Читать книгу Knight Triumphant - Heather Graham - Страница 11

CHAPTER 5

They had drawn up before the walls of Perth. The Earl of Pembroke had ridden hard into Scotland at the bidding of the English king, his army of six thousand men drawn from the northern counties of England and the lowlands of Scotland.

Robert Bruce, knowing of Pembroke’s advance and his own dire circumstances and lack of men, had gathered forces for the country north of the Forth and Clyde. He had managed to raise an army of about four thousand, five hundred men. Having received word that Pembroke was at Perth, they had ridden there hard, ready to do battle. But he hadn’t the necessary siege engines to batter down walls or gates, nor could he afford the cost in human life it would take to send a relentless stream of men to scale the walls. Bruce and his advisers had argued their tactics, many doubtful of the honor of the Earl of Pembroke, yet many equally convinced that he was a man who would not give his word lightly. In the end, Robert Bruce insisted that he knew the Earl of Pembroke, and many silently agreed. He should know many of King Edward’s men, since there had been a time when he had given his allegiance to the English king.

“I know Pembroke!” He stated firmly in the copse where they had come to talk. “And there is also the matter that we have little choice. I will challenge him, in the chivalric code, and hear what he has to say.”

Old Angus spat into the grass. “It doesn’t matter what he says.”

Eric shrugged when Robert Bruce stared his way. “It’s true, we haven’t the means to lay siege to the castle. That is the only real and substantial fact we have.”

So Bruce himself rode to the gates, and issued his challenge. And he was so convinced that the Earl of Pembroke would honor his promise to bring his men forth and do battle in the morning, that no guards were officially ordered to watch the camp that night.

And so, the English came in.

Many of the men had been out, searching for supplies. Many had been sleeping.

The English fell upon them in the summer dusk.

Slaughter ensued.

Eric was fighting near the king when he slew the horse of the Earl of Pembroke, the man who had broken his promise, but not even Bruce’s wrath allowed him to break the sudden crowd of men around the earl. Bruce’s horse was seized next, but Christopher Seton broke through, and sent Philip Mowbray, who had gotten hold of Bruce’s horse, reeling to the ground. Eric pushed through then, forming the guard around Robert Bruce that allowed them to escape the English troops and bring their king to safety.

Robert Bruce survived but his army was shattered. Many of his finest followers were hunted down and later found at the castles where they had fled. They met King Edward’s fury, and paid with their lives.

The handful of men who survived and still gave their loyalty to Robert Bruce knew, as he did that it wasn’t time to fight, but rather to retreat, to set out into the countryside, and over the Irish Sea, to gather more followers to form a new army.

They had to build. The forces they gathered had to be passionate, about the cause of Scottish nationalism, and they had to create a body of men that was large and strong, if they were to come against the English again.

Everyone knew that there were no rules of chivalry in this war.

No mercy to be had.

And so Eric had gone to the isles—stopping for his wife and child, for riders had warned him as he made his way cross country that the English had seized Bruce’s wife and women kin, after Bruce had been sure that they were safely in the care of his brother, Nigel.

Nigel, having heard that the Earl of Pembroke had arrived at Aberdeen, sent the women ahead once they had reached Kildrummy Castle.

The women, in the company of the Earl of Atholl, were captured at the sanctuary of St. Duthac at Tain.

Sanctuary had availed them little.

They had been seized and sent straight to King Edward, who had come to the monastery of Lanercost.

Kildrummy Castle had not shielded Nigel.

Nigel, a handsome young man, quick to laugh, as quick to find courage and fight, had paid the price for supporting his brother. A brutal price. And the women . . .

So Eric had determined to keep his own wife and child and the kin of his men with him. They had set forth upon the sea to find men in the rugged north and among the western isles, among them their own kin, largely Norse, and the Irish, many with a hatred for Edward as deep as that which stirred in the heart of the most maligned and bitter Scotsman.

For a moment, he felt the sea breeze, fresh and cool.

And he heard her voice, ever gentle, ever compassionate.

“It’s a man, we must stop. A man, a human being . . . he will drown . . .”

“Aye, and maybe an agent of the English, better off dead!” Peter had warned.

“And perhaps a loyal follower of King Robert Bruce, in such dire condition since he chose to serve his king,” Margot had said.

And so they had taken in the man . . .

And they had taken in death.

And the English, coming upon them when they were weakened and desperate, had seized the women, and knowing he hadn’t the power to beat the forces bringing them to their imprisonment, he had allowed his own capture . . .

Maneuvered his escape, and come back. Too late. He came back to sickness, to death.

