Seize The Dawn (15 page)

She thought that when he spoke it would be gently; words perhaps of the amazement he had felt. But at last he brushed her cheek with his knuckles and a slow, soft smile curved his lips. "Interesting ending to the evening, my lady." She caught her breath, heart hammering. '
'Interesting.
Well, sir, thank you," she murmured. His smile deepened. "Interesting, amazing. Astounding." She knew that she trembled. She did not want to say many of the words that might have fallen from her lips. She had said that she wanted this. She had, with all her heart. She had claimed that she would have no regrets. Yet she might.

For in all her life, she might not ever have anything so sweet again ... "Ah, well, then," she tried to murmur lightly, still far too aware of the naked man atop her, and the intimacy between them, "I thank you again." He sobered, yet his smile remained, wistful, gentle, as he said, "I thank you, my lady. For I will remember this night until the day I die." "Before you die," she murmured, "there will surely be scores of lasses, Scots, French,
English,
and one day, the woman you will call wife. I doubt then that you will remember me, the enemy who succumbed far too easily." "Never too easily, and the enemy by birth and circumstance," he told her. "You longed for vengeance." "You nearly killed me." "In this," she said softly. "Perhaps you have found your greatest vengeance."

She never knew his answer, for there came a hard pounding on the door. "Brendan! Are you alive? Or has the lady managed to do you in at last?" It was Eric. "I'm well!" Brendan called back quickly. He stared into her eyes. "She has not skewered me." With a rueful glance, he rose. His back to her, he found his clothing, leaving his mail in a corner of the room. She started to rise. ' 'Nay, if you would sleep, if you would rest, you will not be disturbed." Fully clothed, the warrior again, he told her, "You have not been the prisoner you thought yourself for some time, my lady. And though the fellows who set upon you are friends, and friends of the Scottish cause, there are those about who are in truth lethal between this place and Paris." He swept her a bow. "You are in our company, and we would not allow it otherwise, but I pray that you accept the hospitality here as well."

She clutched the fur to her chest, rising in the bed. "The hospitality here, sir? I am not a prisoner, yet I am not to leave?" "Ah, well, think of yourself as a ward of the Scottish people, held for your safety, and cherished indeed." "I remain a prisoner." "You remain cherished and that is all." He departed, the door closed, and she was left with no choice but to ponder his words ... And tremble at the time gone by.

Chapter 8

"Sire, the Scots have arrived at Calais." Seated at a table in his great bedchamber, still in his night apparel and enjoying a meal of pheasant and cheese, the king acknowledged the news brought to him by his messenger, Count Rend Breslieu. "Ah." It was a different matter, now, the Scots arriving. He had known that Wallace had set sail for France. News carried amazingly fast across the Channel.

Breslieu, a young nobleman endowed with personal charm, agility, a strong sword arm and a very able horse, often served as his messenger, especially in cases such as this. His ears were nearly as sharp as his sword. "It's all very dramatic, Sire," Breslieu continued, standing at some distance from the table. "Apparently, Eleanor of Clarin was upon the high seas, on her way to meet our own Count de Lacville, when her ship was seized by the pirate de Longueville." Philip almost choked upon a juicy morsel of pheasant. He nearly rose. "But a young knight on Wallace's lead ship caught the pirate; everyone went to arms, and there was a pact signed between them—" "What of the Englishmen aboard the ship?" Philip asked. "Spared—those who survived the pirate, that being most of the men. De Longueville has far more often been after human goods than human lives. The English crew were sent in small boats back to the coast of England. Wallace will plead a pardon from you for the pirate, in lieu of his good behavior toward the lady promised to our own Count de Lacville."

"Hm," the king said, and leaned back, observing his messenger, while he considered the news. Philip of France was an intelligent man and a fair ruler with the constant thought that first and foremost in life, he was a king. He was also a handsome man, a capable king, and a warrior, as befitted the times in which he ruled. Comparatively tall, and blond, he knew that many of his subjects spoke of him as Philip the Fair, and he liked the description. The term, of course, referred to his appearance, but he liked to believe that it was also an assessment of his judgment. He was a careful king, but he also believed in his heart that he had God-given rights, as well as responsibilities, and he was deeply religious, though frequently at odds with the pope. He was a moral man, and through his wife, Jeanne, he was king of Navarre as well as France. France was indisputably his domain, and having reigned now for over sixteen years, he had both confidence in right, and in his right to determine what that might be.

