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