Faces seemed to whirl in a fog before him. Drawn, ashen, marred by plague, gray, purple, blistered, skeletal . . . faces, white beneath a flow of blood, faces, eyes . . . eyes of death, haunted, the gray of agony, the white of death, the red of all the blood that had spilled . . .

He woke with a start.

And lay there, feeling numb. His wife, and his daughter were gone. Blood, horror, battle, sickness, death, gone.

There was only the numbness . . .

He rose, restless in the night.

Aye, numbness, he felt numbness. But when he forced himself to move, he realized that there was more.

He had regained his strength.

And his fury to fight.

It was time to ride.

Before the dawn broke, they were prepared to strike out on their journey again.

They could move faster now. They were mounted.

Igrainia found little fault with the shaggy horse Father Padraic had found for her to ride. Her name was Skye, and she had a sweet disposition, even if she had a slow lope.

Skye wasn’t young, but good horses were hard to come by in the area. One good way to kill a knight was to kill the mount beneath him, and slay him when he crashed to the ground with the weight of his mail and plate. Well trained warhorses were extremely expensive, but when armies vied over a territory, few were sold because war gave men an excuse to steal, and in the Borders, horses had been seized by men bowing down before both kings.

Father Padraic was there to wish them Godspeed, as all the pilgrims who found shelter in his village rose to ride at the same time. Fresh baked loaves of bread were given out, along with what smoked and cured meat could be spared.

Father Padraic had said Mass at the first hint of the pink dawn, and all that was left for them to do was to receive his final blessing, and move on.

As Igrainia mounted her horse, Rowenna and Gregory sidled near her. Rowenna offered her a cup of cool water and what should have been bread wrapped in linen.

It wasn’t bread.

She had been given a dagger.

She accepted the gift smoothly and stared down at the girl.

“I wish that you were among us, you and Gregory,” she told her.

Rowenna offered her a smile. She touched the ugly scar that marred what had been a pretty face.

“I will never go to London,” she said softly. “This was the gift of an English earl.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“We all bear scars in life. Mine is not so hard. I survive here. I have Father Padraic and a dear young friend. I have lost husband, father, mother, brother and most of my other kin. I have survived to tell the tales to those who come behind us. Scotland is my home.”

“There is little difference in living in the lowlands of Scotland, and in England,” Igrainia told her.

“One day, there will be.”

Gregory stood behind Rowenna, still appearing troubled.

Igrainia knew that he must read lips. “It will be all right,” she told him.

“He’s very worried. He wishes he could tell you more. And he says that you are one of us, though I have tried to explain that you are going to London to be married. But then, you’re not who you say you are, so, perhaps that is not true either.”

“I am going to London,” Igrainia said. “Whatever comes from there, none of us really knows right now. I will pray for you both, for your lives, for your happiness, but I hope that once I have ridden away, I never return.”

Rowenna said, “We will pray for you as well.”

Father Padraic had lifted a hand for silence; they all bowed their heads as he offered them God’s blessing for their journey.

The four young men were in the lead. They were on better horses than the others; horses they had procured themselves, before coming here.

Ahead of Igrainia, John and Merry were riding beside Anne and Joseph. The rest of Anne’s family was lining up behind them.

Igrainia offered a final wave to Rowenna and Gregory.

Gregory was mouthing words and making hand signs to Rowenna. Rowenna looked after Igrainia, a strange look in her eyes.

“What is it?”

Rowenna shook her head. “He believes that you have a stronger will and spirit than you know yourself. He knows that you will fare well, but still, he will beg God to protect you until we meet again.”

“Bless you, Gregory!” Igrainia said, touched by their fervent desire to be her spiritual protectors. “God be with you both!”

She nudged her shaggy horse, and the animal jounced into a jarring trot. As the others moved ahead, the trot became a bearable lope.

They left the village behind.

England lay ahead. Death and darkness lay behind.

She did not look back.

He spoke from the old stone steps leading from the courtyard of Langley to the entrance to the great hall.

Peter had seen that the people had been assembled, from the lowliest of the kitchen help to the knights and armed soldiers who had once ruled the battlements of the castle. He had his own band of men, those who had returned with him, and those who had survived the disease within the castle, not quite fifty in all, but many of the women and children had lived as well. If they couldn’t wield swords with strength and expertise, they could ferret out any plot to seize the castle back from the nationalists, and they could see to it that none escaped to seek help from the troops under the various men now in the service of King Edward. He felt with a certain assurance, as well, that the men to whom he had shown mercy, who had now sworn their loyalty to the King of the Scots, would abide by their oaths—they knew that their fates would not include simple or painless deaths if they broke the solemn vows they had given.