Despite his attributes, he was aware himself that in many ways, he did not compare with Edward I of England. Few men did. Longshanks, as the English monarch was known, was taller than most men, could wield a sword with the finest, and backed down from no man. When he decided to decimate an enemy, he did so with a determination so fierce, little could ever stand in his way. Philip admired him and despised him. Recently, he had become his brother-in-law. The game of kings was never an easy one. Throughout the years, he had fought the English and made pacts with the Scots. He had, in fact, been at war with the English since 1294. Through all the fighting, though, at times, he had made treaties with the enemy.

War was expensive. He was a king known for promoting royal power and containing feudal power, but he was also a king known for alleviating taxation.

The French and the English had fought bitterly over Gascony; so many people had died, so much of the countryside had been ravaged. His men had fought with the Scots; the Scots had fought with his men, including William Wallace and many of the men now in his retinue.

Philip acknowledged Edward for all that he was, but he admired Wallace with a far greater wonder, because the man was a complete enigma. Kings fought for their domains, for their personal aggrandizement. Knights rode off on crusade for the glory of God—and for whatever personal riches they could claim. Barons, earls, counts and dukes fought for power, to hold what was there. Wallace fought simply for a land, and for his people. Defeated in battle at Falkirk, he had come soon after to Paris, and while pleading his case with Philip, had had proved his worth by taking up arms while the fighting in Gascony was still going on fiercely. Wallace and his men were willing to risk their lives in any cause for Scotland. Sometimes it seemed an incredible waste of valor. Philip now held Gascony. He had regained it when he gave his sister, Margaret, to Edward for his second wife. The English king, it was said even among his enemies, had adored his first wife, Eleanor of Castile, but having been such a loving husband, and still a king, he had seen fit to wed again. Philip, of course, had weighed all angles. Edward was old—and reckless to a fault. He had lived hard. His new wife would not bear him the heir to the throne, nor could she reign as a dowager queen. She might not be queen of England for long at all. Also, negotiations had begun regarding Philip's own daughter, Isabelle; she would wed Edward's eldest son and heir, and there would be the needed link for the future. Philip's grandchildren would rule England, as they would rule France.

And so, the king of France hadn't given the English king his most beautiful and desirable sister, but rather the younger Margaret. She was sixteen, sweet, charming, and with an admirable integrity for such a young woman. Edward was ... well, much, much, older. That was one pleasure Philip could take in life; Edward of England might be tall, but he, Philip, was young. To look at the world was intriguing. Bitter wars fought long and hard could be ended with the stroke of a pen—and a marriage. Indeed, there was no contract so important and strategic as that of a marriage.

For his sister, he had obtained Gascony once again. And signed another treaty. That was the way of the world. And still ... He would be delighted to entertain Wallace—his brother- in-law's most hated enemy—at his court. No matter what papers he had signed, he hadn't forgotten the man, Wallace, or his service. Besides,
he,
Philip, ruled France, remained King of France. And this was France. "Well, sire, what news shall I carry to Calais?" "De Longueville spent his pirating days attacking Englishmen, I have heard," Philip said. Breslieu cleared his throat. "Aye, Sire. I believe he took a number of Spaniards as well, but did seem to hold regard for those vessels bearing flags of his own nationality."

"I assume then, that a pardon might be arranged." "And as to the Scots?" Philip pushed back from the table and rose. "They are welcome at my court. Indeed, we must assure Count de Lacville that his bride will soon arrive safely to our care. And ..." He hesitated. "The abdicated king of the Scots, John Balliol, resides so near. We must make him welcome, also." There was contempt in his voice. When Edward of England had first begun setting a vise around Scotland, most learned men of the day had agreed that John Balliol should rightly inherit the Scottish throne. The claimants to the throne had come down to the descendants of the sisters of King David, and he was the descendant of the eldest sister. But a poorer choice among the nobility could not be found. Balliol was not a bad man, just a weak one. His first attempt at power had been ruthlessly crushed by Edward. He had abdicated and been banished to Rome, under papal care. Now, he was living in France, and doing so happily. Men fought in his name, but Balliol was far happier an outcast in France than a king in Scotland. He hadn't the stomach for the job. He hadn't the valor and integrity of a Wallace—or the cunning of a Bruce.

