Knight Triumphant (3 page)

“Then it will be fortunate that you seem to have so little care for your own life.”

He shoved her forward.

With no other choice, Igrainia walked.

Yet her heart was sinking.

If your wife is among the women stricken, then I am afraid that she has already died!
Igrainia thought.

Because she had lied. She had thought herself immune to fear when she left Langley. Immune to further pain. Now, she was discovering that she did fear for her life, that there was something inside her that instinctively craved survival.

She wanted to live.

But if she failed, so he proclaimed, he would break her. That was certainly no less savage than the commands given by Edward in regard to the wives and womenfolk of any man loyal to Robert the Bruce.

Break her. Bone by bone.

It was all in God's hands. But maybe this filthy and half-savage man, no matter how articulate, didn't comprehend that.

“I will save your wife and child, if you will give me a promise.”

“You think that you can barter with me?” he demanded harshly.

“I am bartering with you.”

“You will do as I command.”

“No. No, I will not. Because you are welcome to lop off my head here and now if you will not barter with me.”

“Do you think that I will not?”

“I don't care if you do or do not!”

“So the lord of Langley is dead!” he breathed bitterly.

“Indeed. So you have no power over me.”

“Believe me, my lady, if I choose, I can show you that I have power over you. Death is simple. Life is not. The living can be made to suffer. Your grief means nothing to me. It was the lord of Langley who imprisoned the women and children.”

She shook her head. “You're wrong! So foolishly wrong! What care they received was by his order. Those who will live will do so, because he commanded their care. And he is dead because of the wretched disease brought in by
your
women and
your
children.”

“None of this matters!” he roared to her.

She ignored his rage, and the tightening vise of his fingers around her arm.

She stared at his hand upon her, and then into his eyes, so brilliantly blue and cold against the mud-stained darkness of his face.

“I will save your wife and child, if you will swear to let your prisoners live.”

Again, he arched a brow and shrugged. “Their fates matter not in the least to me; save her, and they shall live.”

She started forward again, then once more stopped. She had spoken with contempt and assurance. A bluff, a lie. And now, her hands were shaking. “What if I
cannot
? What if it has gone too far? God decides who lives and dies, and the black death is a brutal killer—”

“You will save them,” he said.

They had reached his horse, an exceptionally fine mount. Stolen, she was certain, from a wealthy baron killed in battle. He lifted her carelessly upon the horse, then stared up at her, as if seeing her, really seeing her, perhaps for the first time.

“You will save them,” he repeated, as if by doing so he could make it true.

“Listen to me. Surely, you understand this. Their lives are in God's hands.”

“And yours.”

“You are mad; you are possessed! Only a madman thinks he can rule a plague. Not even King Edward has power over life and death against such an illness. Kings are not immune, no man, no woman—”

“My wife and child must survive.”

He had no sense, no intellect, no reason!

“Which of the women is your wife?” she asked. She wondered if she could kick his horse, and flee. She was in the saddle; he was on the ground.

“And if I give you a name, what will it mean to you?” he inquired.

“I have been among the prisoners.”

It seemed he doubted that. “Margot,” he told her. “She is tall, slim and light, and very beautiful.”

Margot. Aye, she knew the woman. Beautiful indeed, gentle, moving about, cheering the children, nursing the others . . .

Until she had been struck down.

She had been well dressed, and had worn delicate Celtic jewelry, as the wife of a notable man, a lord, or a wealthy man at the least.

Rather than a filthy barbarian such as this.

But it was said that even Robert Bruce, King of the Scots, looked like a pauper often enough these days. He was a desperate man, ever searching out a ragtag army, reduced to hunger and hardship time and time again.

“Who are you?” she asked

“Who I am doesn't matter.”

“Do you even have a name, or should I think of you as Madman, or Certain Death?”

His eyes lit upon her with cold fury. “You must have a name when it doesn't matter, when your life is at stake? When Edward has decreed that Scottish women are fair game, no better than outlaws to be robbed, raped or
murdered
? Wouldn't you be the one who is surely mad to expect chivalry in return for such barbarity, and test the temper of a man whose rage now equals that of your king? You would have a name? So be it. I am Eric, Robert Bruce's liege man by choice, sworn to the sovereign nation of Scotland, a patriot by both birth and choice. You see, my father was a Scottish knight, but my grandfather, on my mother's side, was a Norse jarl of the western isles. So there is a great deal of
berserker
—or indeed,
madman
—in me, lady. You must beware. We are not known to act rationally—and by God, no matter what our inclination at any time—
mercifully.
Now, tell me what I ask. Does my wife live? You do know her, don't you?”

