Knight Triumphant Read online

  He drew off his riding gloves and accepted a goblet of ale and drank it down thirstily. Garth was right, it was excellent ale.

  “The ale is fine, and these are exceptional goblets,” he told Garth.

  Garth shrugged with a slightly secretive smile. “They should be, Sir Eric. They were gifts from none other than King Edward himself when the lady married the lord.”

  Eric stared at Garth for a moment, his brow arched. Then he burst into laughter. So he was lord over King Edward’s own gift of goblets. It struck him as very amusing.

  “I believe, if we’ve others, I may make a gift of them to someone else. Another king. Robert Bruce, will find them fine vessels from which to drink. Then again, he may find that he needs to melt them down for simple silver.”

  “They are my goblets. You’ve no right to give them away.”

  Igrainia and the others had reached the hall. He turned slowly, eyeing the lady up and down once again, and wondering what it was about her that so inspired him to anger.

  “My lady, have you forgotten how eager you are to reach the dungeon?”

  Allan made an involuntary gesture, but neither he nor Peter would question Eric’s authority in front of others. It was Father MacKinley who spoke.

  “Sir, you cannot mean to put the lady in the dungeon.”

  “It was good enough for our people,” he said softly, watching Igrainia.

  Her thick black lashes never fell over her violet eyes. She met his gaze coolly. “Prisoners are meant for the dungeons, aren’t they?”

  “But, in all mercy—” Father MacKinley began

  “You are right, Father,” Eric said, ready to give a reprieve since he had not intended to incarcerate her in the foul place.

  But he never continued.

  Igrainia argued against herself.

  “I look forward to the dungeon,” she said. And she walked past him, heading for the stairway down. No one moved, and she paused. “Am I supposed to lock myself in?”

  “Igrainia, you’ve a chamber above—” Father MacKinley tried to protest again.

  “I had a chamber above,” she said, and stared at Eric. “And now I prefer the dungeons.”

  Allan looked at Eric. He shrugged. “By all means, if the lady prefers the dungeons, escort her if you will.”

  Igrainia turned serenely and continued on her way. Allan looked helpless for a moment, then followed her.

  Father MacKinley strode angrily toward Eric. “You, Sir, are blinded by bitterness. Igrainia was no part of the forces who imprisoned your family and your men and their families. And she worked diligently to save lives. It was through the ferocity of the illness that so many were lost, and not through any form of negligence or malice on her part.”

  Eric leaned against the table, shaking his head. “You heard her, Father. She prefers the dungeons.”

  That silenced MacKinley for the moment. As the priest looked about for another argument, Eric spoke to Garth. “Perhaps the master chamber is haunted with too many memories of death for the lady. I feel that way myself.”

  “Lord Afton’s kinsman, Sir Robert Neville, had a very fine room across the hall.”

  “That will suit my purposes while I’m here,” Eric said. “I am exhausted, and we’ll have a long day tomorrow. Garth, see that supper is brought to me there, please. Allan, Peter, we’ll meet here, early, and discuss what we do and where we go from here.”

  He left the great hall, heading upstairs. His head was throbbing. He was exhausted, and still annoyed beyond all measure.

  He didn’t like the lady being in the dungeon, and he didn’t like the way his own men had looked at him.

  She was forcing his hand. And he didn’t like that at all.

  Before the night was anywhere near over, Igrainia was ruing her pride and her temper.

  There were no cobwebs here; indeed, the place was amazingly clean. The sick had gotten well, or they had died, and Eric’s men had done an excellent job of clearing and cleaning the cells. There were fresh rushes on the floor, and a clean pallet made a decent enough bed, but she was alone. The crypts seemed far too close, and within the vaults rested her husband, and the lady Margot, and the child, and when the water of the moat lapped against the stones outside and the wind blew in the night and the darkness, she could almost swear that ghosts cried out in the darkness.

  And then a rat went racing through the cell.

