Seize The Dawn (18 page)

"It's from a May Day dance in our wild highlands, my lady, where they still believe in the spirits of the earth, and I shall do my very best to show you." Brendan watched them, sipping his wine, still somewhat amazed. Enemies. They were still enemies. No matter what had gone on between them, she had made that clear. Yet she danced now with
Wallace.
He shook his head, wishing he were not so obsessed with watching her, the way she laughed, the way her hair fell, the sparkle of amusement in her eyes.

"Sir Brendan?" Helene held a hand out to him. He joined her. And on the floor, they danced, yet, when Jacques started up again, Brendan found that they had changed partners, and that Eleanor's hands were in his, and he was meeting her eyes himself. They moved around the floor, and she seemed to know the steps exactly, and she told him at one point, "It is a lovely dance." "From a lovely country. You can't imagine the colors of the highlands, the cairns, the mountains, the rises, falls, lochs, the beauty." "No, perhaps I cannot, for I've never seen it." "The islands in the west are glorious, rugged, with the sea spray wild against them, and the water itself blue and gray and ever changing."

"And red," she said softly. "Red?" "Drenched in the blood of outlaws," she murmured, and pulled away from him, returning to the table, apparently for more wine. The evening wore on. He wasn't sure exactly when she slipped away, or when Eric and Margot departed, and the others seemed to slip quiedy from the hall. He remained alone with Wallace, and they watched the embers in the dying fire, and Wallace reminded him, "The escort comes tomorrow." "Aye." "Would you waste what time you have?"

And so he rose, walked up the stairs, and came to her room. There, he paused, and braced both hands against the door. He was a madman. Would you waste what time you have?
Wallace had asked.
And he wondered, would she be awaiting him? The night was so still. The fire did not even crackle. The flames waved and danced, red and gold, but made not the slightest sound.

And so she could hear her heart, beating within her chest, pounding. Each rise of her breath seemed like a gust of chill winter wind, and she prayed for the blaze to warm her. She didn't want to leave. The room had become a haven, because
he
came to it, and as long as she lived, she would not forget the way this fire burned, the colors it cast upon the wall, upon him, the sheen it created of crimson upon his flesh, and the contours of his body. She waited. She had laughed, she had learned the dance, she had whirled to the music of the lute. Wallace had spoken of the pipes, and she had yearned to hear the music. And in her heart, she thought, she was a traitor, for these people had brought death and destruction; yet she had come to realize that they too had died, and bled, and that they bled for a cause in which they believed, against a king she had believed she had honored, did honor, would honor. She closed her eyes and tried to remember the horror at Clarin when the Scots had come, but against her lids she saw only the dance of the flame, and remembered only the glow and warmth, and her heart beat harder.

She waited ... And at last, the door opened, and in the darkness of the night and the dance of the flame, he was there. She sat up, letting the covers fall, and saw only the silhouette of the man, there in the door. She knew his height, his stance, and breadth of his shoulders. He stayed a moment, and she thought that he watched her, against the dance of the flame, and seeing her, he would know that she waited, for she wore nothing but the drape of her hair over her breasts, and even at his distance, he must hear the pounding of her heart. Aye, he would know that she waited ...

Would he know that she had prayed? At last he left the door, and it closed in his wake. And she would have risen to meet him, except that too quickly, he was with her. She was in his arms. And she prayed that the flame could dance forever. He woke to the first faint streaks of light in the eastern sky. She slept still. Embers burned softly in the hearth, but the morning had come. And yet he lingered. She lay entangled with him, limbs entwined, hair soft, warm, and sweet against his chest. He barely moved, but savored the haunting scent of her hair and flesh, the feel of her, the sleekness of her form. There was the faintest tap upon the door; it opened a bare crack. " 'Tis dawn,'' came a deep, softly spoken voice, and he realized that Eric had kept vigil for him.

She would marry her count; she had never wavered from that vow. And he was sworn to a cause he had no right to threaten, yet if he were willing to cast all ethics and morals aside along with the dream, he would avail himself nothing, for she was sworn to her course, and had no intent to alter from it. Yet in the dawn he was tempted to seize her, demand that she give up her count and her land, and swear that it was nothing, that she must cast it all aside, and run with him, and fight with him, aye, fight ...