“Aye. I know her. Father MacKinley is with her,” Igrainia said. “She lives. When I left, she still lived.” Aye, she knew his wife. She had spoken with her often when the disease had brought them together, forgetting nationalities and loyalties, fighting death itself.

And she knew his little girl. The beautiful child with the soft yellow hair and huge blue eyes, smiling even when she fell ill. The little girl had gone into a fever with a whimper.

But the woman had been so ill, burning, twisting, crying out . . .

She would die. And then . . .

Igrainia suddenly grabbed the reins and slammed the horse with her heels, using all the strength she had.

The huge gray warhorse reared, pawing the air. Igrainia clung desperately to the animal, hugging its neck, continuing to slam her heels against its flank. The man was forced to move back, and she felt hope take flight in her heart as the horse hit the ground and started running toward the trees.

Yet nearly to the trail, the animal came to an amazing halt, reared again, and spun.

This time, Igrainia did not keep her seat.

She hit the ground with a heavy thud that knocked the air from her.

A moment later, he was back by her side, reaching down to her, wrenching her to her feet. “Try to escape again, and I will drag you back in chains.”

She gasped for breath, shaking her head. “No one will stop your entry at the castle. Only the truly mad would enter there. I cannot help your wife—”

“I have told you who I am. And I know who you are. Igrainia of Langley, known to have the power to heal. Daughter of an
English
earl, greatly valued by many. My God, what you could be worth! There will be a price on your head, my lady, and you will save my wife.”

Once again, she found herself thrown onto the horse, which had obediently trotted back to its master.

This time, he mounted behind her.

Even as he did so, he urged the horse forward at a reckless gallop.

She felt his heat and his fury in the wall of his chest against her back, felt the strength of the man, and the power of his emotion.

And more . . .

She felt the trembling in him.

And suddenly understood.

Aye, he was furious.

And he was afraid.

And dear God . . .

So was she.

He was excellent at the art of killing. Eric knew it well. Against superior forces, he and his men always had the advantage of extreme training, experience, and the cold hard fact of desperation. But none of their expertise had ever wielded such a blow against the English as that of the strange disease that had seized their little band of rebels. One moment, they had been the most dreaded of the English king's enemies; the next moment, they were a group of outcasts, shunned and feared by their captors. But even after their capture by the English, Eric had been confident of escape. He had allowed his own incarceration, planning on escaping walls and chains, to return for the others. He had known his ability to fight, to elude the strongest of his foes. He had never imagined that there would be an unseen enemy against whom all the prowess in the world was utterly futile. For all of his determination and strength, he had no power whatsoever against the illness that had ravaged their number. There was no enemy he had ever wanted to best with such passion, and no enemy who had ever had a greater power over him.

As they neared the great gates to Langley Castle, he was barely aware of the woman on the saddle before him, or even of his own men, as willing as he to risk their own lives for the return of their women, children, and compatriots. Of course, they had all already been exposed to the disease. It had come upon them when they returned from the sea with the lone survivor of a shipwreck. None of them had known, when they plucked the unlucky survivor from the waves, that they had taken death itself from the brine, and that the man's ship had gone down because none aboard his damned vessel had been able to fight the onslaught of the storm. The man had never regained consciousness. Within hours after coming aboard, he acquired the dreaded boils.

None had thought to return him, still breathing, to the sea whence he had come; they knew that they had brought death aboard. Only when the fellow had breathed his last, had he been returned to the water.

Soon after they had brought their own small boats back to shore, the English had come upon their camp, not knowing then that they had just captured the promise of certain death. Though Eric and many of the others had been apart from the band when King Edward's men seized hold of the group, they had allowed their own capture, aware in their depleted condition and poor numbers that their only sure chance to rescue their women from the grip of the enemy was to come among them and discover the weaknesses among their captors and their prison. They had gone so far as to warn the English as to the manner of prisoner they were taking. The enemy had not believed them.

Now, they did.

Even as they rode the last stretch of distance to their destination, they could see that black crosses had been painted here and there around the walls, warning any who might venture too near that death lay within.

“Tell the guard to open the gates,” he commanded his captive, reining in.

Castle Langley rose high before them. A Norman fortification, it had high, solidly built stone walls, and a moat surrounded the edifice. It was an excellent estate, one that stood on a hill surrounded by rich valleys. It was near the vast hereditary Bruce holdings, except that Robert, recently anointed king of Scotland, now held less than he ever had as a first earl of the land. Edward of England had come to lay his heavy fist of domination with a greater vengeance and anger than ever. The Scots had a king they could admire, one behind whom they could fight for a free Scotland. But being crowned king, and becoming king, in Scotland were far from one and the same.

