Seize The Dawn (38 page)

"What do you want me to say to you?" he inquired. "That I watched you walk down an aisle to swear to love, honor, and cherish another man, and then fell to my knees myself, swearing that I would love you until my dying day in all chastity, loyalty, and valor?"

She would have moved. He rolled, the cast of his knee carefully pinning her to the bed. "Aye, there were others. The blackness remained. Nothing was ever as good, as sweet, as bright, as vibrant, as it had been before you. Is your pride redeemed?"

"Nay, never my independent, ever-strong countess!
Santa Lenora,
you would give battle still! You're safe, my lady, alive, but that isn't enough for you."

"I have explained over and over—"

He eased to her side again, and this time, his palm and fingers spanned the distance of the swelling low in her stomach. "You've known for some time."

"Please, Brendan ..."

He rose abruptly, regaining his shirt, swiftly forming his kilt. By then, she had started shivering fiercely, and groped again for the covers ...

Very cold then, with him gone.

He seemed to realize her discomfort; he paused to stoke the fire.

Then he stood by the bed and told her, "I will do what I can to clear your name. But know this, and I swear it, the child will not leave Scotland! If you attempt anything rash or foolish, my lady, I promise you, you'll know what it is to face the savage enemy."

Chapter 18

Brendan woke on the floor, his head pounding. Someone had nudged him. He looked up to find Corbin of Clarin hunched down at his side. Struggling to his elbow, he saw that the rest of the drunken rabble had already risen.

He blinked, wincing, and opened his eyes again, staring at Corbin.

"I thought you'd like to know—there's a messenger outside."

Brendan scrambled to his feet. He left the hall of the fortification, Corbin at his heels. There was almost as much laughter and shouting in the courtyard as there had been in the hall, the night before.

A handsome horse, festooned in the colors of Robert Bruce, stood amid the cheering men; the horse's rider, a diminutive man next to the great horse, stood conversing with Wallace.

Brendan stopped first to duck his head in a basin of icy cold water, threw his soaking hair back, and approached Wallace. He was curious that the horseman had come from the Bruce; both possible heirs to the throne, the question of Comyn and Bruce serving the state together had turned sour, and Bruce had been keeping his activities to the area of Carrick, in the southwest of the country. Since Comyn, whose lands were farther to the north and admittedly not vulnerable to the constant English raids that had ravaged Bruce territory, kept battle alive and sometimes joined with Wallace, their communications with Bruce were not frequent.

Wallace shrugged. "Aye, he'll be true to it—for a time. He raised great armies last year and the year before, came north and inflicted great injury, but then bogged down with the weather, the dictates of the pope that we were a sovereign nation with fealty due the Holy See—and the fact that his barons would give more than their two months' feudal service and his foot soldiers deserted in droves. Edward needs time to gather his forces again, to battle the pope, and raise enough money to fight us. I'd say that good King Philip has bought us time to gather our own forces."

"You don't seem as pleased as you might," Brendan said.

"Aye, I'm pleased. But it gives the great barons of Scotland more time for their own petty feuds, and you know as well I do that the raiding in the south will continue. The king will not raise a great army; but his northern nobles are nearly as argumentative as clansmen, so it will be a time for a man to stay wary, whatever fine words are set upon paper."

Many of the men in the courtyard were talking about going home, and Wallace was quick to tell them it was time to do so. Spring planting should be under way, and they should look to their families. There were those who would stay with him, wherever he chose to travel, and those who would keep the fortifications in the name of the guardian, John Soulis, who would still give appointments and commands in the name of King John of Scotland, whether John still tarried, enjoying France, or not.

"This poor fort was your taking," Wallace said. "Comyn had given men here, and already ridden on to his own estates; news will reach him soon of the peace. The government can give you legal writ to make this your home. Man it, build it, and let the fields grow rich again."

Brendan nodded, grinning slowly. "You're giving me the castle?"

"I haven't the power to give you the castle. But you've served your country as few other men, and we have retained some rights, and now gained more freedom to make them good. Who else should be master here?"

"Ready to ride with me, whatever the battle, large or small? I know." William set an arm on his shoulder. "And I will be grateful of your sword arm, however great the war."

"When will you go?"

"A few days' time." He grinned. "There will be another celebration tonight, with the frightened tenants coming from the hills to reclaim their lands. Spring is a fine time for a truce."

Wallace clapped him on the back, then started through the crowd. At his back, Corbin spoke. "Ah, well there, you've become a great landed knight with the stroke of a pen!" he said.

' 'The land is not mine so easily. Scotland has a government, and a king, and a proper way to make things so."

"Ah, the king. I'm sure he'll be glad to hear he has a kingdom," Corbin murmured. "But a truce ... it will make it far easier to go home."

Brendan turned to him. "Your troubles were not with the Scots, Corbin. Your troubles spill from your own land. Y'er a free man, though. You must make your choices."