The English. Her people. His fingers trembled. He touched her hair and pressed his lips against her shoulder. He held there, simply breathing. Touching her. Each muscle within him knotted and groaned; he gritted his teeth as if he were cut by steel. And still he held. Breathing. As if he could breathe her in, and hold her somehow within him ... But he could not. Then he rose, and dressed, and paused just one more moment, pulling linen sheets and fin around her. Once again, he touched the softness of her hair, and thought that she needed no cast of flame to make it burn with a golden splendor.

He turned then, and forced himself not to look back. He left the room, closing the door behind him, and feeling the soft sound as if it were the whir of a headsman's axe. In the hall, Eric waited.

"We ride to greet the escort," he said. He nodded. "So we do." Count Breslieu was a pleasant sort, gallant as he greeted Eleanor, charming, but not flirtatious. He was eager to hear about her well-being, yet concerned that they should depart. He was traveling with two of the king's knights, and two ladies to serve her should she need any assistance. She informed him she was quite well, and that she had no desire to ride in a conveyance, but would much prefer her own horse, as she was eager to see the countryside. That could be arranged.

They left Calais with a fairly large party: the French escort party of five; Wallace, riding with a group of six of his men, Brendan and Eric among them; the pirate, le Longueville, Margot, and Helene. There were also the five servants to see to the baggage wagons. Her maid, Bridie—whom, God forgive her, she had almost forgotten—would be awaiting her in Paris. She was grateful, of course, but she wondered if Bridie would know her still, she had changed so much in so little time. Or had she? No, the changes were on the inside. But today ...

He had left her simply that morning; not a word, not a good-bye, not a prayer for the future. He rode ahead at first, conversing intently with Wallace and Breslieu. Margot and Hdl&ne flanked her, staying at her side. H61ene pointed out many of the beauties of the countryside as they rode.

They stopped for the night at St. Omer, where they were warmly welcomed by the brothers at the seventh-century monastery. The following day dawned bright and clear and, after morning prayers and a light repast, saw them to Arras. Eleanor, with Margot and Helene at her side, paid a visit to the local weavers, where she couldn't help but purchase a beautiful
milles fleurs,
a fitting gift for Alain.

After a restful night at a local inn, they continued to Amiens. Before they left the city the next morning, Breslieu said that they should stop at the cathedral of Notre Dame, and pray for a continued safe journey, and for the futures of Scotland and France. It was a beautiful place, still under construction, yet the nave and altar were fine, with great arches and ceilings that might have touched the sky. A priest was awakened for mass, and when she knelt at the altar, she realized that Brendan was beside her. She dipped her head low over her hands, trying to remember that she was in God's house.

"Praying that you will be a good and loyal wife?" She looked to her side, expecting humor and mockery, but Brendan's eyes were grave. "Perhaps. I should be. And you, sir? Are you praying that you might smite all Englishmen and win freedom for Scotland?" "No, my lady," he said simply. "I am praying to forget you." He rose, and left the altar, and she was left to bow her head again, fighting the sudden sting of tears that came to her eyes. She remained kneeling there, unaware of the passage of time until she felt a hand on her shoulder.

Breslieu. "Forgive me, my lady. The king would greatly admire your piety, but it is time to ride. We will ride without careless haste, yet with a moderate rate, and will bring you safely to Paris and Count de Lacville by the morrow." She rose as bidden. Her head still bowed, she followed him from the church, and allowed him to help her to mount.

The countryside was beautiful. She tried to see it, to enjoy it, to respond when Helene or Breslieu made a point of showing her the landscape, bare as it might be, with winter still upon them. Brendan did not keep any special distance. At times, he rode with Breslieu; at times it seemed he was in deep conversation with Wallace. At times, he was behind her. They reached Beauvais with the darkness, and Eleanor discovered that their accommodations had been planned. She was given the finest room at the manor of the Count

Clavant, at court himself at present, and yet, glad to be the absent host for their party. A meal had been prepared ahead of time, but at this table, she was the only woman present; Margot, Helene, and the other two women sent from court to serve her would eat elsewhere. Only Breslieu, Wallace, Eric, and Brendan were at the table with her, and it was only after several glasses of wine that Breslieu himself, though previously cordial and charming, seemed to let down a bit of his guard. Each time he spoke of affairs, however, he apologized to Eleanor.

