Seize The Dawn (6 page)

And known that look. The way his expression had changed when he realized that an enemy had come behind him. Just before he had turned to defend himself from the Englishman about to swing his sword, and decapitate him. She had seen that look ... And brought the hilt of her weapon crashing down on his head before he could turn back to her, certain that she had cried mercy just so that he might be slain from behind. He had fallen. And she had heard his fellow Scots coming, racing through the woods. She had melted into the trees, and in the aftermath of battle and war, she had never forgotten that moment, and yet she had convinced herself that she would never see him again. She had dreamed of him sometimes. Dreamed of his face, of the way he had looked at her. And sometimes, she had almost thought that war was as horrible for the enemy, for the youth of Scotland, striking and proud, were dying as well. But she couldn't forgive the Scots, and so she could offer them no sympathy.

Edward hadn't had the strength of arms right then to really crush Scotland as he had wanted, and in die north, Scottish barons were ruling Scottish holdings. But Falkirk had been a serious victory for Edward, and the Scots would not venture south again, and so she would be safe. Safe! The ship tossed. Her head reeled. She sneezed and coughed, and realized that she was still damp, and twisting with a fever. The door suddenly burst open. She wanted to jump up. She could not. She hadn't the strength. He stood there. She saw his face as she had in dreams. He filled the door frame, head taller than the clearing, shoulders spanning it side to side. He had changed his clothing, and a hated woolen tartan was once again over his shoulder, held there by a silver Celtic brooch. She saw him, then he seemed to fade.

Was she dreaming, or was this real? There was light; morning had come. But the light was like mist, and she knew then that they still rode the storm. "Come with me, lady. Now!" he commanded. The devil had come, she thought. In the flesh. Older, grimmer, harder. Aye, vengeance had found her. But she smiled, for whether he were dream or real, she could not obey. She tried to open her mouth and speak. She hadn't the strength. "Stubborn wench!" he swore, and came to her. "I'm trying not to leave you locked here in the midst of this tempest! Is there anyone to whom you listen, any point at which you stop being such a stubborn fool?" He reached for her, and she couldn't fight him. He swore suddenly. "You are still soaked to the bone, ice and fire in one!" His arms wrapped around her. He lifted her, and carried her, steady despite the rock and sway of the ship. They left the cabin. The misty light fell more fully upon them from the stairway to the upper deck. Then a flash of lightning ripped through the fullness of the sky. It created an illumination like a burst of pure white fire. Thunder roared. The sea meant to kill them. The wind, the rain, the thunder, the lightning. God's great hand upon them all. But she couldn't care. Her head fell against the chest of her greatest enemy. Darkness descended. The heavens continued to roar. But for the time, Eleanor knew no more.

Chapter 3

"Will she live?" Margot Thorrsen looked up, startled by the sound of the deep male voice and by Brendan's presence in the cabin. She had thought she was alone with the sleeping girl, and she should have been accustomed to the silence with which men so often wary of enemies could be.

The wind had ceased to blow, the rain to fall. With the ships in control, she had been summoned to help with their English prisoner. The girl had been afire at first, damp to the bone, and in danger of a fever that could sweep her away. But—despite Brendan's protestations that she was to be kept from her English maid—Margot had sent for the woman, Bridie, for help. Between them, they had stripped away Eleanor's wet, sea-salty clothing, cooled her with fresh water, and forced mouthfuls of broth filled with rich, healing herbs down her throat. The night of the storm had ended; another day had passed, and now, night was falling again. Eleanor had yet to really open her eyes, but she lay still and sleeping. She had become Margot's charge, men having a tendency to leave the care of the injured to their womenfolk. She was surprised to find Brendan here, though it had been Brendan's cabin on this voyage before he had fished the English girl from the sea. Margot had known Brendan for the many years she had been with Eric. Despite the wars in Scotland, kin often stayed close. Eric's father, a cousin of Brendan's, had married Ilsa, daughter of the jarl of a far northern island, land still held by the king of Norway, and so, naturally, he was more Norse now in many ways than his family name would suggest. And due to the fighting with the English, the Scots tended to get on far better with their northern brethren than they had during the early years of Viking assaults. Indeed, she had been called upon to tend him during certain of his childhood illnesses.

