“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.”
CHAPTER 4
Igrainia traveled in a far different way from that to which she had become accustomed.
The first time she had come to the Borders, she had ridden with her father, his knights, their squires, and a dozen attendants. The knights had been beautiful in their glistening plate, mail, and her father’s colors of red, black and yellow. The horses had been equally resplendent. She had been attended by Jennie and two other maids, and if they had tired, they had wagons in which to rest. They had stayed at castles and manors along the way, been greeted with enthusiasm, feasts, warm wine and rich comforts. When she had later traveled with Afton, they had always left with the same entourage, and been welcomed in fine homes along the way. She rode Menfreya, her beautiful, smooth-gaited, fast-paced mare. Naturally, there were hardships along the way. Rain, snow, sleet, wind and the mud that seemed a never-ending feature of the roads. Sometimes, in summer, there was the heat of the sun, but she loved the sun, and it always seemed to be tempered by a moist whisper of coolness in the air. She had always loved to travel, to see new places, meet new people. Naturally, it had always held an element of danger, but she had never ventured out far without an armed guard.
This was quite different.
She had slipped from the castle with John Simpson and his wife, Merry. They had both worked in the kitchen at Langley Castle as long as they could remember. They had been married as long as they could remember as well, and though they had not been blessed with children, they had maintained what Igrainia knew to be a very special love for one another. Both were old now. John was tall and rail thin, while Merry was short and round as a little ball, with bright blue eyes and silver gray hair. In the worst of circumstances, she was able to find a smile, and remark that anything bad was God’s will, and man could only wonder why until the great day came when the gates to Heaven admitted them all. She was a wonderful companion, as was John, who liked to talk about the Scotland of Alexander’s day, and describe how good it had been when the land had been at peace.
The difficulties lay not in her fellow “pilgrims” for the journey, but in the journey itself.
Of necessity, they left the castle on foot. Father MacKinley had given them directions to reach a tiny parish church just north of the ever-disputed border, and there, from an old friend of his, they were to obtain horses. Their journey on foot took well over two weeks, for though John could walk fairly swiftly with his long, skinny legs, Merry huffed and puffed and they were forced frequently to stop. They’d had to carry some provisions, and the provisions grew heavier with every footstep over the rocky terrain. At night, they slept upon their rolled woolen blankets on the ground, which wasn’t much of a hardship for Igrainia—she loved the feeling of being minute in a world of a million stars and darkness—but for Merry the ground was hard, and for John as well, and they both woke each morning with a moan and a creaking and cracking of knee joints and elbows, and limped for a few minutes as they tried to get the crinkles out of their backs. They dared not light fires, lest they should be seen by marauding troops of outlaws, and so they ate berries they found along the way, and dined carefully on the bread and cheese they carried. Water was abundant, because the land was filled with beautiful little lochs, ponds and streams. The weather was extremely mild, and sometimes, at night, Igrainia would strip down to her shift and dare the chilly yet inviting waters of a stream to indulge in the longest bath she dare before her limbs began to turn blue.
They traveled carefully, and for many days, by keeping to the forest paths indicated by Father MacKinley. They walked as if the world belonged to them alone, and it was a beautiful world, with the land rich in the green and pastels of summer, sloping in the sun, falling to shadow in the denseness of the forest. They did, upon one occasion, pass by what had once been a small village, a thriving farm, and saw that the buildings remained burned and ghostly, the fields barren, the burnt out remnants of paddocks and stables nothing but eerie, skeletal chars. But the land had a way of replenishing quickly; the grass came each year where warhorses had trampled it just months before, and wild flowers grew in profusion. Even here, the grass was beginning to grow, and wild flowers—weeds perhaps, but colorful and tenacious—circled the ruins, and would, in time, cover the violence