Seize The Dawn (47 page)
Authors: Shannon Drake
They had ridden through the night, hard, each man aware that time meant everything. He feared what he would find with each hoof beat that brought them farther north, into the woods, closer to the shelter Collum had intended to reach for the night They were grimly certain of their destination, and that they followed behind. They had used the night riding as hard as they had ever learned to do in their pursuit of the English— or in the days when they had been forced to flee.
He lifted a hand when they neared the area of the safe house; in silence, they all slowed their gaits. A gesture from him, and they came to a halt and dismounted, ready to venture the last of the trail on foot
He looked at the hand he had raised. Shaking. He feared so greatly that he would come to the copse, to the house, and find a field of dead lying there ...
Eleanor ...
Fitzgerald had no plan to take her back to England. He would rid himself of any further threat of her, then and there.
He felt a hand on his shoulder. Erie.
Eric motioned to the ground.
He saw a trail of blood, crossing the road from the narrow twist into the woods to an overgrown path on the other side. Few knew of it.
"Collum Hagar?" he mouthed.
Brendan nodded. He and Eric turned toward the trail.
Then he froze, hearing the unmistakable sound of clashing steel.
From the opposite direction.
Facing Fitzgerald then, Eleanor tried to remember everything she had ever been taught about swordplay—and strategy. She remembered Falkirk. The dead and the dying all around her. She had been in full armor, surrounded at all times, and she had shirked from the horror. She had carried a sword; she had known how to use it. She had never wielded it once ...
Other than to use the hilt to knock Brendan to die ground.
And now ...
Her life depended on her skill.
As did her child's.
Fitzgerald drew his sword, raised it, lowered it. Both arms out, he invited her forward.
"Come now, 'tis time. The battle has come to us."
This time, it was she who was taken by surprise. She barely parried his sudden lunge, and felt the furious weight of it through the length of her arm into her shoulder. She jumped back then, seeking to avoid his next heavy blow, and purchase herself time to regain her strength.
She moved closer to the horses, moving with a speed greater than he, yet without the protection of the heavy mail he wore beneath his tunic. He raised a heavy blow that missed her, and landed in the earth. She tried to capture him there, struggling to retrieve his sword. He moved in time, yet she caught his lower arm below the mail, drawing blood. He paused, then looked up, and the fury in his eyes sent her scrambling behind a tree to avoid his next blow. They had left the center of the copse. Though his men milled into the copse, watching, they kept their distance.
She kept behind the tree, moving back and forth, causing him to follow.
"This is foolish," she told him. "I would willingly face a trial."
"There can be no trial, my lady," he said, feinting quickly to the left.
She flew to the right.
"Why?"
"There can be no trial," he repeated.
"You are about to kill me. What does it matter if I know the reason. You didn't kill Alain, you couldn't have, I'd never seen you before you came to Clarin that day."
"Tis true, we never met. But I have known Clarin." He thought he had her still; he swung, embedding his sword in the tree. She tried to strike again while he disengaged his weapon. He pulled out just in time, and what should have been a death blow was deflected. Her sword went flying across the copse. She stared at Fitzgerald, judging the distance, and knew her only hope then was to distract him for a moment.
"I think I understand," she said slowly. "It's true; you didn't kill Alain. But you know who did."
The fact that he didn't answer gave her all the reply she needed.
"Isobel!" she gasped out furiously.
His lip tightened, and she realized, she was right. Isobel.
"Isobel poisoned him," she said aloud.' 'And you are serving Isobel."
"I serve no woman, my lady."
"Ah... but you are with her. You and Isobel... are together in this ... you poisoned a good man, you caused him to die in agony ..."
"My lady, apparently, he did not wish to go," Fitzgerald said with rueful disregard.
"But you were never at Clarin," she said. "So how ... ah. . . you met in London. You were lovers there, planning all this, and when I returned so unfortunately with my husband from France, you had to find a way to rid yourselves of both of us. You sent men to find de Longueville and pay him to seize my ship. But that plan failed. All the better. Clarin was in deep need of funds, and bringing home a wealthy count improved the fortunes of the estate. But then, you had to find a way to rid yourselves of us both. If I were executed for Alain's murder, we'd both be out of the way."
"Aye, lady. You are perceptive. And you may take it all to your grave."
"Wait!" she cried, sidestepping as he took a massive swing, that again missed her.
"What about Alfred. And Corbin?"
"But they were meant to die as well. Alfred is in danger, even now. As to Corbin ... I will find him."
She wished they hadn't fought their way into the trees; his men should have heard this, should have seen the colors that raged on his face, mottled, red, giving away the truth though he never spoke.
He raised his sword again. "Madam, the lands adjoining Clarin have become mine through a number of unfortunate deaths in my family. Isobel's child would inherit Clarin."
"And Isobel's child would not be my cousin's," she said. "At least, that's what you'd be told. But I have information for you. Isobel was like a rabbit with Corbin."
He paused, actually smiling at her. "The child ... aye, well, her first child would have been Corbin's. We are not fools. Alas, so many infants perish ..."
"If her child died, she would not inherit. She is no blood kin. The land and titles would revert to the king, to be given at his discretion."
"But they would be given to me. The neighboring knight and servant who helped rid King Edward of many Scots—and brought down the murderess of a renowned French lord!"
"The king is fickle."
"Nay, lady, not when rewarding those who destroy his enemies. And now, my dear, Eleanor, you know all, you can die happy, and as to you ..."
