Читать книгу Knight Triumphant - Heather Graham - Страница 9

CHAPTER 3

He could hear his wife’s voice.

Her tone crystalline and soft, a whisper that came to him, brushing his ear. She moved about him, telling him that he must drink, sip cool water. He seemed to live the days when the sea breezes were strong against him and the world was shaded in the blue of the sky and the kiss of the cool air. Then there was darkness. He would waken, and think again that she was near, and that he could feel the silken brush of her hair against his flesh.

There were times when he knew that his wife was dead. No woman, no witch, no healer, could have brought her back, just as his babe was gone. His child, who had been everything tender and sweet in a world of steel and blood. She had been a shimmering ray of innocence, so small. She came to him in his dreams, fingers curled in those of her mother, and they walked to him together, beckoning, and he would follow. He heard his daughter’s melodic laughter, and the music of Margot’s voice as she so gently chastised and taught. There had been such wonder in holding Aileen when she came into the world, his hands so big and calloused against the purity of her flesh. He seemed to live again the time when he shook, holding her, and heard Margot’s voice. “You would have liked a son.”

“One day, not now; she is beautiful beyond measure, she is . . . mine. My flesh, my blood, so beautiful . . . so tiny!”

“That is how they come into the world, my lord. She is not so tiny for a babe; she merely seems so to you.”

“She’ll be tall, as you are.”

“Light, dear husband, as we both are.”

“Her eyes . . . they are the sky.”

“She will be beautiful,” Margot agreed a bit unwillingly, for part of her own charm was an amazing humility, and she would never have a child grow into the world with too great a sense of pride. “And you will think her far too good for any man when she comes of age to marry.”

“I will keep them all away. Especially . . . well, men like me,” he admitted, and his own words were humble then, because she had loved him with such loyalty and for so many years before he had made her his wife. Yet once they had married he had realized, in the midst of a world filled with never-ending warfare and bloodshed, that she was a beacon of life. Few men found a life’s companion to love with such passion and strength.

And still, she stood before him now, fingers touching him, cooling his brow. Yet even so . . . her image wavered. Again, he knew that she was gone. With their child. He opened his eyes. Darkness hovered over him. The hair that brushed his flesh was not the color of the sun on a summer’s day, wheat reflected with a glow of light, gold shimmering against the day.

Black. There was a black-haired witch hovering over him. He wanted to move an arm to push her away. He could not. He stared at her, then again, his eyes closed, and it seemed the world burned around him, fires blazing through a forest.

He moved his lips.

“Witch.”

“You mustn’t push me away. The cold cloths must stay on your head.”

“Darkness . . . witch.”

“If you keep pushing me away, you will die.”

Death would be easy, he thought. He could reach out for Margot, for the faded image in his dreams, take her hand. Fade with her, and their little daughter, from the world.

“My wife . . .”

“Lie still.”

“She is . . . gone . . . I know.”

The black-haired serpent did not answer him.

Aye, Margot was gone.

He managed to catch hold of the woman, his fingers curling around her wrist. “My wife, like my child, is dead.”

She drew away. He hadn’t the strength to hold her.

“You should let him die!” someone whispered.

“We cannot let any man die. That we will all eventually pass from our lives on earth is certain, but whether we are so evil as to spend eternity in Hell has yet to be determined,” came a dry and sardonic reply. “We can’t let any man die.”

“He is why we are all dying!”

“I don’t believe the Scots asked to be captured and dragged in for humiliation and execution without trial.”

“There, you have said it! He was to be executed!”

“But not by my judgment!”

“You would save him at great risk for the king to order his execution!”

“I say again, we cannot simply let any man die—”

“He is not a man. He is a monster. A follower of the treacherous betrayer, Bruce. Their king would be king by murdering his enemies! He was intended for death. And he is dangerous—alive. You waste your time. He will live and kill us all.”

They were gone then.

Perhaps to let him die.

He determined then that he would live.

In the week that followed, it seemed that the closed community of stricken and ill—the English, the Scottish who were still loyal to Edward and against the coronation of Robert Bruce, and the Scottish patriots—worked together in pleasant harmony. For once, they were all fighting a common enemy, one with no face except for that of the threat of death.

There was a great discussion between Igrainia and Father MacKinley regarding the bodies of the wife and child of the Scotsman. For the woman had died within a day of her husband falling ill, and the child’s body, ravaged by the illness, had set quickly into decay. They should have been burned on one of the large pyres set each day just beyond the courtyard walls. But since the man himself rallied and lingered, they were fearful of his wrath should he live.

