Seize The Dawn (16 page)

Anne-Marie was waiting at the foot of the stairs. She seemed friendly and rueful, though not apologetic as they left the house. "The ruse was not my idea, of course," she assured Lady Eleanor promptly. "But, la, Brendan was angry that you would have so little faith in the Scots getting you to Paris!" "One has to look out for oneself in this wretched world," H61£ne said. "Lady Eleanor was right to seek her own freedom." Anne-Marie gasped as if Helene had said something horrible. But H61£ne defended herself. "Look at the many terrible things which have happened to women in the wars with
Edward!"
She spat out the name. She looked at Eleanor. "Wallace's woman was murdered in her own home for refusing to tell what she did not know. And he has never been the same since."

"Aye, he's wreaked vengeance everywhere," Eleanor murmured. "They have all become bitter and cruel," Helene agreed. The house seemed some distance from the town, but she moved quickly, and Eleanor found that she was hard-pressed to keep up with her. Anne-Marie was accustomed to the pace, and she continued Helene's explanation. "Which is why Brendan was so angry with you. He said that you had foolishly risked your life time and time again against men who meant to get you where you wished to go." ' 'So what is right?'' Helene persisted. "How was Lady Eleanor to be certain?" ' 'Diving from a ship to the docks of Calais could have landed you in the hands of stupid men who would not know your worth, and who might have killed you for the gold in your skirts alone," Anne-Marie said. "And if you had been left to de Longueville alone ..."

"Anne-Marie!" Helene said. "We were told—" "Aye, look to the harbor. "A cold day, but a beautiful one. Look at the sun shining on the masts—" Eleanor came to a halt, causing the other women to do so as well. "What about de Longueville?" Eleanor demanded. "He is a pirate; he seized ships, but I believe now that he is no cold-blooded murderer, but a man to ask ransom for those he captures."

"Usually, of course," Helene said. "Come along; we'll not have the best choice at the fish market. It is a beautiful city, our Calais. A big city, but you'll not see so much from here— we are near the docks, the outskirts, but look! We go down the slope, and it will not be easy to see, but the city is a lively place! So many goods hawked along the streets," Anne-Marie told her. "If we get going," Helene said impatiently. She started off briskly. They had reached an alley fringed by shuttered houses. Eleanor followed, determined that eventually she'd have her answers. But the other two women were moving very quickly, and for the moment, it was fascinating to be in the narrow streets. It was a large city, houses abutting one another, some very old, some new. Children played, kicking stones in an alley. Housewives threw open their shutters, shouting, "Attendez! L'eau!" She backed against a wall as a stout woman cast out the morning's wash water—and the morning's waste—with a haphazard throw.

"Watch! Watch! They are quick and careless along here!" she cried. A baker passed, his goods balanced in a straw basket on his head. A donkey cart carried a tinker with his various needles and scissors and sewing goods. The street was busy, and dirty, and boisterous, but it felt good to be out, and to see the town, and all that went on with such industry. On a street corner, a vendor peddled what he hawked as "bonjour vin." He saw them approaching and advised, "Ah, ladies, gentle, light, and sweet, a taste of the grape to just quench and soothe te palate!" Anne-Marie decided that she must have a taste, and they stopped, drinking from wooden cups. "Be she the countess?" Eleanor heard the little man whisper to Anne-Marie.

"Aye, so she be, and watch your tongue!" Anne-Marie advised. "You're taking the lady to be Alain de Lacville's wife to the fish market, and I should watch my tongue!" the fellow demanded with laughter. "You should watch it, else Wallace should slit it!" Helene warned. The fellow backed away, but a moment later, as they left him, she heard tones strummed on a lute, and the soft sounds of a ballad. Seized by a pirate, to be a fine prize, upon the Arab plain, Seized by a Scot, to be a fine prize, against an English king, But a Frenchman is to be the saint, The one to end the ring, Ah, the beautiful lady of Clarin, alas, Shall face but the pain of betrayal again.

Eleanor stopped walking and stared at both of the other women. "Come, come, my lady,'' Helne said.' 'The little jackanapes is right—we shouldn't really have brought you out. You're a countess, far superior to such a jaunt as this—" "What is it that everyone knows and no one tells me!" she demanded. "Nothing!" Anne-Marie denied quickly. "Nothing that we can see," Helene amended, seeing Eleanor's eyes. "You must ask Brendan, or Wallace. Or de Longueville himself."

