Knight Triumphant

by Heather Graham

  “It is too late to change a course of action now. The matter has been decided, and we would never get the word out, and far too many would die if we were suddenly to falter from within. And . . . well, we know what may well happen to Steven.”

  Her last reminder touched Sir Alfred deeply, and he straightened his aging shoulders. “Then we take aim against the Devil,” he said, and turned, ready to walk out of the once grand manor of Hamstead Heath. There, he would ride to the low stone wall that dated back to the Romans, and welcome the heathens who had come to collect from the village for the privilege of living.

  But when he reached the door, he hesitated. “You are certain? You’ll see that all is handled in the kitchen?”

  “Personally,” Christina assured him.

  “You will be the one at great risk. If Steven knew—”

  “But he does not know, and when he does, it will be because we have demanded his release in exchange for the men we will present to the king.”

  Sir Alfred turned without another word. As he left, Lauren came rushing into the hall. “My God! It’s time, they’re coming!”

  “All is in readiness.”

  But Lauren paused, studying Christina, and shaking her head. “That is the best gown you have? We will look like paupers.”

  “We are paupers.”

  “Yes, but we are to greet them, feast with them. Impress them with the affluence of the manor and our ability to pay their tribute as long as they leave us be. You must be serene. . . haughty . . . knowing exactly who you are. You’ll have to wear my gown.”

  “The one you had made for your wedding? No.”

  Lauren stared at the wall. “How sad . . . the nicest piece we have left is the tapestry. It’s a pity we can’t put you in it . . . never mind. The wedding gown must do.”

  “I will not wear your wedding gown.”

  “I will not have a wedding if we are not successful,” Lauren said.

  She was right.

  “Set the gown on my bed. I must hurry to the kitchen. They are here already, Lauren, riding down upon us.”

  Christina sped for the kitchen. Plans had been laid, instructions given, but they must be repeated. There was no room for chance or error.

  None at all.

  They came in glory. Riders on the wind. Armed, and bearing the colors of the king, and of the clans who had fought to set him upon his throne.

  As they had now ridden for several years. Not that true freedom had been completely won, but Robert Bruce’s hold on Scotland was now far greater than that of Edward II of England.

  And the neighboring northern lands of England had learned the fear that the lowlands of Scotland had endured for so many years.

  But even in the worst of the vengeance ravaged upon the English, years ago, when Sir William Wallace, fresh from his victory at Stirling Bridge, had invaded England, Hamstead Heath had not been attacked. There was no fine castle here, just the manor. And in those days, it had been a cruel revenge that the Scots had visited upon the English.

  Now, they did not come for revenge, but in the name of a strangely humane and wily man who was proving to be a careful king.

  Hamstead Heath was not a walled town or a fortress. It was just a manor in the center of a thriving village. It did not offer a military stronghold, caches of arms, or the jewels of an immensely affluent noble. But then again, the house was a fine enough manor, and, in its way, the village offered riches aplenty, even if they weren’t the gold and silver and precious gems usually sought.

  Hamstead Heath raised some of the finest and fastest horses in all England. Her cattle and sheep were renowned. The wool produced here was comparable to the best in Scotland or Flanders.

  “Remember the king’s command!” Jamie shouted. Then he let his hand fall.

  His men, forty-eight in all, let out a battle cry brought from the highlands, and started down the hill in a gallop.

  Though their numbers were not great, their cry, along with the heavy thunder of their approach, was meant to stir terror in the hearts of the enemy.

  Jamie expected no resistance and, as he rode, feeling the powerful beat of his horse’s hooves beneath him, seeing the well-armed and armored knights of his own command glisten in the sun as they rode with menacing purpose, he allowed himself a moment’s elation.

  The tide had turned.

  And it was good.

  For far too many years they had been outlaws in the forests. They had been dangerously outnumbered, they had starved, and even their kinsmen might be enemies. But the years of tenacious struggle were now proving their merit. Though the English still held lands and castles in Scotland, the Scots steadily gained ground.