He moved to strike; she went racing for her lost sword, but slid to the ground just short of the weapon as Fitzgerald came flying at her, arms around her lower body, throwing her to the ground.
The sword remained just out of reach.
She looked up. One of Fitzgerald's armor-clad warriors stared down at her.
To her surprise, he nudged the sword into her reach. She rolled over, bringing up her sword. She caught the first blow Fitzgerald cracked down upon her, sending him staggering back, but he was quickly at her again, the blade in the air. Again, and again. She skinned backward on the ground. She was certain that each additional blow would break her arms.
As desperate as she was to fight and save her life, she couldn't help the terror and the pain that filled her heart.
She would die. When she had just begun to know what it was to value her life.
When her child ...
It was unbearable.
It would happen.
Fitzgerald struck again. Her defense was far weaker. She had all but backed herself to a tree, and there, he would slice her in two.
He raised his sword arm ...
In seconds, a dozen thoughts filled her mind. She saw the sun dazzling through the branches of the trees overhead. She thought with dismay that her death would allow him to complete his thirst for greater power and land. She thought of Isobel, planning Alfred's death even now ...
She thought of the man she had come to love. And the way that his fervent passion for the land, his never faltering devotion, had come to be for her, as deep as the steadfast loyalty he gave to his friends, and his country, and his dreams of right and freedom.
She saw, from the corner of her eye, the little hovel in the forest, in which she had spent her last night, ruing the discomfort, yet knowing she would sleep anywhere to be with one man. She imagined movement, the stream of Scotsmen she had warned Fitzgerald might be within, and she thought that she was already dying, for her dream of salvation seemed almost real ... there was something ...
There was something.
There was not.
She closed her eyes, and braced herself to die.
But Fitzgerald's weapon never fell. Eleanor heard a sudden, earth-shattering clashing sound. And then, impossibly, Brendan's voice.
"I tend to be a moderate man; after all these years of battle, I believe in the law, Fitzgerald. And it's important to Eleanor that her name be cleared, though it is more important to me to slash you into bloody remnants. Still, I'll withhold my blade. But if my wife is in any way harmed, you'll never see justice. Gregory's mangled face would appear to be that of a sun god, next to all that I will do to you."
Eleanor's eyes flew open.
The earth-shattering sound had been Brendan's sword, meeting Fitzgerald's. The man had been unarmed; and forced to his knees. Brendan gazed contemptuously at Fitzgerald, then turned to her, his eyes sharper than any blade, his features wrought with tension.
"Eleanor ..." he reached for her.
"Brendan!" she shrieked. Fitzgerald had risen, and pulled a knife from a sheath at his calf. He was racing at Brendan. He turned in time, avoiding the knife that so easily might have pierced his heart. Fitzgerald's impetus brought him crashing into the tree. This time, Brendan raised his sword to sever the man in two.
But Eleanor found the strength to leap to her feet. "No! Brendan, we must keep him alive! Isobel killed Alain; he is to kill me for her."
Brendan lowered his sword very slowly and stared coolly at Fitzgerald. "So ..." he said.
"A lie!" Fitzgerald cried boldly. "She is lying!" He turned, looking for his men.
And it was then that both he, and Eleanor, realized that Brendan's men had surrounded the copse and the men, and that the English had knives at their throats, held there by the Scots. They had come from the house in the wood ...
Not bursting out. But slipping in through the rear, through the mud, then out upon their bellies, into the trees again, where they had surprised the English as Brendan had gone for Fitzgerald. The Englishmen remained held at bay by the silent, slippery Scots.
Except for one, who had apparently been about to protest
He lay with his mouth open, a stream of blood trailing from his throat. With amazement she saw that Corbin had been the one to kill him.
Corbin walked forward through the clearing, still wielding the knife with which he had slain the Englishman.
"Let me watch over this one, I beg you, Brendan, while you see to my lady cousin," he said, approaching Fitzgerald with death in his eyes. "If he so much as breathes with too much energy, I will start cutting the extremities from his body. Keep care that he live, of course, to clear Eleanor's good name."
With Corbin watching his back, Brendan once again reached down to take Eleanor into his arms.
She was shaking so badly that she couldn't have stood without him. Tears sprang to her eyes. She almost sank to the ground again.
He cradled her, pulled her close to him.
She felt his heart ... a thunder against her. She was where she was meant to be.
But she heard Corbin speaking again then, in deep anger. "Actually, I'm afraid that I can't just stand here, looking at this man!"
Brendan drew away from her, ready to stop Corbin from killing the man.
But Corbin hadn't slashed into Fitzgerald.
Instead, he knotted his fist and sent a blow into the man's face that must have cost him several teeth.
Fitzgerald slumped down, unconscious.
For a moment there was silence.
"What do we do with these—English?" she heard, a sentence spat out in Gaelic. Eleanor gave a glad cry, seeing that Hagar was on the English, covered with mud like the rest of the Scots, but stalwart well, and tall as he handled one of the men, his knife tight at the fellow's throat.
His query was met with a moment's silence. Eleanor knew what the men were thinking. These were Englishmen, enemies who had ridden north to attack not just her, but Scotland. They deserved death.
"No!" she protested, touching Brendan's arm, forcing his attention. "They—they knew nothing about Fitzgerald's real plan, the depths of his service to his king! Brendan, that fellow gave me my sword back when I was nearly down ... take them prisoners, return them to England."
Brendan looked back to her, eyes hard, muscles tight with tension.
"Collum he's near death."
"Brendan, if you kill them now, we will be no better than the English. We're at a truce—"
