LITMIR.BIZ

      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

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