Igrainia couldn’t help but think that Jennie was right; orders had been given by the king of England that any man loyal to the treacherous Bruce should be executed without trial. They weren’t even required to carry out any manner of death to rid themselves of the threat of his presence; they had only to let him die. But when the illness had become apparent at Langley—and the king’s contingent had fled—Afton had ordered that all the prisoners must be treated in a Christian manner. But the illness had taken flight throughout Langley like a flock of birds in winter, and some had been taken to the solar. Afton’s death had been the most shattering blow, and even after his body had been walled into the crypt, Igrainia had not wanted to leave, but it had been Afton’s wish, as he had lain dying, that she would do so. There was the possibility that she was carrying a child, and so she must take the greatest care of herself.

Sir Robert Neville still lay ill, but Igrainia saw that his fever had broken, and though he still lay weak and spent upon his bed, he seemed to rally more each day.

As did the rebel Scotsman.

Father MacKinley never fell prey to the sickness, but administered daily to the ill, the dying, and the dead. Those who had been prisoners received proper prayers and rites, that their souls might sweep to Heaven amidst the smoke that rose above the inferno of their earthly remains. But they were all afraid. Even Father MacKinley was afraid. And so, in the end, it was decided that the bodies of the Scottish rebel’s wife and child would be interred in the wall of the crypt near Igrainia’s late husband.

Ten days after the rebel had fallen ill, she stood upon the parapets with Father MacKinley and discussed what must be done. The rebel would live, so it seemed, and Sir Robert was doing well. No one else had fallen ill. The survivors, and those not stricken, had worked together long and well. Perhaps it was not so difficult a picture to see, for Langley stood in what had been known now for a long time as the Borders, an area ravaged by the struggle for power between the Scots and the English, or the various factions of the Scots loyal to the king of England, and those who supported Bruce. The murder of John Comyn had created a rift within Scotland itself; as the Bruces had not supported John Balliol as king, there were many who did not accept Robert Bruce’s claim to the throne. Some were superstitious, believing that the reign of a king begun with a murder could not ever bring peace and prosperity to a kingdom. There were simply those, as always, who had lands in both Scotland and England, and their estates in England, held under Edward I, were worth far more than their lands in Scotland, and so their loyalties varied on an almost daily basis.

“We have to think of what is best for those of us here, now,” Father MacKinley told Igrainia. “We are in a precarious position here. Again and again, by both sides, these lands are sacked and ravaged. There are many things to consider, especially in regard to the man we have saved from death, wise or not, I don’t know. We have done right for our immortal souls, but as to our days here on earth . . . well. The Norse rule many of our neighboring islands, and this man has lineage back to powerful jarls, as well as the love of the man to whom he is loyal, Robert Bruce, who has been crowned king of Scotland. Langley, though Border land, is claimed by both kings. The lowlands fall prey to Edward every time; Bruce hasn’t the strength as yet to hold what he would claim by word. Some here will be loyal to Bruce; most are afraid of the English; they have been beaten down far too many times. Robert Bruce has been forced to fight his battle from the forest, striking out at Edward’s men when his spies let him know where they are, and when he can strike and run. But it is likely that word was sent to him when Eric Graham rode here to seize you and make his way into the castle. It is a stronghold. Perhaps he has a contingent of men he can send here, because in his quest to find Bruce, Edward will not have men to lay siege here, and Langley, though a house of death now, is a powerful fortification when manned and armed. I have spent hours of prayer on this matter. You are a pawn here for Eric Graham. You must escape before he is well, and can use you as such.”

“I am afraid that if I leave, he will punish the people here,” Igrainia said.

Father MacKinley shook his head slowly. He was a man she admired and liked very much. He was tall, graceful in movement, and serious in almost all matters. Born in Ireland, he had served his God in Italy, France, England and Spain before coming to them at Langley. He believed deeply that the soul of a man was far more important than his time on earth, but his compassion ran deep, as did his belief that the nobility of any land, honored by their people, were equally responsible to those people for their livelihood and welfare. As God was the great King of Heaven and all men his flock, the nobles ruled on earth, and their tenants were as their sheep, and must be guarded and tended. Murder was wrong by any measure, and he seemed to have little loyalty to Edward I as he practiced so much slaughter and wanton cruelty in his determination to crush Scotland, but equally, he was not certain of Robert Bruce, though he had been known to say that Bruce fought for his own land while Edward fought to take that of others.

