Knight Triumphant by Heather Graham Page A

.”
    â€œLie still.”
    â€œShe is . . . gone . . . I know.”
    The black-haired serpent did not answer him.
    Aye, Margot was gone.
    He managed to catch hold of the woman, his fingers curling around her wrist. “My wife, like my child, is dead.”
    She drew away. He hadn’t the strength to hold her.
    â€œYou should let him die!” someone whispered.
    â€œWe cannot let any man die. That we will all eventually pass from our lives on earth is certain, but whether we are so evil as to spend eternity in Hell has yet to be determined,” came a dry and sardonic reply. “We can’t let any man die.”
    â€œHe is why we are all dying!”
    â€œI don’t believe the Scots asked to be captured and dragged in for humiliation and execution without trial.”
    â€œThere, you have said it! He was to be executed !”
    â€œBut not by my judgment!”
    â€œYou would save him at great risk for the king to order his execution!”
    â€œI say again, we cannot simply let any man die—”
    â€œHe is not a man. He is a monster. A follower of the treacherous betrayer, Bruce. Their king would be king by murdering his enemies! He was intended for death. And he is dangerous—alive. You waste your time. He will live and kill us all.”
    They were gone then.
    Perhaps to let him die.
    He determined then that he would live.
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    In the week that followed, it seemed that the closed community of stricken and ill—the English, the Scottish who were still loyal to Edward and against the coronation of Robert Bruce, and the Scottish patriots—worked together in pleasant harmony. For once, they were all fighting a common enemy, one with no face except for that of the threat of death.
    There was a great discussion between Igrainia and Father MacKinley regarding the bodies of the wife and child of the Scotsman. For the woman had died within a day of her husband falling ill, and the child’s body, ravaged by the illness, had set quickly into decay. They should have been burned on one of the large pyres set each day just beyond the courtyard walls. But since the man himself rallied and lingered, they were fearful of his wrath should he live.
    Igrainia couldn’t help but think that Jennie was right; orders had been given by the king of England that any man loyal to the treacherous Bruce should be executed without trial. They weren’t even required to carry out any manner of death to rid themselves of the threat of his presence; they had only to let him die. But when the illness had become apparent at Langley—and the king’s contingent had fled—Afton had ordered that all the prisoners must be treated in a Christian manner. But the illness had taken flight throughout Langley like a flock of birds in winter, and some had been taken to the solar. Afton’s death had been the most shattering blow, and even after his body had been walled into the crypt, Igrainia had not wanted to leave, but it had been Afton’s wish, as he had lain dying, that she would do so. There was the possibility that she was carrying a child, and so she must take the greatest care of herself.
    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