She was ready to crawl up the cabin walls. The only person she really saw was the Norse woman, Margot, with her snow- blond hair, powder-light eyes, and soft-spoken comings and goings. She would have stayed again, Eleanor thought. She would have talked; she would have helped to keep her sane, except that the tall, snow-blond, muscle-bound Norse man would appear too often, and call her name sharply. And she would follow him out, as if he were the sun and moon, all in one.
There were books in the cabin. They had helped. Wonderful books, beautifully scripted, many of them copied in Irish monasteries, signed by the monks. There were Greek and Roman histories, legends, Irish fairy tales, even passionate dissertations about Viking raids on the British Isles and beyond. Some were in French, some in Latin, and a few, she surmised, were in Norse. She knew nothing of the language, which was frustrating, because often, the few phrases of conversation she could overhear were spoken in that tongue. She had not been surprised to discover how many of the Scots were familiar with Latin and French; the church taught the former, and most young men, with any hope of moving up in the world, were familiar with the language most frequently spoken at the courts in both Paris and London. Being so near even lowland Scotland, she had learned Gaelic as a child—her father's determination. But Norse ... Viking raids had ended long ago. Only heathen northerners, highlanders, might have occasion for the use of such a language. She had thought so often of her enemies as being barbaric, so much less civilized than Englishmen. She had never imagined them to have a greater education than she, the daughter of a scholar as well as a warrior, with the blood of nobility in her veins.
But even the books could entertain her only so long. She had ceased to be afraid moment to moment; if they had meant to slice her to pieces, she was fairly certain they would have done so by now. And if they were on a mission to the French king, it was unlikely that they would do well to arrive with the blood of a French nobleman's finance on their hands. She was not suffering; she had never minded sailing, though she did despise being locked up and confined. She was well fed: Margot brought her fresh dishes, wine, water, and ale. She was even brought water with which to bathe, and once the fever had broken, she had felt better, stronger, almost immediately. Her trunk of belongings was in the cabin with her, and nothing had been taken. She bathed and changed with unease, never sure when the door to her prison might open, but the other occupant of the cabin seemed only to come at night. Margot brought her meals at regular intervals. She was never disturbed.
She thought that it was the fourth night she had been aboard when she woke suddenly in the near darkness with the feeling that someone had just left the cabin. She opened her eyes carefully, afraid that person might still be with her, but the cabin was empty. Something, however, was wrong, different. She puzzled over the situation for several moments, then realized that she had not heard the bolt slide shut.
She sat up, sliding her feet carefully to the floor. Clad in a long linen nightdress, she scurried across the floor and tested the door, barely cracking it. The door lay open. Still, she stood within the cabin, dismayed to realize that the open door seemed to do her little good. She remained on a ship at sea. She was no longer certain if they were in the Irish Sea, or if they had reached the English Channel; they seemed to be taking a circuitous route. If she escaped the cabin, what then? Another dive into the sea? No. Reason had returned. She didn't want to die. She leaned against the cabin wall, a deep desolation settling over her. The door was open, yet she remained trapped. Maybe he knew that, and so bolting the door was no longer necessary.
But still ...Perhaps she could slip out unseen, and at the least, listen in on a conversation that might give her a clearer indication of what would happen when they reached France. She slipped outside the cabin, and in the shadows, tried to get her bearings. There was a corridor ahead, and a third deck below, and topside, of course, were the helm, the masts, the sails.
She crept up the stairs first, cautiously peeking above the deck level. It all seemed quiet, though there were men manning the ship by the darkness of the night. She came back below, then dived behind the covering of a storage wedge as two sailors walked by. As she held her breath, waiting for them to pass, she heard conversation. She realized that there was a center cabin above her, on the main deck, and she sped toward the stairs again, and up them, then along the rigging to reach the upper, central cabin. There were windows fore and aft, port and starboard, and she realized it was where leaders might meet on the ship, and yet be aware of any activity at sea—all around them. Now, ducking down by the starboard window, she could see that a lantern burned on a table, and that the pirate, de Longueville, sat there with the tall Norse captain and another man who seemed quite large as well, brown-haired and bearded, muscled and strong. She gritted her teeth; tremors raking her as a single word tore through her.
