Knight Triumphant. Heather Graham

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