  Edward II of England was no man to match his father. And now, it was the English who shivered at the approach of the Scots.

  And must pay tribute.

  Robert Bruce, warrior king that he might be, had never acquired a taste for senseless bloodshed and slaughter. Yet the wages of gaining a kingdom were high, and he had learned to improve his kingdom with his slowly gained might.

  Bit by bit, the tenacious king had claimed his homeland, to a point where, now, they, the Scots, could well afford to be on the attack.

  The seeming eons of struggle and loss had taught the king well. What revenge he would take on those who had slain members of his own family had long been slaked. He had learned that governing a country required not just the loyalty of his subjects, but something more tangible as well. Gold, money, currency. And so, over the last years, he had taken to raiding into England, stripping the northern lands of his enemy as they had stripped the southern lands of Scotland for years. But he didn’t send his men to kill and destroy. He sent them to demand payment for his peace. And for Jamie, as well, it seemed a sweet justice.

  Nearing the manor of Hamstead Heath, he slowed his gait, and the men behind did as well. There were no armed men to meet them, no mounted knights, no foot soldiers.

  The manor stood alone upon a mound within a small village of thatched roof houses, keeping a distance between the gentry and the tenants who worked the land. A low, crumbling Roman wall surrounded a scene that was quaint and peaceful. They had not come to Hamstead Heath before, nor had any of the Bruce men; the year before, the lord of the manor had come to the King of Scots, and offered a payment before his village could feel the brunt of Scottish power.

  A few people milled in the expanse of stone and dirt that served as a courtyard for the manor; a woman carrying rushes, a milkmaid with pails, a blacksmith carrying a bar over his shoulder with buckets balanced on either end of it.

  “The king’s command!” Jamie said, the tone of his voice low, but strong enough to carry to the men around him. “Only those who resist are to be taught the cost of violence against the King of the Scots.”

  “It doesn’t look like much resistance,” Liam O’Connell, riding at his side, said to him.

  “Aye, no resistance,” Jamie said. The wooden gate at the center of the wall stood open. Still, the years had taught him caution, and he reined in, surveying the scene before him as they approached. There were vast stables to the left of the manor, and more storage and farm buildings to the right. More of the villagers were in evidence there—men hauling bales of hay up to the loft, a lad in unbleached cotton shoveling droppings, two young women feeding the chickens that flocked around the front of the building.

  “Be on guard,” Jamie said. “George, you will remain with the bulk of the men in the yard; Liam, we’ll approach the manor with a party of ten. Ragnor, you’ll come inside with us, and be ready to quickly parley any words to the men beyond.”

  “Aye, Jamie,” Ragnor said.

  “Do you think they’ve any number of men with any kind of weapons within?” George asked, his eyes on the scene before them.

  “We began our battle for freedom with farmers and craftsmen fighting with no more than pitchforks and sticks,” Jamie said quietly. “We’ll expect no less from any enemy.”

  He n
udged his horse’s flanks, crossing through the open gate. As he did so, the door of the manor opened, and a tall, dignified man with snow white hair and a long beard walked out upon the broad stone steps that led to the double wooden doors of the manor. Another five steps brought him to the ground, and he walked out alone to meet the riders. He was not clad in armor or mail, but a sword was worn at the belt around his hips. His tunic and shirt appeared fine, clean and well cut, and his boots were softly worked leather while his hose gave the appearance of excellent wool.

  He lifted a hand in greeting. “You’re from the Bruce?” he said.

  “Aye, that we are,” Jamie said, moving forward on his horse. He then dismounted, watching the elderly fellow. He had perfect, proud posture, and was a tall man with brilliant blue and intelligent eyes.

  “Sir James Graham,” he said, introducing himself. “Messenger for the King of Scots, Robert Bruce.”

  “We have expected you.”

  Jamie arched a brow. “If you have expected us, why has it been necessary for us to come?”