“This man will not take vengeance on the people here,” Father MacKinley said.

“He has said that he would kill everyone, if his wife died. She is gone, Father, and it was through no lack of effort on our part.”

“He knows this. Even now, weak, spent and incoherent, he knows this.”

“We’re taking a chance.”

“The only chance we take is with you.”

“He would kill me, and spare the others?”

Father MacKinley shook his head. “You are of no use dead.”

“Then I should stay.”

“Then you must not. Igrainia, you must go back to your brother. You had something fine here with Lord Afton. Marriage, as surely you are aware, is not often so sweet. Go home to your brother, let him guard you, live in the estates outside London where every day is not plagued by war and death. Perhaps one day you will marry again.”

“No.”

“You will be expected to marry again, and with your brother as your guardian, you will have a choice. You don’t see it now, but there can be happiness in your future. You mustn’t stay here. This man could do many things. Imprison you in misery. Barter with the powers in England for your life. For your safety, your honor—your mind!—you must be away from here. What can be done to a noblewoman held prisoner can be far worse than death. Look what King Edward has done to the women of the Scots.”

Igrainia thought with unease of how Robert Bruce’s sister, Mary, and the young Countess of Buchan, who had rushed to Robert Bruce’s coronation, had been punished by the king; caged outside the castle walls of Berwick and Roxburgh, as if they were rare animals on display. Day after day they spent in their wooden prisons. The same punishment had first been ordered for Bruce’s twelve-year-old daughter, Marjorie, but thankfully, enough men around the king thought that such a sentence upon a child was too savage, and so the girl had been sent to a monastery. The Bruce’s wife, daughter of an English earl, was kept in strict captivity in the manor of Burstwick-in-Holderness.

Igrainia’s own father had been an earl; her brother was an earl. But he was young and did not hold the kind of power yet that swayed kings. If she was captured by the Scots and made into an example of their retaliation, she could face dire consequences indeed.

“What if you’re wrong?” she asked softly. “What if I am gone, and in his fury, he executes even you.”

“Few churchmen have met an axe, even in the vengeance and brutality of what has gone by.”

“The others . . .”

“He has not killed the men in your escort who surrendered to him.”

“He has lain ill and unconscious most of the time he has been here.”

Father MacKinley shook his head. “He gave orders before he sat with his wife that none were to be killed unless they refused to yield. Death has stricken Langley hard enough. He does not take pleasure in bloodshed, as do some. Igrainia, it is you I fear for. I beg of you, leave here.”

“How can I do so? We can muster no escort, and even most of the women are ill. I cannot take Jennie, not when she is still so important here. And I cannot go with Sir Robert Neville who is still so ill, yet must be taken quickly from here. He is my husband’s kinsman and surely in great danger among the Scots.”

Father MacKinley looked at her a moment and then smiled slowly. “No, you cannot go with Sir Robert, for precisely those reasons. And you mustn’t fear for him. Sir Robert has already been taken south. He and his squire slipped out this morning through the tunnel at the end of the crypt.”

Igrainia gasped. “I wasn’t even informed!”

“I thought it best to make his escape at the first moment I could, and not because I didn’t trust your judgment or want your counsel. The opportunity arose this morning and I had to take it. The outlaw Scots were busy in the courtyard, except for the man guarding Eric Graham and the door to the master’s chamber. No one knows that he has gone, as yet. And we must get you away in the same fashion. We cannot have the gates open, the drawbridge dropped. Soon, as soon as you can make a hasty preparation. You will go as a poor woman, seeking peace and prayer on a pilgrimage to shrines in the south. I beg of you, Igrainia. I have prayed on this matter myself. The rest of the people here will fare well. You might be of value to the Scots, and therefore, a value for them to keep in jeopardy. I have honestly pondered this long and hard as I prayed. I know that you must go. And I hope that God has given me his wisdom.”

In the first days when the fever broke, Eric was too weak to do more than lie in his bed, and listen.

He listened carefully.

Though his limbs seemed worn and painful, it was the pain of knowing all that he had lost which was the worst. His child, his wife. There were times when it did not seem worth the effort to live, to gain strength again.

But with the death of love came the birth of an idea, a fierce preoccupation. He would regain his strength and rise from the bed, for a long fight remained ahead. He would rise, because he would win.

Before they could realize that he had regained his strength, he would do so. He knew that many of his men had failed to fall to the disease because they came to the sickroom; indeed one of his own followers was in a chair at all times. The priest came and went. Women from the castle served him, but they were watched. He knew the one voice that whispered often with the others; the voice of the servant who had said they must let him die. He was grateful that he rode with so many who were wary, and careful, lest his enemies slip poison into the brews they gave him to bring him back to strength.

