“I need no special consideration,” Igrainia told him. “If there is a common room—”
“There is, but since it is not necessary, I don’t think it wise for you to sleep there. If I were not able to offer it, you would have no special consideration. As it is, I have the space this evening,” he told her. “It is quiet here now. . . there are not so many travelers here tonight. The lads have a room together on the left of the hall; they have come in already and are eager to travel on in the morning. We have a large family group, and they are in the room to the right. We’ve a few priests moving from parish to parish . . . but we are able still to give you the small privacy. Fresh water is in the pitchers, and we ask that all guests care for their own—for their own necessities.”
“He means privy pots!” Merry whispered to Igrainia.
“I believe I knew that,” Igrainia told her softly.
Father Padraic was smiling. “I believe she did!” he said softly, teasing Merry.
Igrainia extended a hand to him. “We cannot thank you enough.”
“Well, child, wait until you see the horses, the best I could find, in the morning. By midday, you may be cursing me.”
“Never, Father Padraic.”
He made the sign of the cross. “I’ll bid you goodnight.”
The room was indeed small. At one time, it had been a nun’s residence. There was a narrow bed that consisted of a thin mattress on taut ropes. Gregory, with his single candle, led Ingrainia to her room first, showed her the pitcher and ewer on the plain, hardwood stand, and left her. In the dark.
She felt for the water, managed to wash her face and teeth without flooding the room, then found the towel without groping too long. There was a window in the little cell, and in time, she was able to make out some of what she was doing with the bit of moon glow that filtered into the room. It didn’t matter; she was very weary and ready for sleep, and afraid, that the sleep would elude her. Lying awake was always a nightmare of memory. Sleeping too often brought her bolting to wakefulness, thinking that there was someone she hadn’t tended, someone who would die . . . had died, because she had fallen asleep.
Lying awake made her remember too much of the past when the walls of the castle had shielded them from the ugliness of the battle-ravaged world around them. She had known, always, what was going on—as well as anyone could know, with news traveling slowly around the country and beyond. But the news of John Comyn’s murder, of Robert Bruce’s coronation, of King Edward’s fury, had all come to them, usually by mounted men, traveling to and from sites of battle, keen that all should know King Edward’s mind.
Afton, caught between his heritage and the king whose might gave him power over the Borders, had only once been forced to take a stand between the two factions that made up his heritage. That had been when the king’s men had come with the prisoners. And before that . . .
Life had been idyllic.
Lying awake now, Igrainia too clearly saw his face, his smile, his laughter. She could hear his voice, his words, always reasonable, gentle, compassionate. He had been taught the responsibility of his power, and what it meant to be a lord, a man beholden to the people, as the people were to him. He had used the law to keep his men from fighting in foreign wars, convinced the king that the knights and tenants of Langley were needed there, to hold the precarious position of the castle. And whatever call to arms came to him, he delved first into his books, always finding a point of law that Edward himself had brought to the English people, and using that point to maintain his policy of neutrality and separateness. Tall, slender and artistic, Afton had never had the burly build or stamina required of a true warrior; his strength had always lain in the power of his mind.
She could almost feel him beside her, as if he came in dreams. “Returning to England is the wisest course of action, my love. Your brother is young and will force nothing on you. Take time to heal, choose the life you’ll lead. It will all come out well in the end . . .”
It was as if he were really there, the softness of his breath against her cheek, his fingers in her hair. She could feel his presence, his tenderness, yet she knew that it wasn’t real, and she felt the pain of his loss rising in her again, touching within; she felt the burn of tears against her eyelids. And the sense that she was not alone.
She woke suddenly, not feeling the tenderness, but a rise of awareness and panic. A whisper broke the darkness.
“Sh . . . sh! Please, my lady, don’t cry out!”
She gritted her teeth, trying to control a scream of terror. Waking in the darkness was different from its sudden fall; the moon glow still entered the room and she could see the young girl, and Gregory, the deaf boy, at her side.
The girl with the scar across the length of her young face.
“What is it?” she asked.
“I had to come, I’m so sorry I frightened you.”
“It’s all right; I’m all right,” she said quickly.
She sat up, looking at the two in the shadows. “It’s all right, really. But why have you come?”
“To warn you,” the girl said.
“Warn me? Is there . . . has someone ridden here?”
The girl shook her head. She hesitated. “Gregory . . . he can’t speak, but he can see.”
“He can . . . see?” Igrainia repeated.
The girl nodded. “There’s a danger ahead for you. It will come out as it should, but you must be very careful. You must watch everyone around you. Always. There’s a haze. . . and a chance that you could lose your life. But if you are wary, and watch, always watch. He sees riders, and if you’re not aware . . . they could . . . hurt you. He can’t tell you when or where you will meet with them, only that your journey is dangerous.”
Igrainia looked past the girl to Gregory. He nodded somberly.
“You can speak with him?”
“He isn’t in the least stupid, my lady. He is only deaf and mute.”
Igrainia smiled. “And he . . . sees?”
“He has a certain vision.”
She wondered about his “vision.” She knew she was in danger when she rode; her very existence created danger. But she felt an uneasy prickling along her spine, as if she were hearing a warning as real as any she might find from a messenger sent ahead to tell of armed men riding down upon the gates of a castle.
“Why should a pilgrim be in danger?” she asked cautiously.
“Why would a pilgrim give a poor lass such a rich coin?” the girl asked her.
“The poor lass needs the coin more than the pilgrim,” Igrainia said.
“Aye, indeed, I’d not survive at all if it were not for Father Padraic and the bounty of the folk coming through. But few have the ability, or the kindness, to give with such generosity.”
“There are many things that gold coins cannot buy,” Igrainia murmured. “As to Gregory’s vision, what would he have me do? I cannot stay here; I have to ride, and reach London.”
“It’s true, you can’t stay. But you must be wary.