“You will but have me open the gates of death,” she said softly.

“Call out; have them open the gates,” he said. “We are a band of dead men riding already.”

“Guard!” she called. “It is I, Igrainia, lady of Langley. Cast down the bridge.”

There was motion on the parapets high above them, and a reply.

“My lady, where is your guard? You must be away from this place; you must not reenter here!”

“Open the gates; lower the bridge.”

“Sir Robert has said that you must not return—”

“I am lady here; open the gates.”

“You ride with madmen; you come with rebels—”

“The guard will die if you do not open the gates.”

“Oh, my lady! For your own dear life—”

“I am commanding you. Open the gates. Let down the bridge.”

For a moment Eric feared that the woman might not have the authority she should wield; despite his desperation, he had not come here ill prepared, without knowledge regarding the situation at Langley. The lady here was a woman of greater importance than the lord. Though her husband had been a Scottish peer in his own right—one who had maintained a loyalty to Edward of England—this woman, wife of the perished lord, was the daughter of an English earl, a man who had gained his title some years back through an ancestor born on the wrong side of the English royal blanket.

The sound of gears and pulleys creaked against the stillness of the day. The gates began to lower to span the moat. Here, near the sea, it was an oddly clean body of water, for the moat joined a stream that cut a blue ribbon across the green plain toward the rocky coastline where the land joined the sea. Moments later the gate was down, and entry to the castle was but yards away. He spurred his horse and entered into the courtyard.

A pathetic show of troops came mustering from the tower keep as his band of men came clattering over the bridge. Though clad in mail and the colors of their late lord, the group that greeted them did not draw weapons, but formed a semicircle around their horses, waiting. They seemed to be leaderless, strangely adrift.

“Set me down!” Igrainia said, “if you would manage this without bloodshed.”

He didn't like her tone, it was as rasping as her mere existence. But her words made sense toward his one driving goal, that of reaching Margot, his daughter, Aileen, and the others. It was all he could do to keep from throwing the woman down from his horse. She was anathema to him, hair pitch black when he sought a woman with a head of hair as golden and glowing as the sun, eyes a curious dark shade of violet when his world had come to rise and set in a gaze as soft and blue as the most beautiful spring morning.

Alive and well and walking while Margot lay dying . . .

He lifted the Englishwoman with a forced control and set her to the ground before dismounting behind her.

“Where is Sir Robert Neville?” she asked.

One of the guardsmen stepped forward.

“My lady, he is . . . he is abed.”

“Does anyone tend to him?” she asked anxiously.

Eric lost his patience, stepping around her. “I am Eric Graham, emissary of the rightful king of this holding, Robert the Bruce of Scotland. Lay down your arms, and your lives will be spared. The castle is now in the hands of the Scots who honor and acknowledge Robert Bruce as king.”

He glanced back at Peter MacDonald, who had ridden at his heels, giving a quick nod that he should now take over as the authority. Ignoring all else, he then started across the courtyard to the door to the keep, knowing exactly where the prisoners, even though near death, were held. It might have been a foolish move; a guard with a death wish of his own might have brought a battle sword piercing through his back. Behind him, he could hear the fall of arms as his men dismounted from their horses and collected the weapons. Peter MacDonald, a man who had been his right hand since the coronation of the king, began shouting the orders. Eric had complete confidence in Peter: the Scottish nationalists with whom he rode had survived thus far by covering one another's back. They had become so tightly knit in their numbers, they nearly thought alike.

He was prepared for some sign of resistance when he entered into the great hall, but there was no one there, other than an old man hunched in a chair by the fire. The old man tried to stir at the sight of Eric, but the effort seemed too great. He fell back into the chair, watching Eric as Eric watched him.

“You've the disease, man?” Eric asked, his voice seeming to bellow across the stone expanse.

“Aye. But survived, I believe,” the fellow replied, watching Eric. “You've come to take the castle, sir? You've taken hell, sir, that's what you've done. Slay me, if you will. I would serve you, if I could.”

Eric waved a hand. “Save your strength. Tell me, where are the rest of those who serve the castle?”

“Dead, many dead. Sir Robert Neville fell, and the Lady Igrainia's maid tends him in his room. The guards . . . not yet afflicted, keep to the courtyard and the armory. The Lord of Langley was laid hastily into the crypt, walled into his grave, lest his sickness travel; his wife could not bear that he should be burned, as the rest of the victims.”