He knew so much, because he lay there carefully, eyes closed.

And listened.

He had lain abed more than two weeks. Margot had died the day he had fallen.

Sir Robert Neville, stricken kin of the late lord of Langley, had been spirited away by the priest who was not afraid.

And the lady of Langley was gone as well.

He understood the mind of the young priest, and he admired him, as he admired the fact that the man himself did not run. He wondered if he had been saved because of the man’s reverence to God, or because his men remained in the castle and might slaughter everyone if he were to die, and they were left without direction. He thought, though, that the priest had judged them, and knew that they would not wantonly kill.

Then, again, there was the fact that Langley had long stood as a bastion in the borderlands, and loyalties here had wavered frequently. The late lord had been a product of both England and Scotland. His mother had been Celtic to the core, and in the past, it had been as if Langley stood apart. The great gates and drawbridge had been lowered at the command of those serving the king, but Pembroke’s army had not been far away, and if the wrath of that army had been turned from the pursuit of Robert Bruce to the total subjugation of Langley, the castle and its people would have most likely suffered a bitter defeat. Sad though it might be, the people in the lowlands had good reason to bow before Edward of England before bending a knee to Robert Bruce.

He lay in the master chamber, in the same bed where Margot had lain. And often, the pain of her loss and his innocent sweet child Aileen lay on his heart so heavily that not even his anger, grief and hatred could stir him. But there were moments when he was alone in the room, and remembered his vow to himself that he would live. And in those moments, he began to move. To work his muscles. The priest sometimes came to watch over him, but he had passed the stage of death, and there were those who needed the priest’s ministrations so much more. His men, he knew, guarded the door, and came in with the maidservants when they tended to him. But as the days passed, he began to have hours alone, and in those hours, he began to work his weakened muscles. His hands first, because in the days following the worst of the fevers and the nightmares and the dreams and illusions, not even his fingers wanted to bend at the command of his mind. Bit by bit, he struggled to create a grip, then to raise his arms, to sit up, and then to stand, and finally to walk. He forced himself to eat, for he knew that he had to do so, and he knew, as well, that his own people watched over the kitchen. He kept to the bed until he had gained a certain sense of power, then he rose, and called to Peter MacDonald to help him; he needed water, a long bath in hot, soothing water. In all the days when he had tossed and turned, he had known that he still bore remnants of the blood and mud of battle, and the sweat of sickness. He was eager to feel clean again.

As he bathed, he listened gravely to Peter, who was at a loss to know how either Robert Neville, who had been abed, scarcely able to move, and the lady—well enough, but certainly within the gates at all times—had managed to leave.

“None will speak,” Peter told him.

Eric nodded.

“There is obviously a way out through the castle. And, therefore, a way in. I will discover what it is.”

“But have you the strength to force out of them what you need to know?” Peter asked him. He wasn’t an old man, but his features were weathered, lined and creased. Like Eric, he was a natural sailor, brought to shore, and a learned warrior.

There had been no other choice for them.

“Today, I will let them know that this castle will be kept in the name of the Bruce. And that we will discover their secrets. But soon, very soon . . .”

“Soon . . . ?”

“We will begin to even the score in this deadly tournament,” Eric said softly.

When he was done bathing, he donned a linen chemise and breeches belonging to the past master of the castle, found his boots, and made his way down the stairs. He drew out a chair at the head of the great long table in the hall, lifted a booted foot upon the table, startling the poor old steward of the castle into something like apoplexy.

“Yes, I am alive and well,” Eric said. “And very hungry for good bread and meat. Are there such luxuries to be had?”

The old fellow nodded dumbly and started to turn.

“Wait. What is your name?”

“Garth, my lord.”

“Well, Garth, it is good to see you moving, in far better circumstance than that in which we found you here.”

“And you, sir, have apparently weathered the illness as well.”

“I have. Most regretfully, I’m certain, to your number.”

The old man shrugged. “It has made little difference here. Kings and nobles make war. Men such as I merely serve until we die.”

“Not true, Garth. The common man of Scotland is the soldier who will make her free.”

“The common man of Scotland is the one who dies, butchered by the armies, starved out by either side.”

“Langley stood unaffected for many years.”

“Langley could only fall from within.”

Eric arched a brow without replying for a moment. Aye, it was true. Without huge war machines and a massive army moving against it, this castle could not fall.