She turned, and Eleanor knew that was the end of it for the moment, but the joy had gone out of the morning. They purchased bread, fish and even flowers, all to be brought to the house, and they returned, Helene and Anne-Marie still speaking lightly. "Am I allowed to ask this," Eleanor said as they approached the wild and overgrown expanse leading to the house, "How have you come to know the Scots, and isn't it dangerous, perhaps, with the French king's sister now wed to the English king?" Helene laughed. "Well, for one, I am not French at all." "Scottish?" Eleanor asked. "A little. Mostly Norse." "And I," Anne-Marie said, "have a French mother, and a Scottish father." "And even Jacques!" H61£ne said. "His father is a Frenchman, and his mother kin to Douglas of Scotland." "A fine warrior," Anne-Marie commented. "Aye, and that's true," Helne said. "So..." "The French may have signed a treaty with England, but believe me, the alliances with Scotland over the years have been deep and binding." "And here, in Calais ... what do you do?" Eleanor asked, surprised to feel her face flushing. "She thinks that we are really ..." Anne-Marie began. "Prostitutes!" Helene said. They both went into gales of laughter. "It would be the appearance you have given!" Eleanor said tardy. "But, of course!" Anne-Marie said. "We are not prostitutes. We are ... messengers. We stay on the coast, we watch the comings and goings of others, we keep our ears open." "You are spies?" she inquired. "Messengers," Anne-Marie repeated firmly. "And more, perhaps," Helene said quietly. "We are all interwoven, you see. Friends and relatives—who do not care for Edward I, the tryant of England. He has his right to be king—of England. He destroyed the Welsh, obliterating his enemies. It is what he intends to do to the Scots. While he also reneges on the French. We are all loyal to a man who fights for simple freedom. Our place at the moment is here, and that is all."

"Are you related to Eric?'' Eleanor asked her. She smiled. "Eric is Brendan's cousin. The Graham family and the Norse have had ties for many, many years. And yes, I am related to Eric, though not to Brendan. Eric has long been an adventurer, yet loyal to Brendan's cause, and Brendan has said that no man in the world has the integrity of William Wallace, and no matter what battles are lost, the English will not have the wild northern and western isles that remain either heavily Norse, or under Viking domain. And aye, simply in the lands that once belonged to Picts, or those that were ruled by Moray before his death soon after the Battle of Stirling, freedom is not forgotten."

"Freedom," Eleanor told her, "is often only a word—" "Aye. Because you're not at all free, are you?" "I was seized by a pirate and handed over to men who are my enemies—" "I don't mean that at all, and you know it," Helene told her. She sighed. "Forgive me; you are a countess, and about to marry a man admired here in France, a man known for his valor and integrity as well. But you are not free. You are not free of your family, and you are not free of your king, and you will do as you must and live out your life in your English prison, no matter how great the power of your king. Again, my lady, I beg your forgiveness."

For a moment, she just stared at Helene, wanting to argue, knowing she had all the right words and protestations, but unable to find them. "It is not that I am not free," she said at last. "I am responsible to the country of my birth, and to people of my small part of that country. They have suffered heavily in this war we have waged with the Scots, and most of them are innocent of any wrongdoing against anyone. They seek livelihoods, a way to feed their children, to live, and so much has been decimated—" "And you will marry the Count de Lacville, and your people will live happily ever after," Helfcne murmured. "I have chosen to marry the count," she said quietly. Anne-Marie let out a loud sniff at last. "Ah, yes! In lieu of a monster, so it is said!"

"You really don't begin to understand—" Eleanor protested again. "We understand perfectly," H61dne said. "You are very noble, and very rich, and if you don't make such an advantageous match, then Longshanks will step in and take the matter from the hands of your family—such as they are!" "There you go, hinting again!" Eleanor said. 'Tell me—" "Countess! I am freezing!" Anne-Marie interrupted. "We must get back in the house." "You must tell me—" "You must ask Brendan." "Look, please! I don't understand—" Helene interrupted with a deep sigh. "You must ask Brendan." "I shall." She hurried on into the house ahead of them, walking straight to her room.

He should have stayed away. Brendan knew it. The king's messenger, Count Breslieu, was arriving soon with a welcome and an escort from Philip. They had all known that news of their arrival would reach Paris quickly; today Wallace had sent a personal message to the king. All was in good order: despite the current "peace" the French were enjoying with the English, Philip would prove his independence at any given chance. He was not Edward's lackey.

He should have stayed away. He could not change the situation. Nor could he stay away. When he arrived, Anne-Marie advised him that Eleanor was in her room. He walked up the stairs, saw the closed door, and considered knocking. He tapped lightly in warning, but did not wait for her to bid him to enter. He opened the door, closing it behind him.

