Knight Triumphant
Page 44
She wanted to say more; she refrained. “We’ve entertainment for you,” she said, rising. She went to the kitchen.
Sir Alfred remarked on the quality of their horses.
“I admit, Sir Alfred, they were taken from the English at a castle we recently restored to the king’s domain,” Jamie said.
A moment later the lady returned with a small man in a jester’s costume and another who carried a lute. The one stood with his instrument while the other performed acrobatic feats, then sang an innocuous ballad about pirates at sea. The lady had taken her chair again. Jamie watched as the jester sat with his men, accepted wine, and encouraged the Scots to drink. Jamie watched Liam, next to the jester. His men appeared amused and entertained, as they were intended to be.
They lifted their glasses, raised a toast to Hamstead Heath, and its beautiful lady.
She smiled, and graciously accepted the compliment.
A moment later, when another song had begun, he turned to her.
“You don’t have, nor will you have the tribute, Lady Christina,” he said as fact.
She lifted her glass and eyed him over it, a challenge in her eyes.
“And if we do not?”
“Well, then, we take all the livestock, everything of value in the manor, burn it and the outbuildings to the ground, and depart. I’m afraid we shall have to kill anyone who tries to prevent us from doing so.”
“How merciful,” she said, her tone dry, and not at all frightened.
“You don’t have the payment.” He leaned closer to her. “You should be alarmed.”
She looked at him with her green eyes cool, calm, assessing. “I’m afraid, Sir, that you will not be able to bring harm and destruction to Hamstead Heath.”
“And why is that?”
She set down her glass, watched him for a moment, and smiled. “Because, soon, you will not be able to move at all. Your wine has been drugged.”
He digested that information, allowing his fingers to knot around the glass on the table, and his voice to deepen as if with fear and fury.
“So you have meant to murder us all.”
She shook her head. “Murder you? Such fine prisoners for ransom. No, dear Sir. Your eyes will shortly close, and you will sleep the sleep of the dead for a good many hours. You will awaken within English prisons in the very best of health.”
He looked at her gravely. “I am glad you did not intend murder.”
“Why is that?” she inquired. Then her eyes fell for a moment and she shook her head. “It would be far easier for you to die here in the spell of a strong opiate, rather than face the death that will be intended by decree of the king.”
“How courteous of you to consider a lesser death for my men and me,” he said. Her eyes once again met his. They seemed impassive. She might not wish extreme violence upon any man; it didn’t seem that his fate meant much to her one way or another.
“You’ve no right on English land,” she said. “Even if the English king is now little more than a . . . well, even if he is not a ‘hammer’ of the Scots. You have brought about your own doom.”
“But I haven’t fallen flat quite yet,” he told her. “What makes you think that, in my fury, I will not draw my sword, and slice out your heart for such treachery?”
“I doubt if you will have the strength to do so.”
He smiled. “I’ve the strength, but not the need.”
“And why is that?” she inquired, but with little interest. She expected that he would fall face first into his stew any minute. Her work would be done; men would be summoned to take them away, shackle them, drive them onward to whatever dungeon was intended.
He leaned back in his chair, watching her, fascinated by the green cat eyes that returned his stare with cool apathy.
“Because, my lady, you have been drinking the opiate.”
At last, a response. Those beautiful eyes went wide with alarm. Then they narrowed in disbelief.
“You are a liar, Sir. There was no reason to expect any treachery here.”
He leaned forward. “There is always a reason to expect treachery among the English,” he said, and he couldn’t keep the note of bitterness and anger out of his voice. “Trust me, my lady, the cups were long ago switched, and the alarm was given to my men. You will find your people sleeping the sleep of the dead very soon.”
She started to rise—and realized that he was telling the truth. She sat back down quickly, her fingers quivering on the table where they lay.
“You will have no power here. Your men—”
“I’m afraid that you’ll find the floor beneath the table quite wet with the fruit of the vine. Ah! Look! There goes Sir Alfred!”
As he spoke, the white-bearded fellow’s face fell into his plate.
“Your men outside—”
“Were warned.”
She shook her head. “You can’t . . .”
“Can’t what? I told you what will happen.”
“No . . . all these people. They will starve come winter.”
“Alas, you should have thought of that.”
He was startled when her fingers suddenly curled around his wrist with a surprising and desperate strength. And he was even more surprised when she spoke.
“You can’t leave me here!”
“What?”
“You can’t leave me here.”
“My lady, Robert Bruce is one of the most humane men I have ever seen. We do not slay the populace, nor do we even seize prisoners and bring them back to Scotland. Not unless they’re of incredible value, which you are not. You’ve really nothing to fear.”
She shook her head. “No! You must take me with you.”
“As what?” he inquired, eyes narrowing.
This was definitely a strange form of treachery.
“As . . . anything,” she said.
“You know what you’re saying?” he demanded.
“Indeed, exactly.” Her voice seemed to quaver slightly. He wondered if it was the drug, doing its work, or if she was speaking boldly to hide another kind of fear.
Truly puzzled, he stared at her.
“You wish to become a camp follower? Or far worse? There are other names for what you’re suggesting, of course . . .”
“You can’t leave me here!” she insisted again.
“Why? You are the child of a respected English knight. A murderer to those of us who are Scots, but a hero in the days of the old king of England.”
She moistened her lips, seeking an answer that wouldn’t come. He lowered his head and leaned closer, his mouth nearly against her own.
“Why?” he demanded again.
He was not to have his answer.
The lady fell forward into his arms.
He shook his head, pulling free from her grasp.
“Please!” she said.
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Copyright © 2002 by Shannon Drake
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