  “The Lord Steven has been absent on business for several months now. We keep no standing army, so there was no escort for his lady sister to come north, into what may well have been dangerous territory for a young woman. But she is within, Sir, and ready to greet you. You’ve ridden long and hard. Though we are a small village, naturally, beyond the tribute, we offer you every hospitality. The barn will accomodate many of your men, while you and your retainers are welcome to the shelter of the manor.”

  “Have you the tribute ready?”

  “We are in process of gathering the sum required. The Lady Christina will negotiate the arrangements. If you join me? The kitchen is preparing food and drink for you and your men. We will be pleased if you will honor us with your presence in the hall. The servants will quickly tend to your men.”

  Jamie nodded his head in agreement and turned to his men. Liam quickly dismounted behind him, calling out orders. Then Liam and Ragnor fell in step behind him, with seven other of their number in their wake.

  They walked up the steps to the manor. The great double doors were open. A woman stood ready to greet them.

  She was tall and slender with wheat blond hair falling freely around her shoulders and down her back. She was dressed elegantly in a soft blue, fur trimmed and embroidered tunic over a silken under gown. Jamie didn’t pay much heed to her costume, however, for as soon as his eyes adjusted to the shadow against the streaking gold and crimson of the dying day, his gaze was riveted to her eyes. They were the deepest, brightest green he had ever seen, and set in a face of perfect and delicate proportion. She was a completely stunning sight, her beauty as grand as her stance and composure.

  “Sir James Graham, my lady,” the old man said. “Emissary of the King of the Scots.”

  She inclined her head with the slightest, most regal, movement. “Enter, gentlemen,” she said, her voice low and sweet. And she turned her back on them, walking through a long entry and to her right, where a great deal of the manor’s lower level was one great room or hall.

  A large hearth filled half the far wall with an amazing marble mantel surrounding it. The floor was strewn with fresh rushes. Fine, huge hounds, sniffed and whined as the visitors entered, then, at a word from their mistress, they settled again before the hearth.

  Tapestries lined the wall, rich with intricate weaving. A table, easily accommodating twenty to thirty guests, created a U-shaped formation in the center of the hall. The table was already set with elaborate servings, trays bearing whole fish, a boar’s head, flanks of veal, and more. Each place was set with earthenware plates and glass chalices. There was a scent of fresh flowers about the hall, and the sense that this was, indeed, far more of a home than any kind of fortress.

  It also appreared as if they had prepared to greet a king or much honored nobility, rather than foreigners come to demand tribute.

  The woman was watching him as he surveyed the hall. Her chin was high; vast green eyes were shrewd and cool. She had prepared all this, but she despised the men who had come. She meant to show every courtesy, but her contempt was complete. She apparently knew just what orders Robert Bruce gave his men, and knew that she was safe in person and place as long as she complied with payment of the demanded tribute.

  She lifted a hand elegantly, indicating a place in the center of the U-shaped table. “Please, if you will . . . I assume you have ridden a distance to reach us.”

  “And I am amazed that you are so prepared.”

  “A shepherd saw your approach when you and your men paused at the stream by the forest.”

  A simple enough explanation. He didn’t believe her.

  “How kind that you have looked to our needs, when payment of the tribute was all that was necessary.”

  “We wish to continue to prosper,” she said lightly, then added, “and live, as well, of course.”

  “The king of Scots isn’t a cold-blooded murderer, as you are aware.”

  “Well, with all men, it depends on the circumstances, does it not?” she inquired. “Please, be seated. We couldn’t be certain exactly when you would arrive, and I hope that the meal has not grown cold. Sir Alfred will be joining us here. Some of my retainers will be joining your men outside.”

  Jamie bowed to her, and took her hand, startling her for a moment. Despite her cool demeaner, her flesh felt like fire. He sensed that she longed to jerk her hand away, yet she did not. The smile that came to her lips was forced.

  “I meant only to escort you to your chair, Lady Christina, not chop off your fingers.”

