Seize The Dawn (24 page)

"Wallace didn't seize me—a pirate did. And he had the most fantastic story, Isobel. He said that he was paid to accost my ship."

"What?" Isobel responded with unfeigned surprise. "Ah— and there you go defending the Scots! Some wealthy baron who decried your position at Falkirk surely must be guilty— if there is a guilty party. Pirates are liars, you know."

"Alfred was consumed with arms and training and the slightest command spoken by the king; you have now married a rich ancient. Corbin and I are all but obliged to create an heir for the future safety of Clarin."

"How noble. Maybe the ancient and I will yet create an heir," Eleanor informed her, then felt uneasy that she should have spoken so, even to put Isobel in her place. Why fight with her? She was here, for once, with Corbin. And though he truly seemed to have no real love for her, she was his wife, and he was apparently enjoying her sudden maternal urge.

Alfred entered the hall then. "I have been over the ledgers, and must set accounts straight tomorrow with you and the count, Eleanor. The north wall is nearly complete, but there has been a call to arms again—"

"The king is waging another battle?" she asked, dismayed by the alarm in her voice.

"The king is always waging another battle. But the Duke of York has sent out summonses, and those we must obey as well. Naturally, from Clarin, we are expected to provide men and arms. We are accustomed to the fight; you must not worry needlessly, nor will we ever allow you to ride again."

"Indeed, even marriage turns into danger when the Lady Eleanor is involved!" Isobel said sweetly. "But, of course, in a few months time, Alfred and Corbin must go, since your poor count cannot!"

' 'Ah, but dear Isobel! How will you bear your husband being torn from your side?"

"We all must suffer in such times," Isobel said sweetly. "I will suffer my husband's absence, and you will suffer the presence of yours!"

"I do not suffer, Isobel. You cannot imagine what age teaches a man," Eleanor told her. "If you'll excuse me, I'll see if he is ready to dine."

Thomas de Longueville, pirate, had changed his ways—just barely. Having received a full pardon from the French king, he had decided that life in Paris would not be to his liking. He had chosen to cast his fate with the Scots, and was proving to be as wily and agile on land as he had been at sea. He was small and slim, capable of great speed, and of climbing a tree with the same expertise he had used on a ship's rigging. He reached Brendan with little more than that slight ruse, but he was somewhat out of breath.

"Tis the wagon coming, just as we were told." He paused, hands on his knees, taking in a deep breath. "There's ale, great barrels of ale, and more trunks than you can imagine. They might well contain the armor Lord Hebert ordered for the men at the fortress they're building on the river. Freshly fashioned by some of the finest masters in Germany! And there might well be some silks as well, ordered by the Lord's lady—what a waste, for they say she is uglier than a mastiff"

"And how do you know all this?"

De Longueville grinned. "One of Lord Hebert's dairy maids. A plump and garrulous little lass, with a tart tongue in many ways. A lovely lass, though, with a fine affinity for all things French."

"Eric, we'll take the lead?" Brendan said, and his cousin nodded. "They've one chance to surrender; Liam, you and Collum will await their reply, then go for the men riding at the side, and Thomas, you'll take the rear with Ian, Edgar, and Garth, get up in the tree with me; string one of your sharpest arrows."

"Aye!" came the agreement.

They parted, and melted into the trees, Brendan taking an oak branch that stretched out over the road. In less than a minute, they heard the hoofbeats on the road, and the heavy roll of the wagons.

Brendan waited until he saw the lead riders appearing, then dropped from the tree to the center of the road.

"Whoa, there, my friends, where are you headed?" he called out.

The rider in the lead paused, a look of contempt on his face. "Out of the way, Scotsman. Or we'll slaughter you like a pig."

"And roast him up and send him to the king!" said the fellow at his side.

He surveyed the riders quickly, assessing that he knew none of the men. They wore the colors of Lord Hebert, a man truly despised in the region for his autocratic rule of the lowland land he had been commanded to hold by King Edward. He had forced farmers into hard labor at the rebuilding of the old Roman ruins he meant to turn into a mighty fortification, working some of the older men to death—and preying upon their wives and daughters.