Wallace! For a moment, she was tempted to throw life itself to the wind. She had no weapon—foolish, but she hadn't come out to attack anyone. She wanted nothing more than to fly into the cabin, assault the man, and tear him to pieces with her teeth, hands, and nails alone. Idiocy, of course. She might as well attack a stone wall. She inhaled deeply, forcing herself to stillness, forcing herself to listen. "You see," Wallace was saying, "it is not so much an official voyage that I'm taking. Other men, trained as diplomats, men of the Church, have come to Philip, have pleaded with the pope. I've come now with the hope that my reputation and my abilities to persuade can give some good to the Scottish cause. The pope, I've heard, has recognized Scotland as a sovereign state, and said that our allegiance is to Rome as a Christian nation."
"The French king is always seeking mercenaries, God knows, half the battles waged by nations are fought by paid foreigners," the blond captain, Eric, said ruefully. "But mercenaries ... a pirate?" de Longueville inquired. "I've heard that the king would readily give pardon to a pirate who has plied his craft upon English ships," Wallace said. ' 'It is certain that he will not seize you as a member of our party—even if he has entered into a new agreement with Edward." "Aye, now that's true," Eric offered. "I've known the king in his business dealings; no matter what his agreements with the English, he is ready to do anything possible behind Edward's back."
"Maybe it is a sad thing, in a way," Wallace offered, "to be a king who has fostered so very many enemies. The Welsh are forced to serve him, but hate him. France is forever before him. And we, the Scots. By God, no matter what the cost in blood, we will not go the way of our distant cousins, the Welsh." "What if, however, we were to be attacked?'' de Longueville queried. "Perhaps by English ships, joined by Frenchmen, ready to take the head of a pirate—or a savage outlaw?'' "We have the woman. A Frenchman's English fiancée. They will take care," Wallace said.
She sucked in her breath. So she was going to be a pawn. A pawn to be used to avoid justice! She had to get back to the cabin, pretend sleep, lull them into leaving the cabin door open at all times. Then she could escape when the neared the French shore, swim in, and leave her captors in sorry shape indeed! She rose in a spin, ready to fly back to the prison of her cabin as quickly as she could. But she gasped as she spun right into the body of the man how had evidently stood silently behind her, watching her, waiting, as she had watched the others.
"Lady Eleanor, good evening, how very good of you to join us!" His hands fell upon her shoulders. The hardness of his features decried the lightness of his tone. She stared at him in silence. "You've nothing to say for yourself?" "I owe you no explanations." "Come then. Come in and meet Sir William Wallace." She had little choice, being turned and prodded, and when she did not move quickly enough, it seemed that she was off her feet until they reached the entry to the cabin, where the three men quickly moved, rising, hands ready to reach for swords or knives. Even upon their own vessel, it appeared they were ever ready for violence to be offered. "We've a visitor," Brendan said briefly.
"Ah, the lady of Clarin," William Wallace said, and he studied her oddly. His voice contained a certa
in gentle amusement, which she couldn't begin to understand. He had been bitterly defeated at Falkirk. She certainly hadn't caused that defeat, but she had been there, and she had been hailed as a rallying point for the men of the smaller towns and villages north of York.
"How do you do, my lady. I am William Wallace, of Scotland." "Every child in England knows who you are," she told him. "A monster, no doubt." "Men in my village were herded into a barn and burned like cattle, at your command," she told him. "I didn't ride against Clarin, my lady, I gave no order there that men were to be put to death by fire. But that is no matter. Many men have died at my hands, and at my command, but the death toll I have wreaked does not begin to compare with the murder done by Edward of England. I bear you no ill will, however, for choosing loyalty to your people over the comprehension of your king's desire to conquer a people."
She was still for a moment, realizing the way that the four men stared at her. Wallace spoke French beautifully, with a quiet eloquence she had never expected. Strange, in a way, for the four men in the cabin were all of an exceeding height and broad in the shoulders. At the moment, their manners were excellent, but the Scotsmen wore their tartans about their shoulders in a wild, barbaric manner. The Norseman had a mande of fur, and only the pirate seemed to be dressed in the manner of a gentleman. They were a strange company by whom to be surrounded, and she, in nothing but white linen, hardly armor between herself and these enemies. She had thought Wallace to be the worst monster on earth; they did use his name to terrify children in the countryside, to keep them close to home. Yet at the moment, she was most aware of the man at her side; he seemed far more the greater danger to her person.