  “Of course,” she said, and allowed him to escort her. As he walked by her side, he felt the tension in her body, as if she emitted sparks of heat.

  As he seated her in one of the large chairs at the head of the table, he saw that Sir Alfred was directing his men to places. Servants came from the kitchen. All were male. Mostly large men, and those who were not still appeared to be heavily muscled. The only one to serve wine was a comely young woman with round blue eyes and delicate features. As she reached to fill his glass, Jamie noted that her hands were smooth, her nails neatly trimmed. No callouses from long labors touched her tender flesh.

  She moved to his left, serving his men, rather than the lady of the manor.

  “You had no difficulty riding?” Sir Alfred, just at the curve of the table, asked. His words were jovial, as if he were welcoming kin from afar.

  “Aye, the roads were fine,” Jamie said. “It’s winter, or storm season, when it is so difficult to travel south.” He pointed to one of the tapestries and asked, “What battle is depicted there?” Both Sir Alfred and Lady Christina looked at the tapestry. He took the moment to give a sign to Liam.

  Then, in a heartbeat, both the lady and Sir Alfred were looking at him. They seemed to share a certain discomfort. He arched a brow to the woman. “Ah . . . it’s a fairly new piece, is it not? The battle of Falkirk. I see the colors now. Edward I, there, in all his glory and splendor. And all the Scots there—dead and in pools of blood. It’s quite a use of color. Did you create the piece, Lady Christina?”

  She appeared pale. “No, Sir, I did not.”

  “Now there would be a fine piece to bring to the king,” Liam commented to Jamie.

  “Um. Perhaps not,” Jamie said. A man stood at his left shoulder, ready to serve one of the trays of meat. He sat back, watching the woman at his side. Then he turned from her and addressed George. “I had forgotten. How remiss. George, tell Grayson that I believe Satan has picked up a stone. I’d not have my horse go lame.”

  “Aye, Jamie,” George said, excusing himself and rising. He bowed to the lady and Sir Alfred before leaving the hall.

  The serving woman with the soft hands was back. She poured for the lady and Sir Alfred, and seemed to find that her pitcher was empty.

  “So, tell me, how will the tribute be paid?” Jamie said, addressing the woman.

  “I’ve ten excellent warhorses for you to take now,”
she said.

  He shrugged. “A good warhorse is a mighty payment, indeed. But I believe the king was expecting a certain amount of gold.”

  She nodded, sipping her wine, not looking his way. “I’m afraid that you’ve come before we’ve been entirely able to prepare. My brother has gone to collect the revenue from some of the stock we’ve recently sold. At his return, the bulk of the payment will be made in gold.”

  “Ah, so that is why you are here to deal with this business,” he said.

  “Sir, it doesn’t take a scholar or a well-schooled knight to pay off men who hold innocent people under ransom, does it?”

  He smiled, picked up his glass, an unusual and elegant piece, and drank deeply from it. “An excellent wine,” he told her.

  “I am glad you approve. Please, do drink your fill.”

  “Innocent people,” he repeated softly.

  “I’ve certainly done you no harm,” she said.

  He sipped more wine, smiling politely in return. “I believe, my lady, that your father was Sir Adam Steel.”

  “He was.”

  His smile deepened. “I believe he was with a group under Edward I who agreed to meet with a number of Scottish nobles to negotiate, years ago . . . twelve-ninety-six, I think it was.”

  Again, he saw the color leaving her face.

  “They all met in peace. The Scots deposited their weapons as agreed. They died with their throats slit.”

  “I was an infant, Sir, and have no idea where my father was at the time. But I might point out that not far from here, your William Wallace cornered a number of English knights, herded them into a barn, and stood and smelled the air as they all burned to death.”

  “But I don’t believe that he would have come south—and the English not come north.”

  She turned on him suddenly. “You should take care. There are still many English in Scotland.”

  “Oh, we are aware of that. But then again . . . here we are in England.”

  “Demanding payment.”

  “Aye.”