Since death had taken so many, there were no more than a hundred and fifty people in the courtyard, but all of them, those who were his own, and those who had been loyal to a different lord, watched him worriedly.

“You have come to know me in the past few days, and know that I am a man of my word. It is a time to rebuild here, and I have no desire for any further bloodshed or death. We have all lost far too many people as it is. Peter MacDonald, who led you through sickness and brought you through, will continue to lead you while I am away. His every command will be like the voice of God. Those who heed him will do well, and find a way from the pain and death that have robbed us all of those we loved. You have all found mercy at our hands during a time when hatreds run so deep, even little children have met the sword of the conquerors. A castle such as Langley cannot fall, unless it falls from within. And I will tell you a story that gives you fair warning. At Kildrummy, Nigel, brother of the king, Robert Bruce of Scotland, defended his fortification from constant and repeated attacks by the English. He and his men defended the castle so well that the English were nearly ready to give up. But there was a traitor within the castle walls. A blacksmith, a man named Osborne. He was bribed by a promise of great riches if he set a fire, and allowed the castle walls to fall. And so, he started a fire in the storehouse, and the fire spread, and indeed, the people within were sent to the walls, and the castle gates fell to the blaze as well, and the English were able to seize the fortification. For any thinking that they might do such a thing and reap the rewards of English gold, the story did not end there. The castle was taken. Nigel Bruce was executed. But Osborne did not prosper. The English kept their promise and gave him riches in gold. They melted it—and poured it down his throat. There is no way that any English lord, knight or warrior will believe that you have not fallen to the enemy. There is no real reward for betrayal—except death. We have kept every promise to you. This is Scotland, and you are the people of Scotland. We will have a long hard fight, but Robert Bruce is king, and will rule in the end, and what he will rule is a sovereign country. Your loyalty is not required. It is demanded. In return, we vow to protect you, at the cost of our own lives.”

Silence greeted his words. He nodded toward Peter, who lifted a hand, and his horse was brought forward. The four men who would ride with him were mounted already, and awaited him at the gate and drawbridge.

As his horse came forward, he walked through the crowd that parted for him. As he mounted, he was surprised to hear a cheer arise from the crowd.

“Godspeed your journey!”

“Bless you for your mercy, Sir Eric!”

The cries arose, blended, and continued.

He wondered if he was being mocked.

He looked at the faces in the sea of people surrounding him as he moved his horse through them. And there was hope in their eyes, not mockery.

The inner gate opened.

The drawbridge fell.

And he rode out, followed by his men.

As it happened, the four young men decided that, at the least, they would start out riding with the others.

At first, Igrainia was glad. They were a strong foursome.

Then she feared that they might offer the danger that Gregory had foretold.

But each of them seemed so earnest and decent.

Igrainia found herself riding in the lead with one of them, Thayer Miller. And as they spoke, her fears abated.

He told her that his mother was English, his father was dead. They’d worked a small piece of land through Lord Denning, who had chosen to follow Robert Bruce. Not long ago, when the Bruce had gathered men to go against Edward’s forces, there had been a slaughter that had become known as Methven, and Lord Denning had been killed. Soon after, English troops had come to the late lord’s holdings. Most of the people had escaped to the woods, but the English had slaughtered the pigs and livestock, trampled the fields, and set fire to all the buildings. There had been nothing left to eat, and the promises Lord Denning had made, to teach his promising young tenants the ways of the warrior, were as dead as he and the land that had once been the livelihood for so many. Thayer’s mother, surviving with his younger siblings in the poor homestead of an aunt, had given him letters of introduction.

“But, the English destroyed your home and everything you knew,” Igrainia said. “One would think you’d rise against them.”

He looked at her with a rueful smile. “You must understand this. I don’t know if Robert Bruce has a right to be king; he followed Edward long enough himself, when it suited his purpose. There were many in the lowlands who supported John Comyn, and though Bruce may have done penance, it seems, if the news that covers the countryside is true, that he murdered Comyn. He struck a blow in the sanctity of a church. Perhaps God is against Bruce for such an act. But what I have heard, thought, and believed, is not really what guides my desire now to reach England. I believe that this country, especially the lowlands, will be torn by war for years to come. If I were to try to remain, I could spend my every waking moment working another’s man land, growing crops, raising livestock, and waking again one morning to find that one army or another is coming, and will again slaughter every living thing, raze the buildings, and burn the houses. When I get to England, I will find the right noble to serve, and I will prove myself, as will my friends. Aye, there’s much more I need in the way of training, but I have the will to learn. When I’ve made my place, I will be loyal until the last breath has left my body, and then I will send for my mother, my sisters and brothers, and see that they have a life in which they do not spend their days hiding in the forest, desperately searching for anything that resembles food, just to survive.”