She had not expected to find him in the shadows of the cabin near the cot, leaning forward and looking on as she tended to the patient. His voice was deep, resonant, and brusque as he spoke to her, his eyes intent as he asked once again, "Margot, will she live?" "She will live, I believe." Margot dipped a cloth in a bowl of cool water and smoothed it over the English girl's face. She looked at Brendan, the lock of dark hair falling over his forehead, the tension locked into the lines of his face, the power in the hands that were folded idly before him. A young man, twenty-odd years, but he had known warfare—treachery, loss, victory, and defeat—for most of his life. He followed William Wallace, but he had learned to lead under circumstances of both flight and battle. The nationalists in Scotland had learned the bitter truth that freedom was not to be acquired in one great stroke against the English, but in taking their battle into time, and into the forests. Living, to fight another day, was victory in itself, even when all seemed lost.

"Is she worth a great deal?" Margot asked. "What?" Brendan said, staring at her with a frown. "Is she worth a great deal?" He mused her words strangely, then said, "Aye, I'm sure she must be." Margot started to speak again, her language Gaelic, which they spoke most frequently among themselves, though all of the men were adept at the Norman French of the English aristocracy. He brought a finger to his lips. "Norse," he said quietly. Margot switched to her native tongue. ' 'Brendan, if we go to seek a French king's help against the English, how do you go about ransoming an Englishwoman?" His voice lowered a notch with a slight irritation.' 'According to the woman, Bridie, she is on her way to meet with a French fianc6, Count Alain de Lacville."

"So... we have rescued her—or she is a prisoner?" Margot inquired. "I've not quite decided that," he told her after a moment. "God knows, all the world is one thing this moment, another the next. King Philip detests Edward, but if necessary, fears him. When an alliance with the English become expedient, there will be an alliance." "Are we safe then?" ' 'Aye, though it may well be soon enough, there is no alliance as of this moment, and if there were, Philip of France would still relish the idea of welcoming William Wallace, the one man who has stood against Edward's tyranny, never capitulating. We have sailed as we have knowing that Edward has offered a fortune to any man capturing Scottish leaders on the sea," he told her, "so he is aware as well that he will not be seizing us as prisoners, once we reach France." He rose impatiently. "Whatever she may be, she needs to live, Margot. Beyond a doubt, she has value."

"Aye, Brendan," Margot said, confused as she watched him leave. Then she turned her attention back to the girl, touching her forehead, her cheeks with the cool cloth once again. The girl's eyes began to flutter. "Ah, there, you come among us!" Margot said. The girl's eyes opened, but she studied Margot with confusion."It's all right, you're doing very well." The girl still didn't respond. Margot realized she had still been speaking Norse. She switched smoothly to French. "You are with us again. How do you feel?" "Thirsty," the girl said. Margot smiled and poured water for her from an intricately carved Norse horn on the table. She accepted it with a grateful nod, drank quickly at first, then slowly as Margot gave her a warning to take care. "Thank you," she said, handing back the horn, sinking weakly back into the pillows. She still studied Margot with perplexity. "Who are you?" she asked softly. Then she hiked up on an elbow. "Where is my maid, the woman named Bridie? Is she well, is she all right—""Lie back, rest, m'lady. Your maid is fine; she rides on the other ship." "Alone—on a pirate ship?" Lady Eleanor was distressed, but then added a wry, "Dear God! I can't believe I just asked that when I am on a
Scottish
ship." "Only partially Scottish," Margot told her. "In truth, it's a Norse ship." "Of course. Of course, yes, Norse. But as to Bridie—" "She is confined, nothing more."

"Can you be so certain?" There was deep anxiety in her tone. Margot found herself eager to assure her, but as to just what promises the could make, she wasn't at all sure. "She is fine; you are separated because you are not trusted, and that is all." "Trusted? I should be trusted?" she inquired, her eyes narrowing. Margot smiled suddenly. She'd heard a great deal about this woman; she was legendary, having been the rallying banner herself for a host of soldiers convinced that she was all but touched by God. She had been part of the English victory at Falkirk. She didn't look much like a warrior now. Indeed, if anything, she resembled a fragile sea nymph with a wealth of deep golden hair, tangled about the fine bone structure of her face. Her eyes, bluish gray like the storm at sea, seemed large in her face. At the moment, despite the defiance in her voice, she was stripped of all warlike qualities. She was vulnerable.