"Edward was invited to Scotland when the line of secession was in question," Eleanor said at last. "He was invited as an adviser, not as a conqueror," Wallace said sharply. "Are you suggesting that I should forgive and forget what was done to my home, and allow you to use me in your game with a king?" she inquired. She stared at him. The pirate suddenly made a strange sound and turned away from her. "I would like it if you would cease to hunger for my blood on a personal level. Aye, yes, and maybe understand," Wallace said. His voice was low. Brendan's was not so pleasant when he spoke next "M'lady,
I have taken great pain to forgive and forget quite a bit, for the duration of this voyage."
She turned on him uneasily, suddenly aware of the candlelight in the room, of the way it filtered over them all, and seemed to make the linen of her nightdress transparent. If she should decide to spy again on a ship in the midst of the night, she mocked herself, she must take care to dress with greater thought for the occasion.
"We met on a battlefield," she told Brendan. "Aye. And we learned who granted mercy—and who did not." She looked back at Wallace. "How are you in clanger from me, sir? I carry no weapons." "Any man—or woman—can acquire a weapon," he reminded her with humor. "I've offered no harm to anyone as yet," she told him. Once again, the pirate, de Longueville, sniffed. Eric Graham laughed out loud. At her side, and just slightly behind her— where she was unable to see his face—Brendan remained silent.
"I've heard you've quite a talent with a sword," Wallace said. "Not really. Simple defensives are known by most sensible men or women living on property in the borderlands between Scotland and England; I am scarcely of the caliber of your warriors with their tremendous prowess at battle."
"Men and women have different talents, on and off the battlefield," Wallace murmured. "Who is to say who holds the greater prowess? Battles are not a simple matter of power; they are in the mind, the strategy, and mostly, they are in the hearts and souls of those who wage them. We fight for our lives, Lady Eleanor. We fight for our freedom, our land, and for our hearts. Edward fights to gain greater glory, to prove himself the conqueror of all that he sees."
"My people fought because northern barbarians swept down and ravaged their fields, and attempted to take the fortress that is my home," she said evenly. "She will never see the truth of the situation," Brendan said with sudden impatience. "Perhaps," Wallace said, sitting on the edge of the table in the center of the cabin, watching her, a gentle amusement still in his eyes. "But were she to promise not to put a knife in my back, I would believe her." "Um, she would opt for a sword instead!'' Brendan muttered.Wallace's smile deepened. "I would like to offer you greater freedom about the ship, my lady." "How kind—since I have been detained from my own vessel." "Mon Dieu! Someone should tell her the truth!" de Longueville said irritably. "How can we—we don't know the truth," Wallace said, his eyes never leaving her.
"What are you talking about?" she demanded. "It's none of your affair," Eric said. "Surely, it is," she said, staring at him." You talk, you Scotsmen, talk, talk!" the Frenchman exclaimed. "Were she my prisoner still—""But she is not," Brendan said firmly. "Perhaps it is time for Lady Eleanor to retire for the evening," Wallace said sharply. "Wait, I—" But Wallace took her hand. With smooth charm that startled her so that she didn't think to wrench away, he kissed it in a gallant manner. "Good evening, m'lady. We'll speak again."
"Good evening, my lady!" de Longuevile mocked. "The savage Wallace is so courteous. Had you left her in my care, she would not be questioning commands. What a waste! Think of what King Edward has done to the Scots. Aye, breed them out, seize their wives! Ah, but we'll be so polite. This would not be so difficult if she were my prisoner—" "But she is not. We have come to an agreement, and in her state as hostage, she belongs to Sir Brendan," Wallace said firmly, and she was startled to feel the blood race to her cheeks. "If he chooses courtesy, it is what we will offer. No matter what the rumors—or those things we are capable of in battle!—we are not monsters. Not even so much as the English. Lady, I seriously suggest you retire."
