Seize The Dawn (39 page)

The room was spacious, indeed. The bed within it was enormous, and could sleep four men, even Wallace's size. It sat upon a platform to the far side of the room, and was sheltered by embroidered draperies. The great hearth was to the side of the bed, in the center of the west side of the room. A stalwart desk of carved oak was to the north, set before windows opened to the spring day. Embroidered draperies hung to the sides of the windows, heavy fabric in rich hues of deep blue and crimson, and those, too, were opened to the beauty of the day beyond, held back by thick cords interwoven with silver thread. There was a wardrobe and a large heavy trunk at the east side of the room.

He walked to the windows first, and saw that it led to the north battlements of this, the inner tower, and that it looked far out over the road that led to the castle from the south. The master here, if not warned by men on guard, would know when forces rode from the south—and the dense border forests where so much trouble brewed. Well planned; Hebert had greatly feared the "savages" whose land he had meant to rule. Yet Brendan was glad of it; they would know if the English rode in from the south. The height of the caste would guard it from the western approaches.

He didn't sit at the desk right away, but walked to the giant bed, with its immense, beautifully woven woolen cover. He hesitated, then bounced upon it, and lay back. Firm, soft. A good bed for a man who had slept too often on the open ground.

He sat up again. He had been the guest of the kings of Norway, and France, and the lesser jarls in the out isles. He had seen splendor, and yet, was far better acquainted with dirt. There was much to be done here. He already felt an affinity for the place.

It was his. His.

Aye,
Scotland
must approve it. But a warrior knight was needed here, and he was that, indeed.

He rose, and walked to the hearth, and noted that it was double, leading to a room beyond. Standing, he saw the archway to his right, the curtain there so heavy and dark he hadn't given it note at first. He walked to it, and opened it then. A second room lay beyond, with a more delicate and far smaller bed, and furniture much more gently carved. A lady's room, he thought. To the side of the hearth there was a large barrel structure with dragon heads, adorned with brass and gold, on each side. It was a great, heavy bathtub, he realized, of Norse design. The carvings about it were finely done, and denoted Thor, God of Thunder, casting down lightning bolts, and Odin, lord of all gods, raging across the skies in a dragon-prowed chariot. A bath, he thought, might be in good order, since he had spent the night on the floor with drunkards and hounds— good friends all, but, alas, he must not smell too sweet.

But first, he wanted to write to Robert Bruce. He sat down, found ink, quill, and paper, and set to relaying his thoughts.

When he was done, he rolled and tied the document, and saw the small pot of sealing wax beside the inkpot. He hesitated, then lit a candle with a straw from the fire. He'd never sealed such a document before. But he wore a ring, a gift from his own father before his early death, and it bore an G, and a bird of prey. He melted the wax, sealed his letter, and set the insignia of the ring into it. He studied the document for a long moment, then rose, and hurried downstairs.

The great hall had somewhat cleared; Eric sat by the fire, whittling a piece of wood, still talking with the messenger, Griffin. "I'll see it to the Bruce, my hand to his," Griffin said.

"Nay, Sir Brendan. With this in hand, I'll be on me way." He rose, touching the leather bag at his side. "A fine ride. Good food from home, and a fine enough meal for the journey to return. God keep you all ... and Scotland."

"Aye, God keep us all."

Brendan and Eric escorted him out of the great hall, and to the courtyard. A lad and his horse, ready to ride.

They watched him mount and ride. The gates remained open, and would until sunset—there was no danger to be had that day. "He says he's glad you've a correspondence for the Bruce," Eric told Brendan. "He says that Robert admires you greatly, as he does Wallace. Wallace, for being a man truly ready to give up everything for his ideals."

"If he admired him so, he would have fought with him," Brendan said.

Eric shrugged. ' 'Each man does as he must. And every life is a spool of thread; where it ends is determined when his life begins."

Brendan stared at him, startled. Eric grinned. "You're loyal to Wallace, and fighting for an ideal. I think that Robert Bruce sometimes wishes that he didn't have his family fortunes and holdings. He envies men who see a greater good, fight when they see the battle, and earn the loyalty of the people. He would like to be hailed as Wallace, I think. Such devotion appeals to him."

"Then one day, he'll have to take a stand against the king of England."