"I will leave you, since there is little—" Margot began. But the girl caught her hand, the gray eyes suddenly clearer, naked, and even betraying a little bit of fear. "Wait!" she said softly. "Please." "There are no promises I can make you," Margot said. She shook her head. "No. Who are you? Why are you aboard this ship? You are the Norseman's wife?" Margot hesitated, and shook her head. "Not his wife. He is the grandson of a jarl." "But..." "Am I with him? Yes." "I see," she murmured, eyes downcast. Then she looked up at Margot. "Does he have—a wife as well?" "No. Not as yet, Lady Eleanor." "Then—" "Thus far, he has refused to wed." "He loves you," Lady Eleanor said. Margot flushed at the Englishwoman's words. They were familiar, assumptive, and—Margot believed—true.The beautiful English noblewoman seemed determined to make Margot comfortable. She smiled and continued, "If he were to wed ... well, marriage is a contract, and little more, so it seems. He will surely love you still, even if he is forced to marry. God knows, he could be contracted to a witch of a woman, a horrible shrew!"

Their prisoner was not at all looking down her nose at her, but trying to make her feel better about the situation. "What of Count de Lacville?" Margot asked. Lady Eleanor drew in her breath sharply. "Is he ... cruel? Do you even know him?" Margot asked her."Alain? I do know him; he was an old and dear friend to my father. No, he is not cruel, he is one of the most gentle men I have ever met." "Then you will be happy." "Happy?" she repeated, musing the word. "At least..." "What, my lady?" "I will not be miserable, beaten, or abandoned," she murmured, eyes once again downcast. Margot rose, suddenly feeling as if she, the commoner, were far more lucky. She didn't have legal rights, but what she did have was far greater.

"Wait!" Margot paused. "I must go and—" "Please, what's going on now? Is Wallace aboard this ship? Do we travel on to France? What... is going to be done with me?" "That is up to the men, my lady. But you're wrong if you think that they are monsters." Eleanor at last seemed to withdraw from her. She turned her face toward the cabin door. "I've seen what they do—" "You've seen nothing—unless you've seen what Edward of England is capable of doing, m'lady," Margot told her. The captive did not respond.

"I must go," Margot said. But she couldn't leave quite so easily. "I'll bring you something to eat, soon. Please ... don't be afraid," she added. "I am
Santa Lenora,
courage itself! I'm not afraid," Eleanor said quickly, but she was lying, and Margot knew it. The lady mocked herself. Margot decided to leave her with the lie. "I'll be back," she promised again, and left the cabin. William's ship had come alongside the
Wasp
soon after the storm. Wallace had come aboard, and they sat then at the bow of the ship, drinking ale from Norse horns.

Apprenticed to his cousin, Arryn, as a young man, Brendan had come to know Wallace through his elder kinsman. He had never met a man he more admired, a greater warrior—nor a more intelligent man. Wallace was often underestimated by his enemies. He was a commoner, but his education had been excellent. He was muscled, tall, honed to perfection—but his victories had been earned more with careful strategy than with the force which had as yet served him well. In victory, and in defeat, he never faltered. He would die for Scotland, and Brendan was aware that in riding with Wallace, he made the commitment to do so as well. If necessary. But like Wallace, he prayed for life. Tonight, the winds were calm. The moon touched the water. Where sea and horizon met could not be seen, and they might have been adrift anywhere in eternity.

"I like the pirate. De Longueville," William told Brendan. "There's an honesty in the fellow." "He's been plundering ships at sea for years." "Aye, and he honestly admits it," William agreed, a twinkle in his eyes. Born to his role as leader and warrior, he was striking in his very appearance of power. His voice had a power; his words an eloquence that could move men. And had. But those close to him knew as well that he was a man, not a monster, and a simple man in his way, familiar with pain, but eager for moments in which to smile. "So a wrong is right—if one admits it?" Brendan inquired. "Then in God's name, somewhere, there must be forgiveness for King Edward, since he admits to wanting to seize all Scotland and destroy all Scotsmen."

"I would rather an honest enemy than a dishonest ally," William told him gravely. "Ah, now there's the truth of it," Brendan muttered, drinking deeply once again. He shook his head, keeping silent. But he couldn't help but think how very right William was—it had been said, and said again, that Falkirk might have been won, had John Comyn the Red not turned away from the battle with his cavalry. Comyn was cousin to the deposed King John, in whose name William continued to fight for Scotland. Robert Bruce, contender to be king along with John Comyn, had as yet never fought with Wallace. He had, at times, fought with King Edward. After the battle, however, Bruce and Comyn had held Scotland together in an uneasy, unholy alliance. But Robert Bruce had soon resigned his guardianship, and this time when they set sail from Scotland, there was rumor that he would soon sign a peace with Edward. He was a man with much to lose.