Seize The Dawn (11 page)

"Pardon me! When your death seemed imminent, I was not considering my manners." "Death would have saved me ... this!" she exploded. "Forgive me. I hardly think that you are so suicidal, nor is there honor in throwing away life. And what is the ...
this
that you suffer so drastically?'' "Being ... here." He folded her hands before her and sat back. "I don't think you're suffering." She stared back at him, then tried to slide by him. "If you won't leave, I will." "Nay, lady. You'll not." His hands were on her again, pushing her back. Her head fell upon the linen-covered feather pillow. His hands remained upon her shoulders, holding her down. When he spoke, he leaned low, his face very close to hers.

"Do you want to know, my lady, what I think?" "No. But I believe you'll tell me anyway!" "Aye, I will. I think that your family is selling you into the arms of an ancient old rock." "Alain de Lacville is a very fine man—" "Yet scarcely breathing." "You don't know—" "Oh, I do know. I met the old gentleman years ago, right after the battle of Falkirk. Aye, you're right. He has a good mind, and a courteous manner. But he is very, very old. And rich. Maybe you'll even be allowed to marry where you choose when he does depart. But then, my lady, perhaps he will simply rot slowly away, and you will be the honorably chaste and loyal wife until you've no youth left yourself. You've not much ahead for you in the way of excitement. Therefore, you were watching me."

She stared at him, blinked, and then exploded. "Oh, my God! You are outrageous. You don't know how ridiculous that is. By God! Sir, your ego is as inflated as your sword arm. You know nothing of Alain; rotted, ancient, as you claim, he is still one of the finest men I have ever met, you know nothing—" "I know that you don't want to marry him." She broke off, staring at him, wondering how he could know so much about her situation, or her feelings. "Marriage is a contract," she said flatly, her tone hard. "Marriage is an honorable contract between houses and families." "Your duty, eh?" "Yes!" "You'll never have a family." "Oh, really? Perhaps I will have dozens of children." "That's most unlikely. You're being sold. To a very old man." "If so, it is because your people destroyed my home and family, and left a village of innocent farmers and craftsmen to starve."

"There is scorched earth all over the borderlands. It is a travail for everyone, but while Edward persists, the sorry situation will remain." He was serious for the moment, his eyes cold, hard, and passionless.' 'Aye, and there it is. When Scotland wins her true freedom, England may he at peace." "Well, sir, for the time being, would you be so kind as to leave
me
to lie in peace?" "Aye, lady. As you wish it."

He rose and walked away from her, collecting his clothing from the arm of a chair near the wash water. His back to her, he donned leggings and a clean linen shirt, then looped the tartan over his shoulder, pinning it there with a silver brooch. He started out, then at the door, he looked back. "Lady Eleanor,
Santa Lenora!
You do, for now, remain my hostage. So feel free, when so inclined, to watch where you will." "I always keep my eyes on my enemies." He smiled. "So do I, my lady. So do I."

Chapter 6

Later that afternoon, the sails came down, the ship made fast. Hearing the men's shouts, Eleanor tested the door again and was pleased to find it unbolted. The Norseman's ship, most probably followed by the pirate's ship and the other two vessels in the Scottish company, dropped anchor. Listening to the seamen, despite the Norse so many of them were speaking, Eleanor ascertained that they were anchored outside Calais. The name of the port meant little to her. In her father's house, she'd had tutors to teach her language, geography, history, and of course, religion, but she'd never been outside the country before. But the French were certainly civilized, despite the fact that the French and English kings were constantly at one another's throats. Alain was immensely wealthy and powerful, and his name was surely known throughout France; if she could reach a safe harbor and ask for help, she could reach him without becoming a pawn in the Scotsmen's quest for foreign aid in their continued rebellion against the English.

She kept to herself, listening with great attention. Wallace remained aboard this ship. He was closeted in the central cabin with his companions, where they formed their plans for landing, sending word to the French king that they were in his country, and seeking an audience. She didn't dare let any of the Norse or Scottish men know her intent; they would send out an alarm in seconds. But if she didn't act quickly, she would find herself surrounded by the enemy. Escape would then be impossible.

