Knight Triumphant (19 page)

“I've come to see to your welfare. Remember, you are worth a great deal alive, and nothing at all, I'm afraid, if we don't keep you in good health. How was your night?”

“I slept beautifully, thank you.”

“You were brought something to eat last night, I assume?”

“It was delicious.”

He nodded. “Well, I'm sure that someone will come along soon now with fresh water and breakfast.” He looked her up and down. “The hay in your hair makes quite an interesting contrast to the darkness.”

Inadvertently, she drew her hand to her hair.

“Yes, yes, I think you've got it.” He moved closer to the bars. “My God, there's mud all over your cheeks.”

“You looked far worse when you first arrived here,” she told him.

He arched a brow. “I thought you had nothing to do with our arrival.”

“You know the man who rounded up your families. Sir Niles Mason. Afton was obliged to open the gates. He argued furiously with Sir Niles. And yet, as far as your being sent to the dungeons, what should he have done? He knew that he was housing dangerous men among his prisoners. And you did prove to be dangerous. Prison and death are the price of your war.”

“The price of freedom,” he said quietly.

“Have you come down here merely to mock me?” She inquired.

“I told you, I came to see about your well-being. I had an exceptionally good night. I slept deeply, in the comfort of a bed. I awoke to a fine meal of fresh fish and warm bread, and then sank into a bath with steaming water. I met with my men, surveyed the state of our current situation, and was deeply pleased to discover how smoothly the castle is running, how well the people are faring. I even attended the baptism of a newborn baby boy. Our enemies are far away at the moment, afraid that there might be remnants of the plague. The morning has been bountiful. There were so many details in it to be enjoyed, still . . . none quite so gratifying as that very long hot bath.”

“Do you think, sir, that I would barter my position for a bath?”

“Actually, yes.”

“Well, you're mistaken. And I am in good health to be delivered to your king for his purpose of exchange. So you can go away now and gloat in all your triumph elsewhere.”

“Well, yes, it is a triumph, isn't it? Considering the planned alternative to my life. Do you know everything there is to be found down here, in the bowels of the castle?”

“The prison cells and the crypts are here.”

“I don't suppose you've spent much time down here.”

She hesitated. The secret tunnel was at the end of the long hallway.

He smiled. “I'm not referring to the tunnel.”

She forced herself not to alter her expression, though it felt as if her heart were sinking. But of course, he would know about the tunnel. He would have insisted on knowing how she had departed without the gates being opened and the drawbridge lowered.

“To what, then, are you referring?”

“There is a door on the opposite side from this cell. A very thick door. Within it is a room filled with interesting objects. All of them are for torturing the poor souls dragged into this prison. You've never been there?”

“Yes, I've been there. The room hasn't been used—”

“Since Afton ruled the castle! Surely, that's what you were about to say.”

She didn't offer a reply.

“The room was intended for use, Igrainia. All manner of interesting and horrific objects had been set out.”

She felt something twisting in her stomach. “The law . . . there is a fate for traitors.”

“How can a man who has never sworn allegiance to a foreign king be labeled a traitor?”

She walked away from the bars. “I can only tell you that you are seriously mistaken if you don't understand that the king you don't honor will hunt you down until he finds you, and that he has prescribed death for men judged to be traitors. And that death is the law.”

“Then I must continue to avoid your king's law,” he said, then asked curtly. “You still prefer to remain here?”

“I do.”

“Have it as you wish.”

He turned and left. She heard his footsteps echoing on the stone. They stopped. She thought that he was coming back, then realized that he had stopped in the crypt, and was standing by the walled tomb where Afton had been laid—and then Eric's wife and child.

She held very still as she listened to the long silence that followed—until his footsteps could be heard against the stone floor again.

Then he was gone.

 

 

It was afternoon when Father MacKinley found Eric writing letters at the desk in the chamber he had chosen. There was a map stretched out before him as well. He, Peter and Allan had been estimating the distances to the last known entrenchments of Pembroke's men—numbers, space, geographical advantages, and the time needed to move from one location to another.

MacKinley seemed very much an honorable man, but one who voiced no heated political position. Therefore, after he knocked and entered, Eric carefully folded the map and sat back, waiting for him to speak.

“You can't leave her down there. She might well go mad, locked up not a hundred feet from where her husband lies buried, caught there in the darkness of the night, the wall torches doing nothing but creating shadows upon shadows,” MacKinley said.

“I have been to see the lady of Langley. She prefers the dungeon.”

MacKinley shook his head. “She cannot prefer the dungeon. She is hurting herself to do nothing more than make a point.”

“And what is that point?”

“That she is a prisoner.”

“Well?”

“Everyone else moves freely here—”

“That she cannot do.”

MacKinley sighed deeply. “But if she were to have the run of the castle—”

“She would run right out of it.” He leaned forward. “Father, if you can bring her up, do so. I leave it in your hands. The lady's own chamber is vacant and awaiting her. Although . . . it is somewhat changed.”

He had left orders that all heraldic plaques and colors were to be removed from the walls—and his own and those of Bruce be set to replace them.

He hadn't been able to bear the sight of the room as it had stood, not after Margot's death. It was not just the master's chambers that had been changed, however. The flags on the parapets had been replaced immediately; those about the hall had taken longer.

“So . . .” MacKinley said. “I have your order to bring her up?”

“You have my permission.”

MacKinley left. Eric watched him go, then returned to his letters.

 

 

As the day wore on, Igrainia despised herself for her own stupidity. Hours passed like eons. With nothing to fill it, time passed endlessly, and memories haunted her.