Except from within. And if there was a way for men and women to escape the walls, there was a way for traitors to slip inside as well.

“God’s judgment,” Eric said after a moment to Garth. “Had we not been imprisoned for the purposes of torture and demise, this death would not have come to Langley. Some might call that God’s judgment.”

“And some,” came a voice from the doorway, “might call it the idiocy of a few stupid men with enough arms to force their way.”

Eric grinned, seeing the priest at the entry to the great hall. “Welcome, Father MacKinley. I was about to send for you.”

“You’re looking extremely well.”

“Yes. The sickness is gone.”

“Is it?” the priest asked. “I have a feeling that an illness far worse festers within your soul.”

“My soul is of little interest to me at the moment, if you will forgive me, Father.”

“Whether I forgive you or not—”

“Let’s not get into a philosophical discussion, Father, on my soul. There are other matters to be discussed. First, Garth, I am very hungry.”

“Aye, sir.”

He turned to leave.

“Garth.”

The man paused, looking back. He was wary, but also worn.

“I have no real liking for bloodshed and death. But if I—or any of my men—are poisoned here, the retaliation upon those here will be swift and any who die at your hands will wish that they had been taken by the plague. You understand that.”

“Aye, my lord. That was made quite clear at the beginning of your illness by your man, MacDonald.”

Eric smiled. Thank God for Peter MacDonald. His right hand. Because of Peter, and this priest, he had lived. When he should have died. When he would have gladly died. He dared not think too long on that fact. Dark clouds seemed to fog his vision when he did so, and the dull pain would begin to thud again, and he wanted to rage, and tear the place apart stone by stone, though nothing would bring back Margot and his daughter.

“Good. Bring food. Father MacKinley, sit.”

Garth left the hall, hurrying to bring food as bidden. As bidden, Father MacKinley sat, his eyes wary.

“So, Father, tell me about the state of affairs.”

“The state of affairs?” MacKinley said. “War, I believe. It has been war here, as long as I remember.”

“Ah, yes, it’s a way of life, isn’t it? Here, Father, you know exactly what I am asking you.”

“I’m sure that you know everything that is going on, and that your man, MacDonald, has brought you up to date.”

“Yes, but I would like to hear your assessment of the current situation at the castle.”

“People have stopped dying. Most of the poor deceased have been burned in great heaps just beyond the walls.”

“Most of the dead.”

“Your wife and child are buried in the wall with the late Lord Afton.”

Eric stared down at his hands for a moment. “There will be masses said,” he murmured quietly.

“There have been masses said. All men are equal before God.”

Eric allowed his mouth to curl just slightly. MacKinley was either a fool or a very brave man.

“Where is your mistress?”

MacKinley stiffened at Eric’s evenly voiced question.

“Gone.”’

“That’s evident. Gone where?”

“Back to her brother.”

“The young widow, returned to England to be a pawn in another advantageous marriage.”

“Gone back to the love and care of her family.”

“When did she leave?”

“I don’t remember—”

“When?”

“Several days ago.”

“How many?”

“Perhaps five . . . or six.”

“Ah. So she cannot have gotten far.”

“She has been gone many days. It would be folly to pursue her.”

“But she has gone on foot.”

The priest frowned, and Eric knew he was right.

“How—”

“She departed through a secret tunnel, certainly, or my men would have known. So, at the least, she started out by foot. I think I will be able to find her.”

“She was not responsible for the death here. She saved your life.”

“I survived. She is not capable of saving lives. My wife is dead.”

“She is not a magician.”

“She has the reputation of a healer.”

“But no man can work miracles.”

“I repeat, my wife is dead. And my babe. A child as innocent of evil as any soul could be.”

“But what matters here—”

“Nothing else matters. My wife and child are dead.”

“But you have survived,” MacKinley said, leaning forward in sudden passion. “God willed that you should survive, and so you should be on your knees in gratitude, and let go the innocent woman who aided you in that survival. Thank God, and embrace life, and the world will again begin to hold substance, there will be a reason to live, you will find a reason to live—”

“Father, you needn’t speak so passionately, as if I were a lost member of your flock,” Eric said dryly. “There is a reason to live. Scotland.”

“A man must have more to live for, sir, than bloodshed and battle. You have lost much, but gained much. You hold this castle, and your man, Bruce, is king. Therefore—”

“Oh, he is king. But he does not hold Scotland. Where was the lady going?”

MacKinley frowned “I haven’t lied to you in any way. I have told you; Lady Igrainia is on her way to her brother, the young earl.”

