Knight Triumphant Read Free

horrors that had taken place, of the English furor at the crowning of Robert Bruce.
    And she rode as she had never done before, flat against her mare’s neck, heels jamming the beast’s haunches, whispers begging her to ever greater speed. The rebel’s horse had to be flagging; their animals had been foaming when they first met with the men of Langley. If she could just evade him for a distance . . .
    She galloped over the hill, through the thick grasses of the lea to the north. The forest beckoned beyond the hill, a forest she knew well, with twisting trails and sheltering oaks, a place in which to disappear. She could see the trees, the great branches waving high in the sky, the darkness of the trails beneath the canopy of leaves. She could smell the very richness of the earth and hear the leaves, as she could hear the thunder of her horse’s hooves, the desperate, ragged catch of her own breath, the pulse of her heartbeat, echoed with each thunder of a hoof upon the earth. There . . . just a moment away . . .
    She was never aware that his horse’s hoofbeats thundered along with those of her mare; the first she knew of him was the hook of his arm, sweeping her from her horse in a deadly gamble. She was whisked from the mare and left to watch as the horse made the shelter of the trees. And for a moment, she looked on, in amazement, as she dangled from the great warhorse, a prisoner taken by a madman.
    She began to twist and struggle, and bite—a sound enough attack so that he swore, and dropped her. His horse was huge; she fell a distance to the earth, stunned, then gathered her senses quickly and began to run. She headed for the dark trail, desperately, running with the speed of a hunted doe.
    Yet again, she was swept off her feet, this time, lifted up, and thrown down, and the next thing she knew, he was on top of her, smelling of the earth and the blood of battle. She screamed, fought, kicked, yet found her hands vised above her head, and the barbarian straddled atop her, staring at her with a cold, wicked fury that allowed no mercy.
    â€œYou are the lady of Langley,” he said.
    â€œIgrainia,” she replied.
    â€œI don’t give a damn about your name,” he told her. “But you will come with me, and you will demand that the gates be opened.”
    She shook her head, “I cannot—”
    She broke off as he raised a hand to strike her. The blow did not fall.
    â€œYou will,” he said simply. “Or I will break you, bone by bone, until you do so.”
    â€œThere is plague there, you idiot!”
    â€œMy wife is there, and my daughter,” he told her.
    â€œThey are all dead or dying within the castle!”
    â€œSo you run in fear!” he said contemptuously.
    â€œNo! No,” she raged, struggling to free herself again. Afraid? Of the plague? She was afraid only of life without Afton now.
    Not quite true, she realized. She was afraid of this man who would carry out his every threat, and break her. Bone by bone. She had never seen anyone so coldly determined.
    â€œI am not afraid of the plague for myself!” she managed to snap out with an amazing tone of contempt.
    â€œGood. We will go back, my fine lady, and you will dirty your hands with caring for those who are ill. You will save my wife, if she is stricken, or so help me, you will forfeit your own life.”
    Dirty her hands? He thought she was afraid to dirty her hands after the days and nights she had been through?
    Her temper rose like a battle flag, and she spat at him. “Kill me then, you stupid, savage fool! I have been in that castle. Death does not scare me. I don’t care anymore. Can you comprehend that? Are such words in your vocabulary?”
    She gasped as he stood, wrenching her to her feet.
    â€œIf my wife or my daughter should die because of the English king’s cruelty against the innocent, my lady, you are the one who will pay.”
    â€œMy husband is