“Perhaps, when we reach London, I can help you,” Igrainia said, touched by his determination to help his family. “We have some letters of introductions, and some friends there,” she added quickly. But he was already watching her with a skeptical smile, and when she furrowed her brow in a frown at the look he gave her, he apologized quickly.

“I’m sorry. I don’t believe that you’re a poor farm lass, a refugee from the wars,” he said.

“Believe me, I am a refugee,” she said. “And I am as desperate as any man or woman in the lowlands of Scotland to reach London.”

She saw in his face that he had decided not to pry.

“If it’s only marriage you’re seeking, you need go no further than this party,” he told her.

She frowned again.

“Haven’t you seen?”

“I’m sorry, seen what?”

“The younger man with the old folks. Gannet, the brother. He has watched you constantly. Like a great roast, ready to be devoured.”

His words startled Igrainia. She looked back. Far back. Gannet was riding with one of Thayer’s friends, the one he had called Reed, she thought, at the far rear of the company. John and Merry rode together, right behind her—just like proper guardians. Behind them, Thayer’s two other companions rode with the rest of Anne and Joseph’s party. They all seemed to be in conversation.

“I have to get to London,” she told Thayer. “Our new friends certainly seem to be fine enough people, but . . . I have to get to London.”

“And I don’t think you’re intended for such a man.”

“At this moment . . .”

“At this moment?” Thayer queried.

She shook her head. “I think I’d like time alone more than anything.”

Thayer studied her. “Ah. Well, there is more to your story than you are telling. I think I know the truth. There was a young man . . . probably a knight. And he rode forth to do battle—for one side or the other—and he was killed. And with his death . . . your future has changed. And you’re not happy. I’m so sorry. It was someone you loved.”

She arched a brow to him. “All right. There was someone. And it’s true. He died. And so, everything is changed.”

As she spoke, Igrainia became aware of a disturbance behind them. John and Merry had reined in and were looking back timorously. Thayer’s two companions had already started riding back on the rough trail they had followed, where the others could be heard but not seen because of a twist in the path and the high trees that hedged the road, nearly growing upon it.

“What’s going on?” Igrainia called to Merry.

“I don’t know—there was a sudden cry from the rear,” John said.

“Someone is in trouble!” Thayer cried out, and he kneed his horse, sending the animal into a swift lope back in the direction from which they had come.

Igrainia started to follow him, but John reached out and caught her horse’s bridle. “No, lass, there’s something amiss!”

“Has someone ridden up behind us?” she asked fearfully.

“No!” Merry said.

The air was rent by a horrible scream. The others had all moved back, and because of the twist in the trail, could still see nothing.

“John, I must see what has happened. Someone has been hurt!” Igrainia insisted.

She broke free from his hold, and her little horse made amazing speed as she raced back along the way, reining in confusion as she saw that a young man appeared to be the one in danger; he lay on the ground on the path. Anne was down beside him with her sister Lizzie while Joseph and the others hovered at his side. The others had reached his side as well, and were on their knees in the trail, questioning Anne. Thayer had dismounted from his horse.

Igrainia lost no time as well, dismounting from Skye, but even as she did so, she heard another sudden cry. Another of the young men fell to his side, grasping his stomach.

“What is it? Have they been poisoned in some manner?” Igrainia cried out. “Let me closer; perhaps I can help.”

“My God, what is happening to them?” Thayer demanded, now on his knees, reaching for his friend.

“No great mystery!” Anne said with surprising cheer.

“Aye, no mystery!” a voice said from behind Igrainia. “They’ve been stabbed.”

Igrainia swung around and saw that Gannet stood behind her smiling. She whirled back in time to see Anne slip a knife from the fold of her skirt and strike with alarming speed and determination, shoving the blade of the weapon into Thayer’s midsection.

Joseph stepped closer, a huge rock in his hand. As one of the younger men began to attack, the rock was thudded down hard upon his head.

“No!” Igrainia shrieked. “No!”

He fell, joining his fallen companions on the dirt road.

Igrainia saw then that a pool of blood had formed beneath the fallen form, and that it stretched, like a strange band of brotherhood, to Thayer, who had crumpled so close behind him. She marveled at the vicious cunning that had allowed two women to bring down three healthy young males, and the horror of the situation wrapped around her at the same time.

