsh!”

  She drew her back from the stream, whispering quickly then. “They’re there, Neville, Mason, and their men. They’re on to us. I’m going to take a horse and split the trail—”

  “No! My God, they’ll seize you. You can’t—”

  “Rowenna! Understand this. They will attack and slaughter the entire party and I will be seized, one way or the other.”

  “I can’t let you do it. I will scream, I swear it. Allan will stop you. We can get away.” Her voice quavered. She knew that they could not get away.

  “Rowenna, you know as well as I do that we cannot! You’ve got to help me, because Allan will allow himself to be captured and slaughtered like a boar in order to keep us safe. And Neville will have me anyway. Don’t you understand? Please, God, don’t let me wind up back with them, and have the deaths of these men to live with, day by day, as well!”

  Rowenna breathed slowly.

  “I can go.” she said. “Neville doesn’t want me.”

  “Niles Mason is a murderer. I am the only one with a chance. If I go, Rowenna, Allan may know how to reach Eric’s forces. Rowenna!” She shook the girl. “Neville wants my lands in England, and he wants to be lord of Langley. He can’t be those things without me. He wants to marry me. . . to . . . own me. Please, you have to help me. You have to keep Allan occupied while I get a horse . . . and get away. Rowenna, I am begging you, for the love of God, if we chance much more time, they’ll find us right where we are now, and everyone will die. I am an excellent rider, I’ve spent much of my life on horses, and I’m riding a well-fed mount that had belonged to a rich man. Now. I must go now!”

  Rowenna’s wide-eyed look of desolate horror assured Igrainia that she understood the peril. She understood that Neville could not have Langley or English riches without Igrainia.

  “Go to Allan. Keep him talking, while I take my horse. He’ll want to know where I am. Tell him that I’m bathing in the spring, and that I need a little time, and privacy. He will not have trouble believing that,” Igrainia said firmly. She didn’t wait for Rowenna’s reply, but grabbed her hose and shoes and stumbled into them as quietly and quickly as she could. She started back, following the water’s edge to the camp, treading in determined silence past the others who were still sleeping, or just beginning to wake. She found the graceful, beautifully bred mare she had been riding. There was no time for a saddle. She slipped the mare’s bridle from the line where the animal was tethered, urged her from the group of horses and into the clearing. She walked her through a nonexistent path, winding through the trees, to avoid having to pass any point in Allan’s vision, and once she had made her way back to the main road, she mounted at last.

  She retraced the steps they had taken the night before, then began riding hard along a path that took her far from the little party in the woods. She crossed the streambed, passing by the point where Neville and Mason had been camped. So close . . . yet through the night, neither party had known of the other’s presence.

  She doubled up on the track where she had run, making certain that there were plenty of hoofprints in the dirt along the trail, and that she had broken limbs from the trees and bushes along the way. Even if she hadn’t been missed at first, if Rowenna had explained that she was bathing in private, Allan would soon begin to worry about her.

  Riding near the enemy camp, she judged her distance. She needed to come close enough to ensure that someone heard a commotion along the trail.

  And she needed to stay far enough ahead to force them out to follow her . . .

  Follow her long enough so that they were led far, far away from the others.

  They had just woken from the night’s encampment and were preparing to start out on the day’s ride when Eric saw Gregory—who had been about to mount his horse—suffer a strange spasm as he stood there. For a moment, he shook, violently.

  He dropped his horse’s reins, and doubled over.

  Eric strode to him instantly, afraid that the boy was having a seizure.

  But Gregory rose, still looking as if an unendurable agony tore into his flesh.

  “What’s wrong? Father MacKinley! Come, quickly!” Eric commanded.

  MacKinley came running over. Gregory was mouthing words.

  “He says that we must double back instantly,” Father MacKinley began.

  “I can read that . . . I can read his lips fairly well . . . but what i
s that last word he is trying to say?”

  MacKinley stared at him.

  “Igrainia. He is afraid for Igrainia. He is saying her name.”

  Igrainia knew that the men were behind her.

  She hadn’t waited for them to mount their horses and start out in a breakneck pursuit, but rode ahead at a ground-eating gallop herself. Neither Niles nor Robert would feel the need to do so, since they believed they were following behind a somewhat hampered party of prisoners and women.

  But when she had put some distance between herself and the campsite, she slipped from her horse and knelt down, setting her ear to the ground. At first, there was nothing. Then, she could feel the vibrations, and she knew that they were following behind. As she rose and mounted again, she once more had reason to be thankful for the time she had spent reading Afton’s books on the art and skills of warfare when she had been a prisoner in her own chambers at Langley.

  She could only pray that Allan would have the sense to gather help before making any attempt to come after her.

  Nudging her horse firmly, she started to ride again.

  Eric and his men doubled back, returning along the trail they had followed, trying to catch up with Neville and Mason and their men. As he rode, he knew that they had laid the trail, knowing that he would send Igrainia to safety before joining with Robert Bruce.

  He damned himself for his stupidity as he rode.

  They found the English encampment by the stream. And they saw the broken brush and branches leading to the northwest. The trail had been covered by a number of horses.

  As he prepared to mount and ride again, Jamie told him, “Listen!”

  He did. He heard the hoot of a night owl, soft on the breeze.

  It was day.

  Jamie returned the call.

  A moment later, Allan came bursting through the trees on his horse. He was white-faced and grim.