"We will be delighted to see our good friend William Wallace, we will pardon the pirate when the petition is made, and we will reward the young hothead follower of Wallace who rescued the betrothed bride of our good servant Alain de Lacville, and see that all are reunited." Breslieu bowed low to him. "Sire, as you command." Philip seated himself again as Breslieu departed. He smiled slowly and reached for the wine. A good wine, though a young wine—a very young wine—from the estate granted to the exiled king of Scots. He hoped that Edward heard of this meeting. He'd be angry, of course. But what was a king to do? Philip thought mockingly. After all, the Scots were returning an English noblewoman to him, to the arms of her rightful French betrothed. All kings negotiated upon necessity. Edward must understand. Yes, he must understand. And still, he'd be furious.

Philip started to laugh out loud. Aye, Edward would be angry. He might just have an apoplexy. Eleanor's captors, whom she had assumed to be the worst manner of thieves, harlots, and brigands, were not. The following morning, the statuesque Helene tapped gently at Eleanor's door. "Countess, you are awake?" She was only halfway so. She shrank beneath the fur, but Helene did not enter the room. "M'lady, we must watch out for your safety, of course, but I thought you might like to see some of Calais." Pardon?" Helene laughed. "Word has gone out to the king of your arrival; we believe an escort will be sent. We, cannot trust you alone—there are too many cutthroats about—but with an escort, I thought you might enjoy a walk." "Aye, yes, yes! But I need to wash and dress—" "Of course. I'll bring fresh water. And your trunks will be brought as well." She heard Helene's footsteps receding, and she lay back for a long moment, thinking about what she had done. It had seemed ... something she desperately wanted. And rightfully so, because she knew what her life would be: She meant to be a good wife to Alain, and bring prosperity to Clarin, and be the young woman of compassion and integrity her father's child should be. Her life was preordained. She, of course, loathed the Scots who had slaughtered so many people in their vengeance! But still ... Something in her ached terribly this morning. Ached and reveled. She could remember his every touch, the sound of his voice, his whisper, the feel of his lips, his flesh ... aye, his flesh, taut, smooth, the feel of muscle beneath, the heat, the stunning heat ...

She had wanted to know, and she had wanted a memory, and she had wanted, just for a brief moment,
him.
But what she had done was to create a lifetime of torture for herself, for aye, she had a memory, and it would haunt her, and she would never forget. "Water!" Helene called as the door opened, and she brought in a large ewer and bowl. "I'll give you time," she said pleasantly. She smiled at Eleanor. "Your trunks arrive behind me." Eleanor sank deeper within the fur as youths she had not seen before lugged in her heavy trunks, then departed with Helene. The door closed behind them softly as they left.

Eleanor rose quickly, shivering as cool air touched her naked flesh. She trembled as she washed and dressed, for it seemed he somehow remained with her, and as she splashed her face with cool water, she realized that she wanted him now with a great urgency; there was an agony in her soul unlike anything she had ever imagined. With a greater fervor, she washed herself, and reminded herself of the brutal truth. He was an outlaw without a real home, an enemy of her king, one of them—the hated Scots. He would spend his silly life following after Wallace—and having his head removed with his hero as well, most probably! She was a woman with great responsibilities, and that was the brutal truth in life. And a greater truth was that they had nothing in common, despised one another's loyalties, and were not just nations apart, but worlds apart. She really didn't like him at all; he had played a terrible trick on her, and they had all laughed at her, and she ...

Had thrown herself at him. She straightened. Pride, she assured herself, must somehow come to her salvation. This was not a casual game she played. Word had gone out to Philip—a king. She was betrothed to a French nobleman. Lives could be at stake. There was a tap at her door again. "Lady Eleanor?" "I am ready." As ready as she could be. She had chosen a simple blue tunic, a soft gray under dress, and warm hose. She eschewed any of her fur trimmed cloaks for a simple Flemish wool. She was glad, when Helene opened the door, to see that her escort was dressed similarly. "Come then, we're to the baker and the market."