“And what of the prisoners and their guards?”

“Fallen together below in the dungeons.”

“And who tends them?”

“Those who still stand on two feet among their own number. Before . . . ah, well, the lady of the castle tended to the dying, until she was sent from here that her life might be spared.”

“Rest, old man. When you've strength, you might yet be called upon to serve.”

Eric strode through the hall, finding the passage that led from the hall to the winding stone stairs that led below. Hell. . . the man had said. Hell had been planned long before any disease for those incarcerated here. The damp stairs to the bowels of the castle seemed endless; the prisons here were sure to bring about disease all on their own, fetid, molded, wretched. Those brought here to the belly of the fortification were among the dead, long hallways with crypts where past lords and ladies, knights, nobility, and those who had served them well lay in perpetual silence and rot, some in no more than misty shrouds that barely hid the remnants of finery and bone, while some were walled with stone and remembered with fine chiseled monuments. The passages of dead came before the cells with their iron bars, chains and filthy rushes. The dead of the household were far more honored here than the prisoners brought in with little hope for life.

Eric passed through the crypts and knew he neared the cells again as he heard the sound of moaning. Ducking beneath an archway he came to a large, thick wooden door with a huge bolt; the bolt was not slid into place and the great door gaped. Pushing through, he saw the cells, and those who lay within them.

There were no soft beds or pallets here. The stench was so overwhelming that he wavered as he stood, but for no more than a matter of seconds. On either side of the hall, the sick and dying lay like piles of cast-off clothing. He entered to the right, where he had been kept with Margot and his daughter. He rolled a body over, saw where the boils on the man had swollen and burst. He did not recognize the dead man, who had surely been one of his own. He looked at a death more heinous than any horrible torture devised by his enemies.

The dead should have been taken away, their sad remains burned to keep the pestilence from spreading. Here . . .

“Margot!” he whispered his wife's name, because the scene would allow for no more than a whisper, and he moved through the bodies around him on the rushes. He could not find Margot, but even in his desperation, as he searched, a burst of fury and fear gave him a force of energy that was near madness; he made some sense of the room, finding those who breathed, with signs of life, and lifted and carried them, separating the living from the dead.

“She is not here.”

He started at the sound of the woman's voice.

Igrainia of Langley stood at the entrance to the cell, watching him, holding a large ewer.

“Where is she?”

“Several of the women were brought to the solar above,” she told him. As if she had known what he had been about, she approached those who still showed signs of life. She seemed heedless of the scent of rot and the horror that surrounded her. Despite her elegant apparel, she came down to the rushes among the living, her touch careful as she lifted heads to bring water to parched lips.

He strode to her, catching a handful of her hair to draw her face to his, his intent at the moment not cruel but born of greater desperation. “Where is the solar?”

“Above. Take the stairs from the great hall, to the tower. There is sun there. Father MacKinley believes the sun may have the power of healing.”

He still had a handful of ebony hair in his hands. His fingers tightened.

“Come with me.”

“If you care nothing for these, your friends—”

“They are my life's blood. But my men will be along. They will see that the dead are burned, and that the others are brought from this deadly morass as well.”

Even as he spoke, he heard footsteps along the stone flooring that led to the cells. James of Menteith and Jarrett Miller had come. The Lady of Langley stood gracefully, yet gritted her teeth. “My hair, sir. I will accompany you with greater facility if you will be so good as to release me.”

He did so, unaware that he had maintained his death grip upon the black tresses.

She handed the ewer to James and pointed out where she had brought water, and what survivors remained. She stepped carefully around the prone Scots upon the floor and left the bars, her footsteps silent upon the stone where the men's heavier tread had created a clatter. Eric nodded to James, who inclined his head in return, then followed after the Lady of Langley.

Once returned to the hall, he found that they traveled up a staircase amazing in its breadth for such a fortified castle. Though this stronghold had been built to repel an enemy, some resident had taken pains to turn the place into more of a manor. The stairway he followed was not stone, but intricately carved wood. It led to a second landing with a long hallway and doors where the lady did not pause, but continued on to a smaller staircase. There, arrow slits lined the stone and she passed them all, coming to a large room filled with daylight. Makeshift beds littered the space, and light from a break in the ceiling seemed to cast a ray of hope over those who lay there. A priest moved among the beds, a young slender man in the black garment of his calling. He seemed surprised to see his lady at the doorway, and called to her with a frown. “Igrainia, you were to be away from all this!” he chastised.