Gannet, she knew, was at her rear.

As much as she had once thought that she cared little for her own life, she knew that she wanted to escape these people and live. She felt a fury burn through her, and a longing for vengeance against these people who were surely planning on murdering her, John, and Merry next.

She couldn’t go to the fallen young men; there would be no helping them now. These people outnumbered her and they meant for the men to die. All she could do was preserve her own life.

She felt Gannet about to reach for her; she didn’t need to turn. Each member of their party had positioned themselves perfectly to bring this about.

She didn’t turn and she didn’t hesitate. With a sudden spurt of speed she raced the few steps to her horse and leaped into the saddle.

Gannet was instantly behind her, reaching for the bridle. She freed her foot from the stirrup and kicked him with all her might, aiming high for his face. He released the bridle, crying out and grabbing for his eye. She kneed Skye and the little horse reared a foot off the ground, found her footing, and started out.

Igrainia saw John and Merry in the path before her. “Run!” she shouted. “Run your horses, run now!”

John heard the urgency in her voice; he said something to Merry and the two moved their horses.

They were not mounts bred for speed.

But neither was Skye, though she gave good effort.

But as Igrainia rode, she heard the horse coming from behind her. She felt the thunder of hooves, and the menace that nearly hovered over her.

A moment later, she risked a glance, and saw that Gannet was at her side.

“Stop!” he shouted. “We intend you no harm. You’ll come with us; we’ll make you one of us. Stop, and you’ll not need a blacksmith’s son; we’ll make you far richer. I’ll make you my wife.”

Her glance of horror must have assured him that she would accept no such fate.

She flattened herself against Skye, trying to allow the little horse a greater speed.

But Gannet captured the horse’s bridle, and as they dangerously twisted and turned on the path, the mare was forced to slow her gait, and Gannet hurled his own form from his horse to hers, knocking them both to the ground.

They struggled in the dirt, and she remembered that the knife Rowenna had given her was lodged against her shoe.

She kicked, scratched and struggled until she had freed herself from his weight, then reached beneath the skirt for her knife. She sprang to her feet as Gannet did. He was ready to leap upon her again, to bring her down, when he saw the weapon gleaming in her hand.

“A frisky one, eh? And you think you’re going to stab me?”

He circled around her, apparently amused.

She knew that in minutes, his companions would be behind them. She had to escape him now, before the rest of his murderous crew could reach them.

She lunged at him, bringing forth a startled cry as her knife ripped through his shoulder.

He grasped at the wound, stared at the blood that covered his hand, then looked at her anew, fury in his eyes.

“Now . . . now, you’ll suffer!” he promised her.

As he stared at her and she stood, poised and ready to strike and fly, she became aware of the sound of hoofbeats on the road behind them. His companions were coming fast now. Any second they would be upon them.

She lunged again.

This time, she caught the man in his midsection. But his force against her was great, and they both went crashing back to the ground.

He managed to keep his weight heavy on her, and though she brought her knife up again, he caught her wrist with both hands, and exerted such pressure against her to release the knife that she screamed in pain.

Yet held on.

She twisted, bringing up a knee against his groin. He rolled to his side, bellowing in pain but still maintaining his deadly grasp upon her wrist. She lashed out with her feet, but he rolled again, leaning half his now bloodied form against her.

She clawed at his wrists with her free hand, bringing her nails desperately into his flesh. He swore, cursing at her with a fury.

The hoofbeats came near . . .

Stopped.

She could see nothing, but she knew that at any second, he would have help with his companions at his side, aiding him.

She couldn’t see. There was now too much road mud and dust in her eyes, and she could only stay locked with Gannet, fighting to the end.

Then, arms wrapped around her.

Gannet was dragged away from her.

And she was dragged up.

“No!” she let out in a scream of rage and fury and desolation. She tried to claw at the hands holding her.

Her fingers did nothing. She was clawing against heavy leather riding gloves.

She brought her hand to her face, clearing her hair from her eyes, wiping away the dirt and tears that had so blinded her.

Gannet was screaming, she realized suddenly. And when she looked before her, she saw that a man in mail and a hood had taken the man and hurled him across the road with such strength that he had landed hard against the trees.

She heard the snapping of bones.

And then Gannet was silent.

The mail-clad warrior who had wrested Gannet from her side then turned to her.

“You!” she gasped.

The man behind her released her.

She had been fighting against his hold with such energy that her own strength and determination brought her surging forward.

She would have fallen.

But she was caught against cold, hard, steel mesh.

And she was staring into eyes that were even colder, and harder.