She dressed in her lightest clothing, careful to place her gold and silver coins in the inner pockets of her gown, and to carry, as carefully, an unusual Celtic pendant of her mother's, studded with rubies and emeralds. One lesson life itself taught was that men could be bribed, and safety, and passage, purchased. She was wary, of course, that she burden herself too heavily. She couldn't possibly steal a boat. Slipping over the side of the vessel and swimming to shore was her only hope.

Laden with enough for survival, she paused to pray—then turned to flee. She escaped the cabin quite easily enough. On deck, she smiled at the various seamen, or nodded gravely, whichever seemed most appropriate with the individual men, some of whom smiled and whistled and sang easily themselves, and some of whom seemed to be dour upon all occasions. When every one of them seemed exceptionally busy, she made a pretense of returning to the cabin, but when their backs were turned, she slipped over the side.

The distance from the deck to the water seemed great. Again, the water was fiercely cold. She plunged endlessly before gaining enough control in the deep, dark frigid water to stop her descent and crawl her way back to the surface. She broke it, gasping desperately for air. She breathed in raggedly, goose bumps rising on her flesh as the chill breeze struck her. She was instantly afraid that her flight had been noted, and she looked to the ship with fear. But there were no men shouting an alarm, and no one was coming after her.

So he watched his enemies, did he! she thought, and not without a certain sense of smugness. He had underestimated this enemy. Now, as he had once before. She shivered so that she almost put a tooth right through her lip; she hadn't meant, that day long ago at Falkirk, to murder. She'd seen enough blood that day to put the fear of injury and death into any man. Aye, he'd paused for her, and there was his downfall. Her escape today did him no harm. He should know what it was to demand freedom. She turned her back on the ship and swam.

The distance to shore was far greater than she had imagined, and seemed even more so, weighed down as she was with her money and jewels, in the severe cold. And the activity on the immediate docks gave her pause. Despite her freezing state and exhaustion, she forced herself to swim further southward, so that she would not need to arise where her reception might not be one offered with warmth and dignity. Having come this far, she meant to succeed, and to reach the French king without the company of her enemies. She also meant to survive whatever strangers she might encounter.

When she reached a spit of beach, she crawled onto it and fell flat, gasping and gulping air, so exhausted that she couldn't even curl into herself for warmth. She closed her eyes, fearful at first that she had killed herself—her heart was beating so rapidly it seemed ready to burst from her chest. She tried to breathe deeply, and as she did so, she felt the frantic pounding of her heart begin to slow. But just when she thought she had gained control of her life, she froze, feeling the touch of a blade at her throat. Her eyes flew open. Stunned, she looked up, then scrambled away from the point of the blade.

It was wielded by a strange cutthroat—a man with a sweeping, fur-trimmed cape over a tunic, fine leggings and soft leather boots. She could see little more of him, for his face was largely covered by the brim of a drooping, feathered hat, and a patch covered his one eye and a mask most of his face. As if he were a leper. She inhaled so sharply she nearly choked on her own breath. She started to cough—then backed away and scrambled to her feet, the point of the sword following her throat all the while. When she stood, he still hadn't spoken, and she began to defend herself with words. "I've done you no harm, why are you accosting me?" This was France, and he must surely be a Frenchman. He must understand her; as was customary among English aristocracy, she had learned the Norman French of the royal house of Plantagenet before the native English of her home, and the Gaelic Scots of her too close neighbors to the north.

He pulled the sword away, still without speaking, and walked around her. She turned, afraid to have him at her back. But as she followed his movement, she saw that he was not alone; two other men had come upon the rocky shore. They surrounded her. "All right, listen," she said slowly, her hands gripped into fists at her sides as she tried for a firm, authoritative, regal tone, and a bravado she was far from feeling. Courage was not easy when she stood there freezing and shaking, the taste of the ocean still on her lips, her clothing crusting to her with each frigid gust of the wind. "I am here to meet one of the most important men in all the realm of the king of France! If anything happens to me, he will hunt you down and hack you to pieces, bit by bit. Do you understand?"

