Knight Triumphant. Heather GrahamЧитать онлайн книгу.
yes, I know, you will murder us all. Then you must, for I can do all that is in my power, but I am not invested with magic.”
Again, he did not seem to be paying any heed. His eyes were upon his wife, and though she loathed him, she felt an odd chill, wondering what great love he must have for this woman that he could think that anyone, any power, could fight death.
She was startled when he replied to her after several moments. “That is not what they say.”
Igrainia stared at him, but his steady gaze remained upon his wife. He knew much more about Langley Castle, and about her, than she had imagined.
She measured her answer carefully. “If I were a witch, sir, with magic beyond that of healing herbs, I would have saved my own husband.”
That brought his steady gaze to her at last, and he slowly arched a brow. “Madam, your marriage was arranged at your birth, and you have been lady here less than a year.”
She felt the hot burning of her eyes, and she was furious. It was one thing that he should come here, fight her people, demand the castle, and mourn his child while demanding that she keep his wife alive. Force and power, even brute cruelty might be expected in war, and these were violent and dangerous times.
But that he should know her life, and mock her love for so fine a man, seemed an invasion that went beyond the power of a victor. She locked her jaw tightly, fighting tears before she replied. Then her anger infused her words with strength. “How dare you? How dare you suggest that . . . You did not know Afton. You could never know a man like Afton, never understand a man like Afton. The world to you is take and seize with your sword, with your violence. Fight with such fury that you will always win. There are those alive who can see the plight of others, men with minds as well as brawn, who will not practice cruelty because cruelty has been practiced against them. My husband was such a man, with both strength and gentleness, and had I been his wife but one day, sir, I would have loved him with a deeper passion, admiration, and respect than you could ever begin to understand.”
His gaze remained on her and she waited for—expected—mocking words in return. But after a moment he turned to his wife. “Then I am sorry for your loss. But still, this is—was—your husband’s holding. And it was he, surely, who ordered that prisoners, dying and in pain, be kept in the dank bowels of a castle, there the quicker to die.”
“It was not Afton! The king’s men came—”
“A lord need not bend a knee so low, even to a king.”
“You fight and bow to yours.”
“I choose to stand behind mine. He does not cross the lines of right and wrong—those lines drawn by your God, my lady.”
“How wondrous—when it is said that he did away with the last man to compete with him for the throne by doing a murder.”
He twisted where he sat, staring at her coldly, but not denying the charge. “Many men have betrayed one another in this struggle. But the die is cast now, and Bruce is king. King of Scotland. None of this is important now. My wife is.”
She walked to the bed, standing at his side, trying very hard not to tremble. “I have done what was in my power for your lady, for your people. I will fight to save her life. Not because you will kill me—or even others—if I don’t. But because your are mistaken when you think that my lord husband did not know compassion, and what was right, and wrong, in the eyes of God. And humanity.”
“Perhaps you should give your speech about humanity to Edward of England.”
“As you have said, kings are not important here, this lady is. Speak no more about my husband, if you would have me tend your wife—with you in the room.”
He stood, coming to his full height and size, which sent her back a step.
His fingers bit into her shoulder, but stopped short of inflicting real pain.
“She must live!” he said, and in his words she at last sensed his desperation, and the weakness within the man.
“I swear to you that I will try.”
He released her, and took his chair again, and in a few minutes’ time, she had him hold his wife so that she could do her best to get some of the healing brew of wine and herbs between the lips of his beloved Margot.
Again, then, she began the bathing with cold cloths.
An hour later, it seemed that Margot’s fever had cooled somewhat. Father MacKinley came to the room and told Igrainia that she must rest. She shook her head firmly before the Scotsman could reply to him. “I am fine for now, Father.”
“Sir, I would speak with you for a moment, if you would allow me,” Father MacKinley said to Eric.
The Scotsman rose and went to the door with the priest. Igrainia kept vigil at the woman’s side, praying.
She was startled when Eric called her sharply. “Madam, the priest has need of you for a moment’s time.”
Arching a brow, Igrainia rose from the bedside and walked to where Father MacKinley stood.
“I will return her immediately,” the priest vowed.
The man nodded, turning back to his wife.
Still amazed, Igrainia followed the priest into the hall. “Where are we going?”
“Sir Robert Neville tosses in a fever, but he has asked to see you. It may well be a last request, and so Sir Eric has said you may have a minute.”
They hurried down the hall to Robert’s chamber. Igrainia swept in, alarmed to see how seriously ill Robert had grown in such a short time. She immediately took the water by the bed and began bathing his face. Robert was a handsome man, her husband’s second cousin. He was gifted with sable brown hair and deep, haunting eyes. His features were very fine, as Afton’s had been, and usually, when he stood, he was lean and straight, and he both rode and fought with courage and skill.
Now his face was pale, and his eyes seemed like stygian pools. He caught her hand as she cooled his face.
“Igrainia!”
“Robert, rest.”
“You’re alive, safe . . .”
“Aye, Robert. I’m well.”
“They have the castle. The outlaws, the barbarians . . . you must find a way to leave.”
“Aye, Robert, don’t worry.” She glanced at Father MacKinley; they both knew she’d be forgiven any lie. “Don’t worry. I will get away. They pay little heed to me.”
He almost seemed to have forgotten her.
“It should have been mine now. It shouldn’t have fallen. . . to this. To them. King Edward should have bestowed the castle on me. Now . . . it is death, they are death. You mustn’t worry. I was Afton’s kinsman, I will take the castle again, I will see that you are safe . . . that you are safe with me.”
“Aye, Robert, don’t worry. You must save your strength. I’m brewing herbs in warm wine, and you will drink it and sleep and fight this illness. We’ll survive, we’ll both survive, and the castle will be ours again.”
He still held her hand, but he had no power. She slipped free from his grasp, slipping his arm back beneath the sheets. When she looked up, she saw that Eric Graham had come to the door and was watching her. She didn’t know what he had heard.
“You must come,” he said simply.
She nodded. Robert Neville’s eyes had closed; he wasn’t dead, she saw with relief, only sleeping. She hurried to the Scotsman, and walked back across the hall again.
Margot was tossing again, burning with heat. Igrainia immediately began bathing her with cool cloths, harnessing the rampaging fever.
Eric imitated her every action. At last, the