Seize The Dawn (21 page)

He rose and came around to her. She protested as he cracked his way down to one knee, but he would do so at her side. "I will cherish every minute of having you as my wife."

"No. You couldn't, and mustn't. Not now. He will ride with Wallace, and God knows, eventually, he might well have his fool head removed from those broad young shoulders. But I do not begrudge what you might have shared, my dear. Despite my infirmities, I am a proud man, and I will not be made a fool or a cuckold, but until you say your vows, my lady, you are guilty of no sin against me. Do you understand?"

She touched his silver hair. "I would never hurt you."

"I know that you would not. Neither, lady, would I cause you any pain I could avoid for you. But for the time ..."

"Sir, everything I do, I do with my eyes wide open, with all intentions of being your wife, your countess, and lady of Clarin."

"I know, Eleanor. I know that. Now, help an old man back to his feet. I'm for my own bedroom, my lady."

When he was gone, Bridie came in, chattering away. She talked about how noble and wonderful the count was, and how glad she was that Eleanor had reached Paris safely. She was so talkative, she didn't notice that Eleanor had little to say in reply.

Her heart quickened. She sat up. It had not been her door to open. She realized that Bridie had opened the door from the antechamber to the hall.

Chapter 11

They were housed in a building just beyond the palace, and it was there that John Balliol came to see Wallace.

Wallace gravely gave Balliol an account of what was happening in Scotland.

"All was lost with Falkirk," Balliol told them. He was a slim man, his face not old, but showing the strain the years had taken.

"All was not lost at Falkirk!" Wallace said angrily.

Brendan gritted his teeth, wishing that Wallace could see more clearly that they fought a losing battle here, one far more fatal than Falkirk.

He stood, striding to stand between Wallace and Balliol. "Sire, you do not see the spirit that lies behind the people—"

"I see the greed and corruption of the clans, and the lowlanders who are more English than Scottish, ready to bend their knees to Edward," Balliol said. "I see Comyn and Bruce, ready to claim the throne, ready to kill to achieve it. I see those who ride for the Scots one minute, then take flight in the same battle to fight on the other side, eager for Edward's rewards!"

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!" Wallace swore, "no great prize is won without a fight!"

"Perhaps, once ..." Balliol said. "Sir William, you had the people. But they were decimated at Falkirk. The barons refuse to follow you—"

"But there are men, aye, nobles among them, who do fight the English, who set against them from Scottish casdes, who rob them blind. The dream remains, John. You must have the stomach to achieve it!"

Balliol lowered his head. "I subjugated myself to Edward. I have abdicated the throne. I have kept my head upon my shoulders."

Wallace gripped the arms of Balliol's chair, staring into his face. ' 'I remain willing to set mine upon the block. Come back to Scotland."

Balliol was silent. Brendan noted the fine cut of his clothing, the style of his boots. Balliol had been humiliated before his people, he had been paraded through the streets. But when exiled in Italy, he had been shown courtesy. Here, he was living in great comfort.

He was not coming back to Scotland.

"I cannot come back now," Balliol said at last. Brendan gripped Wallace's shoulders, holding him as Balliol rose. "Secure freedom, sir, and I will gladly rule. What good a king would I be, headless?"

Eric, who had sat by the fire and had not moved, answered that question. "A martyr, sire. And the people would rise in your name!"

"They're both right. But John Balliol is a weakling, and a coward. And Bruce is a turnabout, but by God, he has courage."

He closed his eyes, summoning to his mind the battle of Falkirk, the screams of the dying, the carnage, the blood. John Graham, dying, reminding him ...

They had to fight. They had to fight until freedom was won. And if they did not, then all their loved ones had died in vain.

"Aye, we'll keep fighting," he said. "No matter what the cost." He followed Wallace out. The city of Paris teemed around him. Workers with wagons of materials headed for the site of the cathedral, still creating that masterpiece of white stone that glinted in the sun.

He closed his eyes. The winter air was good. It didn't smell of human waste today, but of fresh baking bread. Children laughed in the street.

A full boar with an apple in its mouth, and festoons upon its tusks, was in the center of the head table. Pheasants appeared ready to take flight. Wine was served in ornamented carafes resembling birds and animals.

Jugglers performed in the center of the hall, hounds barked now and then, wagging their great tails as a scrap was thrown their way. The king and queen sat at the head table, surrounded by the greater nobility, followed by the lesser nobility, followed by the king's knights, the poets, the court physicians, and the scholars and artists. Music played throughout the meal, jesters amused, acrobats twisted their bodies in impossible ways.

Eleanor didn't know if the food was good as well as beautifully served; she could only push morsels around on her plate, aware that Brendan sat with the Scots farther down from the center of importance, where she sat with Alain. She pretended to eat, she drank wine, she clapped at the entertainment, chatted with those around her.

When the floor was cleared, the king stepped out with the queen, and danced to the music of his fine players. He beckoned others to follow, and Breslieu, on the other side of Eleanor, asked Alain's permission to lead her to the floor. The dance sent partners changing, meeting, changing. She was so startled to meet Brendan in the middle that her breath caught in her throat, and she did not realize she was not breathing until instinct caused her to gulp in a rush of air. Their hands met; he bowed gravely. "My lady."

He was grave that night, and strikingly handsome, hair black in the glow of the flambeaux set in the walls, eyes seeming as dark as well. He was freshly shaven and wore a fine tunic with his Graham colors woven into the ochre garment. He moved very well, as she had learned. His touch, and his eyes, lingered on her. Then he bowed, and moved on to the next partner, some nobleman's younger daughter, dark-haired, vivacious, lovely. He smiled, laughed, moved with her, and Eleanor hated herself for the stab of raw jealousy that swept through her. She would marry; he was a free man, of a different nation, a different belief, and he would end tragically, and by God, she would have forgotten him by then.

The king smiled. "Well, duty would compel me to hunt you down and destroy you both. Wallace would be devastated, Clarin would fall to the mercy of your kin ... and Edward would be glad of the head of a Scottish rebel on his table but angry for the loss of yours. How messy ... wars, treaties, alliances ..."

"I am pledged to Alain. I love him already, for he is an old and dear friend."

"Bless you, my child." He kissed her forehead then moved on.

She was surprised to find that Alain had come to the floor. "The king is very fond of you," he said, his breath a wheeze as they moved to the music.

"I'm glad.""He will send one of his own confessors to you, before the wedding."

"That is kind of him." She saw with distress how uneven his breathing was. "Alain, I grow weary. May we sit?"

His eyes touched hers with gratitude. "Aye, we may." They returned to the table. The music seemed to grow louder. Her head seemed to pound.

"Alain, may we ..."

He was watching the king. But at that moment, his king lifted his hand, listened to something the queen was saying, and bid the company good night.