  Father MacKinley brought her supper, and argued that if she were just to say the word, she would be moved.

  “I am a prisoner here now. I might as well look at the bars, so that I may remember my position.”

  “You are guilty of the sin of pride.”

  “I’m probably guilty of many sins,” she said with a sigh. Then she smiled. “You are wasting your breath tonight. I will ask him for nothing. But I thank you for being with me. And I thank you sincerely for the supper. I was very hungry.”

  MacKinley nodded distractedly. “Igrainia, if you are a prisoner, we are all prisoners, and in truth, people are doing very well. The sickness created a strange bond. They were the outlaws, then the conquerors. It was our castle, now it is theirs, but the difference cannot be so much as noted by those farmers and workers who have buried their dead, and gone back to their lives. Maids sing in the kitchen, most of the men who would have served Afton have readily accepted that a new lord has given the command that life is to be as usual, and everyone is to work to survive. They are aware that he gave the orders that spared many lives. There are many people who come and go with no thought to the fact that the castle has been seized. You do not need to be in here!”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Igrainia—”

  “What have you heard of Robert Neville, Father?” She asked. “He has survived, hasn’t he? He must have done so, because he was well enough to escape. He wasn’t captured, was he?”

  Father MacKinley sat stiffly for a moment. He let out a long breath. “No, Igrainia. Word has it that he reached the Earl of Pembroke’s camp. And that, of course, he is in a fury to come back here. But Pembroke has his hands full. There will be no change here for some time. If you think you can sit in this prison until the English come and rescue you . . . it will be a long wait.”

  “I don’t know what I’m thinking, Father,” she said.

  “I must go,” he said. “I don’t want them to think that we’re plotting.”

  “We have plotted!” she said.

  “Before,” he murmured. “I wanted you away from here. I feared for you. And there might have been reprisals . . . but there were none. Igrainia, life is going on. War cuts great scars across life, but then it goes on again. Always. Even here. There was a child born today. Catherine, the baker’s daughter, and her husband, Thomas, the smith, have had a baby. Neither contracted the sickness, though Catherine’s mother died. The girl delivered a hardy, healthy, baby boy this afternoon. There is life again in the castle. I have assured them I will come to their cottage to bless the child tonight.”

  Igrainia wasn’t sure why she felt a sudden sense of being cold again, of being on the outside of something very strange. “You must go then.”

  He nodded.

  “And you must tell them how delighted I am for them.”

  “Of course.”

  He stood, hesitating. “I cannot leave you here. Alone.”

  “You have responsibilities, Father. All the souls in the castle and about. I am fine here alone.”

  “Please, Igrainia . . .” He broke off suddenly, staring at her. When he spoke, his tone was deep and passionate—he was God’s soldier, ready to fight again. “He did not harm you . . . in any way? You’re not afraid of him—in any way?”

  “Did he molest me, Father? No. I am as hideous as an old crone to him, I assure you.”

  “Then . . . ”

  “Goodnight, Father MacKinley,” she said very softly.

  “Igrainia—you’re behaving like a . . . a . . .”

  “A prisoner.”

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nbsp; He threw up his hands and was gone.

  And the night wore on, and on, and on.

  In the morning, when she heard footsteps coming through the crypts, she jumped to her feet and came to the bars quickly.

  “Father MacKinley?”

  “No, my lady, it is I, Eric.”

  She drew back from the bars. She had just risen. She was certain that twigs from the rushes were in her hair, that she was tousled beyond belief, and looking far more desperate than she cared to be seen.

  “What is it that you want?” she asked sharply.

  He came into view. He appeared golden, fresh, shaven, smelling delightfully of clean soap, his appearance very fine. His shirt was brilliantly clean, and he was kilted into a long woolen of his family tartan. She hadn’t realized before that the contours of his face were strongly positioned but very fine. And his eyes, by day, could be a color that was almost as rich as cobalt.

  “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 a
fternoon. 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.