"Maybe one day he will. As you say, men make their own destinies." Eric clapped him on the shoulder and walked on, heading for the stables. Brendan looked up at the walls of the castle. For a long while, he observed the strengths, and assessed the weaknesses.

Then, thoughtfully, he returned to the hall.

Eleanor sat by the fire in the room, attempting a letter she could only hope to find a way to get into Alfred's hands. She asked after his health, begged him to take the greatest care, to guard his own health in any way. She tried to remember, step by step and word by word, everything that had occurred with Miles Fitzgerald and his men, and her certainty that he had intended her harm. She assured him she meant to come home, yet knew that he managed all affairs with care and talent. She told him Corbin had been with her, defensive and loyal both to her and to England, through everything. He was concerned to get home. "Send Isobel our deepest regards," she wrote.

She was sure that Isobel was guilty in some way, but Isobel hadn't been with Fitzgerald. Still, it seemed urgent that she warn Alfred against the woman. She didn't know what words to put on paper, should the letter go astray. She studied the letter.

Bridie swept in. She seemed oblivious to the late hour of the day. She smiled at Eleanor, said nothing, and began gathering up Eleanor's belongings, plentiful enough since they had packed for the journey to London, knowing it would be long.

"This morning. Haven't you heard, my lady? We are at peace. There's been a truce arranged between the Scots and English, engineered by King Philip of France."

A truce? She felt shaky. A truce between the two nations...

Yet, there had been truces called before. They had not ended the conflict.

"No, I had not heard," Eleanor murmured. "I have not left this room this morning." She hadn't left, nor had anyone approached her, other than the serving girl who had brought her water and food, and she had bobbed frequently, smiled a lot, and spoken very little.

She hadn't slept when Brendan left. She had listened to the men below, and contemplated her own position in a tumult of emotion. To be with him again ... she loved him, loved the feel of him, the scent of him, just feeling him at her side. He hadn't remained at her side. He hadn't returned to her, but stayed below. He never would turn his back on his quest; he would die. Yet he had kept her from certain death, so what right did she have to create doom as the destiny for his courage? And still the haunting thought remained that here, in Scotland, she was a refugee, a branded murderess in her homeland.

And in all her thoughts, she had lain awake. She shouldn't be with him; Alain was scarcely cold in his grave. Yet she ~ listened until the sounds of music and laughter and revelry below faded, wondering if then he would return. He had not done so. When she had finally slept, it had been near dawn.

"Bridie—"

But Bridie slipped back out the door, leaving it ajar. Eleanor stood, ready to follow her, but before she could do so, Bridie came back into the room, humming.

"Bridie—"

Bridie looked up at her, eyes sparkling, cheeks flushed, happiness abounding in her. "Oh, my lady! There's going to be a wedding! Can you imagine?"

And once again, Bridie disappeared.

Eleanor felt a cold anger steal over her. A wedding. He had planned a wedding, and not said a word to her. Logic argued that she wanted nothing more than to be his wife; she had yearned and ached for him, dreamed that such a thing could be true.

But the dream was tarnished now; for the life to be good, she had to be innocent, and she could not live with a legend that would grow regarding her as the countess who had lured her lord for money, then slain him to be with a lover.

The master of the castle! He was not
her
master.

Aye, things had changed. Brendan sat before a desk. Eric and Collum were standing by him, and they all pored over a set of building plans.

He was quiet for a moment, watching her. She saw that his color had heightened, his fingers clenched where they lay upon his knees, and a telltale tic against his cheek betrayed his anger.

"Really, madam?" he said at last. "I don't remember asking you to do so."

It was her turn to flood with sudden color. "Bridie just said—"

He turned his attention back to the papers that lay before him. "Bridie will be marrying Lars this afternoon. Father Duff, of the little church down the hill, will join the two of them."

She felt as if cold air surrounded her; she couldn't have been more humiliated. She wanted to lash out, but she couldn't do so with Eric and Collum watching her, she had to gather up what shreds of her dignity she could find—and retreat.

"That is—wonderful," she managed to say with great dignity, then she spun around and quickly departed, her head as high as she could keep it.

In the hall, she once again came upon Bridie, still moving her belongings about. "Bridie,
you
are to be married."

"Aye! Can you believe it!" Bride said with such happiness that Eleanor could find no fault with her, nor chide her for not explaining fully.

"I'm so very happy for you."

"I knew you would be, Eleanor. If only I could be so happy for you—"