"Sir William, you do have your balls, sir! Oh, do forgive me, my lady. To come upon the French shore—with a French pirate. I tell you, the king's hatred of old Edward—do forgive me, my lady—assures his safety, and of course, your previous service to our king, assures your own, as always. Why, he'd be delighted to give you a spit of land and set you at the head of his armies—" "And I am delighted to have such a great king's confidence," Wallace interrupted. "Well, with warriors such as yours ... ah, Brendan! Remember, we rode in Gascony together, when you followed William here, soon after Falkirk. Sweet Jesu, but I don't remember such a fighter elsewhere! You hacked your way through a score of English knights that day, my fine fellow!"

"It was a fierce battle," Brendan said tightly. "Oh, I am sorry, my lady!" Breslieu exclaimed to Eleanor. "With your beauty, I keep thinking of you as French!" "A strange compliment, count, but I thank you," she murmured. Breslieu looked at Eleanor, assessing what he saw, then asking with a sudden hint of anger. "The pirate did not harm you in any way?" She smiled pleasantly, lifting her glass. "We barely spoke. I was not harmed." "Ah, and then you had these lusty fellows seizing the pirate! There's rumor, though, that you didn't trust a Scot, my lady. Did you really dive overboard—in winter?''

"Twice," Brendan answered for her. She didn't look his way. "Where I come from, sir, it is easy to mistrust the Scots." "Ah ... well, you're among Frenchmen now, eh?" "Aye, among Frenchmen," she murmured. "So, my lady," he teased, "did you find the Scotsmen to be evil?" "Only when they plucked me from the sea," she returned lightly. "Twice!'' Breslieu said, and laughed, shaking his head.' 'My lady, of course, rumor precedes you, but you do supersede it admirably." "Again, thank you." "Though not all men are glad for such a willful bride." "Would they rather a senseless twit without the reason or intelligence to fight back?" Brendan demanded suddenly.

Breslieu looked quickly to him. "Not I! But then, how good this is to see. For my lady, you led troops at the battle of Falkirk, I heard, when so many Scots were so bitterly defeated." "I did not lead troops; I was among them." "A sign of God's beauty, grace, and justice!" Breslieu said. She did not reply. The table was silent. Breslieu cleared his throat. "Well, here you are, you see it, a truce among enemies." She looked up at last, eager to see Brendan's eyes. He was watching her, as she had expected. She lifted her glass. "A truce." "I admit, my lady, to a trace of envy," Breslieu said. "My friend Alain, Count de Lacville, is a very lucky man." "Aye, that he is," Wallace said firmly. She felt the strangest chill around her heart.

The French ladies, Mademoiselles Genot and Braille, were sent to attend her as she prepared for bed; she waited for them to leave, despite the fact that she was no longer in the care of the Scots. She was among Frenchmen, as Breslieu had told her. Brendan would not come to her in this manor. And yet she prayed that he would. He mustn't, she thought; it would be suicide. Yet, tomorrow, they would arrive in Paris, and God knew what awaited them there. If they were found out, Breslieu must, for French honor, challenge him, and Wallace would defend Brendan, and there could be a fight, would be a fight, and the ideals of a people, of a nation, would be compromised. No, she must pray that he did not come.

The ladies cared for her clothing, brushed her hair, readied the room. They chatted a bit, but were careful as well, not spreading gossip, lest she repeat it. She was an unknown to them, as they were to her. She could barely sit as her hair was brushed. And yet, when they were done, she remained at the table, staring at her reflection, and wondering bleakly what she had done to them both. He would not come. Could not come. Yet moments later, she was startled by a sound at the windows, and going there, she discovered that there was a balcony. Brendan had just grasped the long nose of a protective griffin, using the stonework to crawl over the ornamented stone wall. She threw open the mullioned windows just as he appeared. He was kilted this evening, nothing but a linen shirt beneath, with the wool plaid fastened over his shoulder. He leaned against the comer of the stone balcony wall.

"I decided against the stairs," he told her. "Most certainly, a wise choice," she told him gravely. "And a foolish choice." "We've not yet reached Paris." They stood in the moonlight still. That, too, was foolish. "No, we've not yet reached Paris," she agreed. He lifted his hand; she took it, and quickly retreated into the room. She did not sleep that night. The hours were far too precious. She lay beside him, running a finger down his chest. "Remember a time, aboard the ship, when you said that I was pathetic at best?"