He left Corbin then, going to the stables. He was eager to ride, to run with the wind, let it clear his head. A truce. Aye, it sounded good. Land. A castle, newly built, a bare fortification. But Hebert, bloody bastard as he'd been, had set good masons to the task, and there was a strong foundation on which to build a home. It was fine enough.

He didn't bother with a saddle, and chose the horse he had called Rye, for his deep coloring, one of the massive horses bred for war that they had taken from the English knights. He started from the stables, and was startled when he found himself met by a group of the fighting men, laborers, children, wives, and farmers.

"Sir Brendan!" came a cry, and a cheer, and he could barely move the horse forward as he looked to the people with confusion.

"Eh, lads, we'll have enough to do, eh, dividing land, planting, gathering what cattie and livestock have run to the hills with the good people." He smiled.

"And we'll train for war!" the lad persisted.

"Aye, and we'll train for war."

He found a clearance in the crowd. They were shouting his name, and it felt fine enough. He waved, smiled, and made his way through.

He reached the gates, still open from having admitted the messenger. The people had heard the news quickly, and begun to stream back to land long ago decimated by the English armies. At the gate, he gave the charger free rein, eased to the animal's back, and felt the earth plow up beneath him, the wind take his hair. He rode across the land, and despite his speed, he noted moor and field, and the fine way the castle sat upon a hill, and the way the stream stretched before it.

Land. His land. Won by the power of his sword.

A land a man could leave to a son.

He remembered his words of last evening to Eleanor, before - he made his departure. It had been agony to leave, yet tumult to stay, for as yet, there was no peace between them. He had meant to leave her time, for he knew that she was mourning the man she had married, as she might have mourned her father, yet again. He'd meant to be a most decent man, chivalrous in all manner. But it rankled to manage one of the most audacious raids into England—surely of all time—and hear her so passionate to return, to clear her name ...

To again be able to lay claim to Clarin. He'd had nothing. She'd been an heiress. Aye, now, if Scotland agreed, then the land was his. A home. He had come from the forest.

Yet here he was, and the times had changed, and still, in her mind, she had to do what was right ...She'd never leave Scotland now. He meant that. But he had made a promise.

He left the little hillock beneath mighty oaks where he had looked down upon the castle and land. He rode back far more slowly, again assessing the landscape. Sheep would do well here. Aye, hundreds of sheep. They'd be fine, the expert Flemings with their talented weaving of fine cloth, their centers of industry so very near. The forests here were rich and overgrown. The fowl and game would be plentiful.

He gave off his planning as he returned to the castle. The messenger sat in the great hall, talking, exchanging news. Brendan joined the group around the table. Eric was there, along with Hagar, Collum, de Longueville, and Gregory.

He nudged Gregory. "How was your night, lad?" he asked quietly, not wanting to interrupt the questions being placed before the Bruce's messenger.

"Sir Brendan, a haystack has never been so lovely," he replied with a grin.

"That's fine, lad," he said and sat, and listened to the words the messenger was now speaking. He was a young man, who flushed easily, and didn't appear much the warrior, for he was slender and small. Brendan imagined, however, that he served his post well, and could ride with a speed to cover the marshes, lowlands, crags, and heaths of Scotland quite well enough.

"The king of England had sent out a call for men, and then abandoned the quest, in time with the treaty from France. In truth, he was not able to gather the forces he required, I'll warrant, and even though Robert Bruce has made his peace with the English king, I'll warrant good Edward knew not to count on all Scots of Carrick and Annandale to fight for an English banner!"

Eric, in the stark wooden chair at the table next to the seat Brendan had chosen, turned to him. "Griffin here says that, as yet, there's been no news to Bruce lands regarding your foray."

" 'Tis too soon," Brendan said, reaching for a pitcher of cold, clear water, He nodded to the young messenger. " 'Tis too soon, but there's bound to be trouble. Will you take a letter from me to the Bruce?" he asked.

"There's nothing in the writing even regarding Sir William," Griffin said. "Not as yet! The king did not beat the Scots, sir, he agreed to a truce."

"And if he crushes us again, I'm sure there will be no truces for certain men," Brendan murmured.

"There's to be something of a peace, sir, and a sorry time for Sir William to die."

' 'Aye, and he plans to travel north for a time. Go home. See what family and friends he has left," Brendan said. "But if you'll excuse me, I'll write my letter, that you may take it to Robert Bruce at your leisure."

Brendan started up the stairs, and realized his English "guests" had places here, while he did not. But upon the landing at the top of the stairs, he came upon a maid setting oil to the wood atop the banister. She smiled at him, and bobbed a curtsy. "Laird Brendan—"

"Sir Brendan. I am not a laird."

"Here, ye be laird, sir. Sir William Wallace has said that you would be master here. And there, yonder—" she inclined her head to the first door to the left of the landing, "there be y'er quarters, if they be to y'er liking, that is. But 'tis fine space." She sniffed. "Laird Hebert meant to rule a little kingdom here, so set himself up a fine enough private palace, so he did."