"But there is something happening here that I don't know about. You've told me nothing" "M'lady, there are many things you don't know about! Ah, and it's been such a pleasure having this ... converse here. All of us. But it is time to go," Brendan said firmly. She felt the fall of his hands on her shoulders and gritted her teeth. "I don't wish to retire, I want to know—"
"Perhaps the fever is returning!" Brendan said with mock concern. "William, I shall see that she makes it back to the cabin, and return." "Aye, then." "No, I'll not—" she began, but to her consternation, she was simply plucked up in his arms, and he strode from the cabin with her. She shoved furiously against his chest, then tugged at her gown, afraid that his hands upon her might have tugged up the hem much farther than was comfortable. Or safe.
"Let me down!" she cried, then she dropped her voice, aware that there were seamen on deck, and aware that they were stopping to watch her forced progress along the ship. "Dammit, let me down, I—" "In another minute, you fool, the Frenchman would have been at his bit, raping you then and there on the table." She fell silent for a moment, shocked. She struggled for a comeback, realizing he still carried her toward the stairs to the lower deck.
"Better a Frenchman than a Scot!" "Shall I bring you back and give you over to him?" He came to a dead halt. She dropped her head low against his chest. "My lady, the choice is yours! You will say something!" She swallowed very hard. And still, he waited. And she didn't know if he would, or wouldn't, turn her over to the pirate. Something inside her mocked that if she hated the Scots as she swore she did, violence at the hands of de Longueville would be better than uncertainty with this enemy. But she gave her answer at last. "No!" "Pardon, my lady, I want to be certain that I heard you correctly?" "No." "No ... no ... no what?" She flung her head up, angrily meeting his eyes. "No, don't turn me over to the pirate."
He smiled, smug, pleased. "Thank the Lord! Some sign of intelligence and reason does lurk in the recesses of your mind." "You're the ones who are in alliance with a pirate!" "He's not a bad fellow." "Oh! He attacks ships, kills men, robs, thieves, plunders and rapes. But he's not a bad fellow." "You honor your king. It's true that he has raped a country and ordered the cruel use of hundreds, perhaps thousands, of young brides. De Longueville, at
least, has no intention of killing you."
"No? Then why is it that he sneers and coughs and snickers, and makes insinuations about things that I don't know?" They had reached the stairs. "You may put me down. I can walk." "But I can manage." He did. For his size, he was exceptionally lithe and agile, maneuvering through the narrow spaces with expertise, but leaving her clinging to him so that she didn't fall—or find her head crashed into the ship. They reached the cabin; he opened the door. And it was only once they were inside that he let her slowly stand, sliding down the length of his body to do so. Her eyes remained upon his, her cheeks flamed again, and she tugged at her nightdress, aware that it rode up her thighs, that her legs were bared, and frantic to remedy the situation.
"Well, I am duly returned to the cabin," she murmured. "Aye, so you are." "You are due back." "Aye, that I am." "Your duty to Sir Wallace awaits you. To the man who claims he had no part in the slaughter at Clarin." "If he claims that it is so, it is so." "Then you must serve him, at all costs." "Um. And you must serve your masters as well." "I have no masters. Only memories." "Such pride! Yet here you are ... seized first by pirates, then hostage to a defeated, but never broken enemy."
She stood very still, keenly aware of the dark blue intensity of his eyes as he stared down at her. "Thank God," she murmured, "that I am the hostage of a man who hates me." "Hates you?" he repeated. "Nay, lady. You hate us. I don't hate you." "I ... I cried for mercy, remember? And then—" "I don't hate you. Did I want vengeance? Definitely! But hate you ... not at all. You taught me an incredible lesson, my lady. Never, ever, be swayed by an image of innocence or beauty. Therein lies the most deadly of all danger! Mercy, ah ... would I be so foolish as to offer it again? Most unlikely. And mercy, to you, my lady? Never!" he voiced very softly. His fingers just stroked the length of her hair. For a moment, his eyes made the most idle journey over her face, her throat, her breasts. He offered her a grim smile. ' 'Wallace, you see, is a man of his word, not a monster at all. As to the rest of us ... we have learned from our tormentors. But you will excuse me, of course? Duty does call."
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