She stood by the window, magnificent in soft blue. She had worn no wimples, veils, or headdress of any kind since her arrival, and she did not do so now. The sun in the rectangle o: the window cast a glow upon her and the bound length of he hair down her back seemed in glory. Her features were defined regal, beautiful. His breath caught in his throat; for all his strength in his muscles, they trembled. What had one night done, he wondered bleakly, to a warrior, an outlaw, and a commoner? She knew he was there. She did not turn to him. He walked to where she stood by the window. He didn't touch her. "I warned you: no regrets," he said, and the words were far more harsh than he had intended. She looked at him at last, her eyes grave. "I have none." "The king is aware—" "I know." "So you are safe; you will soon be where you meant to be when you started out across the sea." "Yes, I know."

"Thank God. I had thought you were contemplating the possibilities of flying out the window." A small smile touched her lips. "No." Then she turned to face him squarely. "No regrets. But I am weary of whatever it is that your people whisper about behind my back." He stepped away from her, walking to the hearth with a pretense of warming his hands at the blaze. "If you don't wish to talk to me, sir, you are welcome to depart." His back, to her, stiffened. Ah, yes, there she was—the countess. The noble lady, the tone of voice, the absolute expectation. He turned back to her. "My lady, don't use such a tone with me." "I have suffered much at your hands. My tone is of little consequence." "You've suffered?" he inquired.

She had the grace to blush, but she did not look away. "I have every intention of talking to you. And to Count de Lacville." "What?" she said sharply, and he was certain that the breath was caught in her lungs, that a certain fear crossed her eyes. "De Longueville was paid in Liverpool to go after your ship. Specifically." "I beg your pardon?" "I held such information from you when I deemed that it might be exaggerated, or even a lie. But since you will marry de Lacville and return to Clarin, you must be aware of the dangers you face." "Sir—" "You have enemies, my lady." "You are saying that someone paid de Longueville to come after me? To what end?" "Your disappearance." "That is a bald-faced lie!" "De Longueville had no reason to lie." "If I have enemies, sir, they are the Scots. The people who slaughtered innocents on hereditary estates, and those against whom I took up arms." "De Longueville had no reason to lie." "De Longueville is a rogue and a pirate—" "Out for gain, my lady, not murder." "Oh? And did he intend to murder me?" she inquired scathingly. "No. He probably wasn't sure of his intent. Being a pirate— and a businessman—he would have considered his situation and realized that he would make much more by delivering you to Alain de Lacville and receiving payment from both ends. Then again, a good pirate knows how to sail many seas. You might have spent your days in the company of Moslem infidels. A woman with such coloring as yours is a prized treasure among many a good harem."

She stared at him incredulously, then walked to the door, opening it. "Go, Sir Brendan." He leaned against the hearth, crossing his arms over his chest. "You asked for the truth. I have given it to you. You are in danger from your own people." She shook her head. "No. You don't understand. While I remained at home,
unwed,
I was the least threat to anyone in my family! If I die childless, the property reverts—" "We both know that when the situation came to the king's attention, he would have found a husband for you. Again, a countess with hereditary lands ... still young, in her child- bearing years, not just retaining all her teeth but an ethereal beauty as well... Edward is no fool. He would have pondered long and hard and chosen for you, had he not approved a marriage to the very rich Frenchman de Lacville!"

She still stood staring at him, fiercely angry. "My cousins are not just good men, strong knights for the king's service, but they are men of honor and integrity as well." "Is this argument for me, or yourself?" he inquired. "It is no argument. I state fact." "As I have done." "Will you please get out?" He walked from the hearth to her at last. Closer. He could breathe her in. He was almost touching her. Not quite. She flattened against the wall. The door remained open. Staring down at her, listening to the ragged intake of her breath and all but certain that he could hear the pounding of her heart, he closed the door. She stared into his eyes. "I will warn Count Alain de Lacville, of course." "He will laugh at you." "Will he?" "He knows my family." "He is an intelligent man." "You have mocked him for being old." "He is old—but intelligent." She lowered her lashes, then her head. He caught her chin with his forefinger, drawing her eyes back to his. "We haven't much time." "You are a liar. A liar, a trickster, a monster—a Scot." "The last, most definitely." "You are the most horrid and despicable man I have ever met." Her breath was coming faster. "I do apologize for that," he said. "We are what we are, and none of what I am could I change, would I change." "I—you ..." "And none of what you are would I change in any way, my lady, for you are a simple taste of beauty, and perfection."