She didn't know the time, because it was eternally dim. The torches that sat in sconces high on the walls began to burn low, and she thought that it was late, but then, it might well be only early afternoon. There was no way to tell.

When she heard footsteps again, she jumped up, wary, wondering if Eric had returned. But this time, it was Father MacKinley coming to see her.

He stopped at the bars, gripped them, and stared at her. “Igrainia, God forgive me, but you are stubborn and behaving in a way that is bringing misery to me, and to others. Do you know what you're doing? People are living in peace here, they are managing their lives. But if they believe that you are being cruelly detained here, God knows what they might do. Fight—and wind up slain for their efforts. The innocent could suffer and die, because you are being stubborn. I lay awake most of the night, thinking of all the dire consequences this could bring about. I am telling you, as God guides me, that you must leave this hellish hole and take up residence in your own chamber. There is light there, Igrainia. You have your books in the room, clean clothing, a window to the world.”

“My books are in my room, yes, and my belongings are there.”

“God does not want you here, I know it. It is unhealthy, this sitting in a cell that is like a tomb, and the dead far too near.”

“Father—” she began, ready to tell him that she would come out, but she doubted that her books were available, since it was most likely Eric had chosen the master's chambers.

But she broke off, aware of footsteps once again.

The torches cast a very long shadow on the floor as Eric neared her position.

“She still refuses to come out,” Father MacKinley said in dismay.

She opened her mouth to speak, and she wasn't sure whether she meant to protest or not, but it didn't matter because she never had a chance to do so.

“I'm afraid she no longer has a choice,” Eric said.

“Why?” Igrainia asked.

“We've come upon some stray English soldiers. We need the torture chamber and all the cells. Not that you'd want to hear the screams from the torture chamber anyway . . . but it's no matter. We can't leave you here to plot with Englishmen.”

“Stray English soldiers?” she inquired with alarm. How much time had passed since they had come? Her brother was a young man, but everything she had said about him was true: he had been taught excellently, and he had a great sense of family honor. Since he had been a very young boy, training in the households of other knights, he had known that he would grow up to be an earl, and that he must therefore be responsible, courageous and honorable, and in all things, take care of his family.

Had he ridden here . . . ?

“You've taken English soldiers?” Father MacKinley said, frowning.

She wondered if Eric was bluffing. She feared that he was not.

“It's time for you to leave the cell,” Eric said.

“And where will I be going? I don't believe that I can have my chambers. They have been taken. By the new master,” she added dryly.

“Actually, they have not,” Eric replied. “I am not fond of your rooms. So you are free to claim them once again.”

“I am
free
to reclaim them?”

He smiled, a hard smile, filled with impatience. “Are you aware that you are the most argumentative woman alive? Fine. You will return to your chambers.”

She smiled harshly in return, turned so that her back was to him, and walked to the rear of the cell.

“Igrainia,” Father MacKinley murmured softly. “Eric has taken Sir Robert Neville's room. You can be completely comfortable in your own rooms.”

“Call the guard,” Eric said to Father MacKinley. “He carried the key.”

“I'm eagerly awaiting the company of English soldiers,” Igrainia said.

“I'm sure you are,” Eric replied.

A moment later, she heard the heavy key twist in the lock. She was about to turn and sigh and go willingly—more willingly than they would ever know—but she wasn't given the chance. Hands she was beginning to know far too well descended on her shoulders and she was spun around to face her nemesis.

“I—I won't fight!” she assured him.

She realized then that he wasn't listening. He had stopped walking. They were in front of the large stone monument that sealed Afton, Margot and Aileen into their tomb.

She held her tongue.

A moment later, he started walking again.

And when they reached the great hall, footsteps ceased abruptly behind them. Father MacKinley and another man had been following them from the cell.

She thought that the burly, kilted Scotsman must have been the one with the heavy key—her most recent guard, near her in the dungeons all along, keeping watch, but never being seen.

“See the lady to her room, Jarrett,” Eric said and swept past her to the stairs, moving up them quickly.

“Come, my lady!” the man called Jarrett said pleasantly. He was a very big man, possibly taller than Eric, and heavily muscled, as most of these men seemed to be, but his features were surprisingly fine and he was quick to smile at her. “Thank the Lord, my lady, that you've chosen better ground!” he told her. “The dungeon is no place for a woman.” He made a face. “And even the guard's room at the juncture of the crypt and gaol was not a pleasant place to sleep!”

“The bowels of a castle are always damp,” she murmured.

“Ah, and the cells are the worst.”

“You were—one of the prisoners in the cells,” she said, studying his face. These men were so different now. Though many seemed fond of beards and facial hair, they were no longer the pathetic straggle of humanity they had appeared after their capture.

“A long time, so it seemed,” he agreed, but continued to offer her a rueful smile. “Still, I had company. I did not have the hours alone here . . . of course, there were the hours when the dead were entangled with the living, but the plague. . . there's not a man alive who does not fear it, and thank God if he survives it.”

“Perhaps we should get to the room,” Father MacKinley said, looking upward at the top of the stairs, as if he feared Eric would reappear.

“Aye, come along now, my lady, to your fine chamber above the stairs!”

Igrainia knew then that she would have a guard outside her bedroom door as well, but she nodded. This man was courteous. And held no bitterness against her.

And, at least Eric had removed himself from the room she had shared with Afton.

As they passed on through the hall, it was empty. She shuddered at the memory of Eric holding her silver goblets, her wedding gift, and laughing with irony that they should be a gift from one king to another.