"Ah, and what king would that be?"

"Why, King Edward, you daft savage!" the first man said.

"But Edward is no king in Scotland. Ah, my fine sirs— didn't you notice when you rode this way? This is Scotland— not England."

"Slay the rascal, and let's be going on!" the second man said impatiently.

"Slay me? Why, I was about to offer you your lives," Brendan informed him.

"Offer us our lives!" the first burst into laughter, causing his visor to fall. He quickly adjusted it, angered that he might have looked a fool.

He nudged his horse toward Brendan.

"Ah, sir! You might want to take note of my friend, atop that branch. Indeed, you're clad in fine mail beneath the colors of a murdering, usurping fiend, but at this close range ... ah! See, my friend is smiling. For a filthy savage, he has learned a quite incredibly accurate aim. I believe he can strike your face ... perhaps your throat, or even pierce that mail right in die vicinity of your heart"

The man gave pause, looking up. Garth smiled, but didn't move a muscle. His bow was strung; the arrow was aimed.

"Throw down that weapon, man, what, are you a fool?" the . man demanded. "We've a party of twelve well-armed fighting men—kill me, and they'll pick you apart like carrion!"

"We will butcher you like the wild hogs you
are!"

He nudged his mount forward. Garth let the arrow fly. The knight grasped his throat, and then the shaft of the arrow. Brendan, sword drawn, went for the second rider, drawing him from his horse and finding the point of weakness at his neck nearly as fast as the arrow had flown.

The other riders were moving up, but Brendan was on to a second combatant, and Garth had strung another arrow. Collum and the others let out cries and emerged from the woods, and minutes later, they had the five English survivors sitting awkwardly together in the center of the road.

Brendan quickly ordered de Longueville and Collum to see that the wagons were brought on ahead, the goods to be dispersed. He and his remaining men surveyed their prisoners.

"No offense intended, cousin, I'm merely pointing out that you might, perhaps, not be quite so much a savage as a full- blooded Scot—"

"Brendan, there's probably not a full-blooded Scot among you, the Norse have been here so long—"

"Teaching us to fight like berserkers, chop our enemies into , little pieces?" He turned toward the English, his sword in hand.

One of the men rose, "Wait, please. We rode in the rear, and had no chance to accept your offer of surrender."

Brendan studied the speaker. He was young; he'd barely grown a few whiskers. He stood tall, though, not flinching. He awaited his judgment with a vein pulsing hard at his neck, but with stoic dignity as well.

"Well, we've already taken their swords," Brendan pointed out. "But then, I agree, 'tis much easier, having help removing those coats of armor from live bodies rather than trying to struggle with corpses."

The Englishmen were quick to rise at that—and fumble awkwardly to remove the mail.

"Ah, well, that's one now!" Eric said cheerfully. "But I've a mind to burn those wretched tunics that herald such a man as Hebert!"

"In the bodies—or out?" Brendan inquired.

"I'm not sure that much matters—"

' 'Ma 'se do thoil e!''
The young man who had risen to speak said suddenly.

Startled, both Eric and Brendan turned to the young man who stared straight in Brendan's eyes, and repeated
please
in Gaelic.
"Ma's e do thoil e!"

"Gregory ... well, we will let these fellows live. We did not intend to do murder. They are, however, hated tunics. You'll leave them. And the capes."

"Imagine all those English tally whackers, a-blowin in the breeze, all shriveled with the cold. Why, 'tis downright dangerous. An angry fishwife could come along with her gutting knife, and leave the fellow a limb short!" Eric commented, shaking his head.

"Well, they'll not be attacking our farmsteads so," Brendan mused.

"Sir," Gregory interrupted. "Begging your pardon, but the coming of spring is not so warm in Scotland. If you'd leave men to freeze, might as well cut their throats."