He started toward his horse.
Only then did she realize her own situation, and that he was mounting to ride once again, after her.
She spurred her horse, praying that she knew this region better than he, that her mare was a fresher mount, ready to take her to greater bursts of speed . . .
For a far longer period of time.
She prayed . . .
There had been a time, not so long ago, that she had wanted to die. When the death and despair had seemed so great that she would willingly have taken Afton’s hand, and entered the afterlife with him. That moment when she realized that she had lost him, that he had breathed his last, that his laughter would never sound again.
And yet now . . .
She did not want to depart this life at the hands of a furious barbarian, bent on some form of revenge. She thought of how Edward I had killed Wallace, of the horrors that had taken place, of the English furor at the crowning of Robert Bruce.
And she rode as she had never done before, flat against her mare’s neck, heels jamming the beast’s haunches, whispers begging her to ever greater speed. The rebel’s horse had to be flagging; their animals had been foaming when they first met with the men of Langley. If she could just evade him for a distance . . .
She galloped over the hill, through the thick grasses of the lea to the north. The forest beckoned beyond the hill, a forest she knew well, with twisting trails and sheltering oaks, a place in which to disappear. She could see the trees, the great branches waving high in the sky, the darkness of the trails beneath the canopy of leaves. She could smell the very richness of the earth and hear the leaves, as she could hear the thunder of her horse’s hooves, the desperate, ragged catch of her own breath, the pulse of her heartbeat, echoed with each thunder of a hoof upon the earth. There . . . just a moment away . . .
She was never aware that his horse’s hoofbeats thundered along with those of her mare; the first she knew of him was the hook of his arm, sweeping her from her horse in a deadly gamble. She was whisked from the mare and left to watch as the horse made the shelter of the trees. And for a moment, she looked on, in amazement, as she dangled from the great warhorse, a prisoner taken by a madman.
She began to twist and struggle, and bite—a sound enough attack so that he swore, and dropped her. His horse was huge; she fell a distance to the earth, stunned, then gathered her senses quickly and began to run. She headed for the dark trail, desperately, running with the speed of a hunted doe.
Yet again, she was swept off her feet, this time, lifted up, and thrown down, and the next thing she knew, he was on top of her, smelling of the earth and the blood of battle. She screamed, fought, kicked, yet found her hands vised above her head, and the barbarian straddled atop her, staring at her with a cold, wicked fury that allowed no mercy.
“You are the lady of Langley,” he said.
“Igrainia,” she replied.
“I don’t give a damn about your name,” he told her. “But you will come with me, and you will demand that the gates be opened.”
She shook her head, “I cannot—”
She broke off as he raised a hand to strike her. The blow did not fall.
“You will,” he said simply. “Or I will break you, bone by bone, until you do so.”
“There is plague there, you idiot!”
“My wife is there, and my daughter,” he told her.
“They are all dead or dying within the castle!”
“So you run in fear!” he said contemptuously.
“No! No,” she raged, struggling to free herself again. Afraid? Of the plague? She was afraid only of life without Afton now.
Not quite true, she realized. She was afraid of this man who would carry out his every threat, and break her. Bone by bone. She had never seen anyone so coldly determined.
“I am not afraid of the plague for myself!” she managed to snap out with an amazing tone of contempt.
“Good. We will go back, my fine lady, and you will dirty your hands with caring for those who are ill. You will save my wife, if she is stricken, or so help me, you will forfeit your own life.”
Dirty her hands? He thought she was afraid to dirty her hands after the days and nights she had been through?
Her temper rose like a battle flag, and she spat at him. “Kill me then, you stupid, savage fool! I have been in that castle. Death does not scare me. I don’t care anymore. Can you comprehend that? Are such words in your vocabulary?”
She gasped as he stood, wrenching her to her feet.
“If my wife or my daughter should die because of the English king’s cruelty against the innocent, my lady, you are the one who will pay.”
“My husband is dead because of the sickness brought in by your people!” she cried, trying to wrench her arm free. She could not. She looked at the hand vised around her arm. Huge, long-fingered, covered in mud and earth and . . .
Blood.
His grip seemed stronger than steel. Not to be broken. She stood still, determined not to tremble or falter. His face was as muddied and filthy as his hand and tangled blond hair. Only those sky blue eyes peered at her uncovered by the remnants of battle, brilliant and hard.
He either hadn’t heard her, or he didn’t give a damn. His command of language seemed to be excellent, so she assumed it was the latter.
“Hear me again. If my wife dies, my lady, you will be forfeit to the mercy of the Scottish king’s men.”
“Mercy? There is no mercy to be had there.”
“At this point? Perhaps you are quite right. Therefore, you had best save my wife.”
“I, sir, have no difficulty doing anything in my power to save the stricken, though I can assure you—their lives are in God’s hands, and no others. I was forced to leave Langley. I did not go of my own volition.”
He arched a brow skeptically. “You were willing to serve the plague-stricken and dying?”
“Aye, I would have stayed there willingly. I had no reason to leave.”
“You are the lady of Langley.”
“Indeed.”
He didn’t seem to care why she would have stayed.
“Then, as you say, it will be no hardship for you to return.”
“Where I go, or what is done to me, does not matter in the least.”
“You will save my wife, and my child.”
She raised her chin.
“As I have told you, and surely you must understand, their lives are in God’s hands. What, then, if I cannot save them?”
“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 bi
tterly.
“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.
CHAPTER 2
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.”
Knight Triumphant Page 2
