her. Bone by bone.
It was all in God’s hands. But maybe this filthy and half-savage man, no matter how articulate, didn’t comprehend that.
“I will save your wife and child, if you will give me a promise.”
“You think that you can barter with me?” he demanded harshly.
“I am bartering with you.”
“You will do as I command.”
“No. No, I will not. Because you are welcome to lop off my head here and now if you will not barter with me.”
“Do you think that I will not?”
“I don’t care if you do or do not!”
“So the lord of Langley is dead!” he breathed bitterly.
“Indeed. So you have no power over me.”
“Believe me, my lady, if I choose, I can show you that I have power over you. Death is simple. Life is not. The living can be made to suffer. Your grief means nothing to me. It was the lord of Langley who imprisoned the women and children.”
She shook her head. “You’re wrong! So foolishly wrong! What care they received was by his order. Those who will live will do so, because he commanded their care. And he is dead because of the wretched disease brought in by your women and your children.”
“None of this matters!” he roared to her.
She ignored his rage, and the tightening vise of his fingers around her arm.
She stared at his hand upon her, and then into his eyes, so brilliantly blue and cold against the mud-stained darkness of his face.
“I will save your wife and child, if you will swear to let your prisoners live.”
Again, he arched a brow and shrugged. “Their fates matter not in the least to me; save her, and they shall live.”
She started forward again, then once more stopped. She had spoken with contempt and assurance. A bluff, a lie. And now, her hands were shaking. “What if I cannot? What if it has gone too far? God decides who lives and dies, and the black death is a brutal killer—”
“You will save them,” he said.
They had reached his horse, an exceptionally fine mount. Stolen, she was certain, from a wealthy baron killed in battle. He lifted her carelessly upon the horse, then stared up at her, as if seeing her, really seeing her, perhaps for the first time.
“You will save them,” he repeated, as if by doing so he could make it true.
“Listen to me. Surely, you understand this. Their lives are in God’s hands.”
“And yours.”
“You are mad; you are possessed! Only a madman thinks he can rule a plague. Not even King Edward has power over life and death against such an illness. Kings are not immune, no man, no woman—”
“My wife and child must survive.”
He had no sense, no intellect, no reason!
“Which of the women is your wife?” she asked. She wondered if she could kick his horse, and flee. She was in the saddle; he was on the ground.
“And if I give you a name, what will it mean to you?” he inquired.
“I have been among the prisoners.”
It seemed he doubted that. “Margot,” he told her. “She is tall, slim and light, and very beautiful.”
Margot. Aye, she knew the woman. Beautiful indeed, gentle, moving about, cheering the children, nursing the others . . .
Until she had been struck down.
She had been well dressed, and had worn delicate Celtic jewelry, as the wife of a notable man, a lord, or a wealthy man at the least.
Rather than a filthy barbarian such as this.
But it was said that even Robert Bruce, King of the Scots, looked like a pauper often enough these days. He was a desperate man, ever searching out a ragtag army, reduced to hunger and hardship time and time again.
“Who are you?” she asked
“Who I am doesn’t matter.”
“Do you even have a name, or should I think of you as Madman, or Certain Death?”
His eyes lit upon her with cold fury. “You must have a name when it doesn’t matter, when your life is at stake? When Edward has decreed that Scottish women are fair game, no better than outlaws to be robbed, raped or murdered? Wouldn’t you be the one who is surely mad to expect chivalry in return for such barbarity, and test the temper of a man whose rage now equals that of your king? You would have a name? So be it. I am Eric, Robert Bruce’s liege man by choice, sworn to the sovereign nation of Scotland, a patriot by both birth and choice. You see, my father was a Scottish knight, but my grandfather, on my mother’s side, was a Norse jarl of the western isles. So there is a great deal of berserker—or indeed, madman—in me, lady. You must beware. We are not known to act rationally—and by God, no matter what our inclination at any time—mercifully. Now, tell me what I ask. Does my wife live? You do know her, don’t you?”
“Aye. I know her. Father MacKinley is with her,” Igrainia said. “She lives. When I left, she still lived.” Aye, she knew his wife. She had spoken with her often when the disease had brought them together, forgetting nationalities and loyalties, fighting death itself.
And she knew his little girl. The beautiful child with the soft yellow hair and huge blue eyes, smiling even when she fell ill. The little girl had gone into a fever with a whimper.
But the woman had been so ill, burning, twisting, crying out . . .
She would die. And then . . .
Igrainia suddenly grabbed the reins and slammed the horse with her heels, using all the strength she had.
The huge gray warhorse reared, pawing the air. Igrainia clung desperately to the animal, hugging its neck, continuing to slam her heels against its flank. The man was forced to move back, and she felt hope take flight in her heart as the horse hit the ground and started running toward the trees.
Yet nearly to the trail, the animal came to an amazing halt, reared again, and spun.
This time, Igrainia did not keep her seat.
She hit the ground with a heavy thud that knocked the air from her.
A moment later, he was back by her side, reaching down to her, wrenching her to her feet. “Try to escape again, and I will drag you back in chains.”
She gasped for breath, shaking her head. “No one will stop your entry at the castle. Only the truly mad would enter there. I cannot help your wife—”
“I have told you who I am. And I know who you are. Igrainia