For long, unnerving moments, no one spoke. Then the masked sword bearer stepped forward again. "I have money. I can pay you to leave me alone!" she shouted. To her relief, the man sheathed his sword. "You must help me. If you do, you will be rewarded. If you don't, you will be chopped up into little pieces." He understood, she thought. He was probably a thief and the worst cutthroat in Calais. But he understood money. "You understand?" she said. Apparently, he didn't. He reached for her. She cried out, stiffening, ready to fight, but his grip was firm; she was forced to him, her back to his chest, pinned there by the strength of his one arm. She shrieked along and began to struggle in earnest as she felt his hands on her clothing. She kicked, and squirmed, and was sure she did some harm, because she heard him grunt. But the way that he held her, like a constricting snake, she could scarcely breathe, she couldn't begin to use her arms. Indeed, it was as if he were crushing her, asphyxiating her ...

But his own left hand was free, foraging through her clothing. He found the pockets where she carried her money and her jewels. His men were coming forward. One, a short, slim little fellow dressed in a fine, fur-trimmed tunic, stood in front of her, grinning. "I think our friend has decided that he doesn't need you to give him money—not when he can take it." She still could barely move. The other two men, dressed in stolen finery, no doubt, came closer, helping her attacker to steal from the deep pockets of her clothing. She twisted and squirmed and kicked, all to no avail. Her feet were caught, wrapped in someone's belt, she was borne back down upon the sand, and her sodden clothing all but torn from her body. The masked wretch who might well have been sealing her doom with disease if she were to survive the attack suddenly straddled her prone form. She fought with such desperation that she nearly knocked the mask from his face, but he caught her hands, and bound her wrists with a strip of fabric torn from the hem of her dress. She cried out with ever-greater panic, but one of the thieves came forward with a fur blanket; it was thrown over her face. She next found herself being hoisted up, and minutes later, thrown over the haunches of a horse. A man mounted the animal as well.

He gave the horse a kick and it burst into a gallop. Not a bad gait for a large horse, if one were actually riding the animal! But she was flopped about, crashing into the moving, muscled shoulder of the horse, and then into the knee of the man, and into the horse again. It seemed they rode far. They must come to civilization! She thought. And refusing to accept her own most likely doom, she made plans to scream her loudest the second she heard activity around them. Someone would help her. Someone would understand when she said that she had come to meet Count Alain de Lacville. They would realize the jeopardy in which they had cast themselves!

In her heart, of course, she knew that Alain himself could never dash forward to her rescue; he was far too frail. But he would send dozens of men to avenge her, and these thieves now accosting her would hang from the highest post in France, if they were not cut down by the flashing steel of Alain's knights.

Yet, when at last they came to a halt, she heard no commotion around them. And when the rider dismounted and reached for her in the smothering folds of the fur blanket, she was shaking, and unable to stand, much less find the breath to scream. Her knees refused to straighten; she would have fallen. The leper picked her up; she shrank within the blanket, as if she could inch away from the touch of the man who held her. She was lightheaded; it was so difficult just to breathe that she prayed at that moment only to have the blanket removed from her face so that she might draw a clear cool breath freely from the air once again.

In a few moments, her prayer was answered. They entered a building; she heard the clump of boots against wooden flooring. There were stairs, she knew, because they were rising. Then she was tossed down on something decently soft; rope bedding with a feather mattress, she thought fleetingly. Then she tore at the fur covering on her face, ripping it away.

Tousled and sodden and trembling still, she looked into the masked face of her oppressor, and could see nothing, not even the color of his eyes, for the brim of the hat he wore covered them. Fear singed through her like lightning bolts, for she had no idea of where she was, other than a barren room with wooden flooring and walls, somewhere near Calais, France. He stood at the foot of the bed, staring down at her. Her clothing was wet, torn, and plastered to her, and she gasped for breath with even greater desperation as she realized the extent of her peril. Death was one thing. But these men could make death a long and excruciating process. How many of them were there? Just what might they do to her? And even if Alain avenged all this, what good would it do her, abused, broken, lying in her coffin?