“But there was no party to escort her; I have been abed and ill a long time, but I am aware of what goes on here. My small party of men hold the workings of the castle. Some of the poor men drawn to arms in the name of Edward of England have readily changed sides. They might as readily change back, but . . . not while we hold the power. Few of the workers and craftsmen who have survived care much who holds the castle, as long as they may live and work and continue surviving. Anyone loyal to the king of England languishes in the dungeons below where the rot of death must still permeate the stone. There was no way for you to provide an escort for the lady of the castle. Therefore, she is traveling alone, or with a maid or manservant, no more. And even on the border of England, she wouldn’t dare let her true identity be known. She would be far too rich a prey for even a loyal English outlaw to overlook. So . . . She has donned some poor woolen cloak, and gone out on the road as a poor pilgrim. Am I correct?”

MacKinley didn’t need to answer. His cheeks were flushed.

“You must leave her be. She is not guilty of any harm.”

Eric felt a rising fury within him. “She was the wife of Afton of Langley. Langley played host to the king’s men sent to murder Scottish nationalists and imprison, humiliate and torment their wives. She is as guilty as original sin, Father.”

“You’re wrong. You must not harm her . . . you must not . . .”

Eric cast the priest a look of total disdain. “I have no interest in your lady witch, priest. But she has a value to the cause of Scotland. You know what has befallen certain noblewomen of our country, Father. Word has gone out faster than the wind.”

Garth came into the room carrying a large tray. A fresh haunch of venison lay on the tray with a loaf of bread and a ewer of ale.

Eric watched Garth as he delivered the food. “Garth of Langley, you’ve long been in service here. Sit and join us.”

“There is no poison in the meat,” Father MacKinley said. “We did not save your life to end it with poison.”

“Nevertheless, you will both oblige me by dining first.”

Father MacKinley kept his eyes full upon Eric’s as he knifed a large section from the meat and chewed it down, then broke off bread, and did the same. Eric brought his gaze upon Garth, who also took meat and bread.

“The ale,” Eric suggested.

Both men drank.

Eric then set upon the meal, suddenly ravenous, yet aware that he had to take care with meat so rich when he had been ill so long. It was hard not to wolf down every last bite. When he had finished, he realized both men were still watching him in silence.

He sat back. “You are both free to leave the castle, if you wish.”

Neither man replied.

“Did you hear me? You are free to travel south, to safer ground.”

“Where would I go?” Garth asked him. “I have worked here all my life.”

“These people are my . . . they are my flock,” MacKinley said. “And I would keep the peace between them, and you.”

“You must keep the peace between them—and Peter MacDonald.”

“You’re leaving?”

“Aye.”

“Joining the Bruce to fight on?” The priest said hopefully.

“You know that I am not. Aye, I’m leaving, but I won’t be joining the Bruce—not just yet. I was sent out to solicit men for his battles, and thus was at sea where we found the man who inflicted us all with this rampaging disease. I meant to return to the king with more men at arms. And we will soon have help from many Irish chieftains. But for ourselves. . . now . . . we’ve lost so many. But, still, I believe that I will bring Robert Bruce a political and powerful prize, nevertheless.”

“You don’t mean . . .”

“The Lady of Langley? The very wealthy daughter of the late Earl of Wheaten? Aye, she is the exact prize I do mean.”

“You will give her over—to Robert Bruce?”

“Indeed.”

“But—but—she is long gone. You will never find her.”

Eric rose and came to the priest, staring down at him. “Oh, but I will. You have told me that I will find something to live for. I have found it, Father. I am living for two things, and two things only. Scotland—and revenge. Trust me, Father, I never lie. I intend to find her. And I will.”

“But . . . then . . .”

“Then the lady will pay the price of war,” he said simply.

He left the great hall then with long strides.

He made his way up the staircase as if he were in complete power and control. Peter waited at the door to the master’s chamber. He opened it quickly.

He managed to enter the chamber before he sagged. Peter helped him to the bed. He gripped Peter’s shoulders tightly.

“They can’t know that I haven’t my full strength.”

“They will not,” Peter assured him. “But I should go after the lady of Langley. You haven’t the strength yet—”

“Your strength is needed here, Peter. The castle is not secure, and it must be held against the English.”

“But, can you ride?”

“Aye, Peter. In just a few days time. Every hour now, I feel my strength returning. I need food, and aye, just a little more rest. Then I will be ready. And I will ride, and I will find her, and I will bring her back.”