Seize The Dawn

by Drake, Shannon

  "Slay the rascal, and let's be going on!" the second man said impatiently.

  "Slay me? Why, I was about to offer you your lives," Brendan informed him.

  "Offer us our lives!" the first burst into laughter, causing his visor to fall. He quickly adjusted it, angered that he might have looked a fool.

  He nudged his horse toward Brendan.

  "Ah, sir! You might want to take note of my friend, atop that branch. Indeed, you're clad in fine mail beneath the colors of a murdering, usurping fiend, but at this close range ... ah! See, my friend is smiling. For a filthy savage, he has learned a quite incredibly accurate aim. I believe he can strike your face ... perhaps your throat, or even pierce that mail right in die vicinity of your heart"

  The man gave pause, looking up. Garth smiled, but didn't move a muscle. His bow was strung; the arrow was aimed.

  "Throw down that weapon, man, what, are you a fool?" the . man demanded. "We've a party of twelve well-armed fighting men—kill me, and they'll pick you apart like carrion!"

  "Surrender the wagons," Brendan commanded quietly.

  "Idiots!" the man swore.

  "We will let you leave with your lives."

  "We will butcher you like the wild hogs you are!"

  He nudged his mount forward. Garth let the arrow fly. The knight grasped his throat, and then the shaft of the arrow. Brendan, sword drawn, went for the second rider, drawing him from his horse and finding the point of weakness at his neck nearly as fast as the arrow had flown.

  The other riders were moving up, but Brendan was on to a second combatant, and Garth had strung another arrow. Collum and the others let out cries and emerged from the woods, and minutes later, they had the five English survivors sitting awkwardly together in the center of the road.

  Brendan quickly ordered de Longueville and Collum to see that the wagons were brought on ahead, the goods to be dispersed. He and his remaining men surveyed their prisoners.

  "Do we let them go?" Brendan asked Eric.

  "They did refuse to surrender."

  "Norwood refused to surrender, not I!" cried one of the men.

  "They do say we're savage beasts," Eric reminded Brendan.

  "Ah, now, they're not so hard on you. Too much Norse in your blood, cousin."

  "I resent that! Is there such a thing as too much Norse in the blood?"

  "No offense intended, cousin, I'm merely pointing out that you might, perhaps, not be quite so much a savage as a full- blooded Scot—"

  "Brendan, there's probably not a full-blooded Scot among you, the Norse have been here so long—"

  "Teaching us to fight like berserkers, chop our enemies into , little pieces?" He turned toward the English, his sword in hand.

  One of the men rose, "Wait, please. We rode in the rear, and had no chance to accept your offer of surrender."

  Brendan studied the speaker. He was young; he'd barely grown a few whiskers. He stood tall, though, not flinching. He awaited his judgment with a vein pulsing hard at his neck, but with stoic dignity as well.

  "We need their mail," Eric said.

  "I'd just as soon not have mine all bloodied," Liam stated.

  "They've really fine swords there," Eric reminded him.

  "Well, we've already taken their swords," Brendan pointed out. "But then, I agree, 'tis much easier, having help removing those coats of armor from live bodies rather than trying to struggle with corpses."

  The Englishmen were quick to rise at that—and fumble awkwardly to remove the mail.

  "Ah, well, that's one now!" Eric said cheerfully. "But I've a mind to burn those wretched tunics that herald such a man as Hebert!"

  "In the bodies—or out?" Brendan inquired.

  "I'm not sure that much matters—"

  ' 'Ma 'se do thoil e!'' The young man who had risen to speak said suddenly.

  Startled, both Eric and Brendan turned to the young man who stared straight in Brendan's eyes, and repeated please in Gaelic. "Ma's e do thoil e!"

  Brendan looked at Eric. "He's a fine accent."

  "Scottish mother," the fellow said quiedy.

  "You're fluent?" Brendan inquired.

  "Aye." He looked at Eric. "And in Norse, as well. My mother is from Iona."

  "And you're wearing the tunic of an English butcher?" Eric demanded.

  "English father," the young man explained.

  "A waste, a pity," Eric said.

  "Aye, you'd be faring better with us in the woods."

  "Let me live; and I swear, I will serve you better in the woods," he vowed.

  "What's your name, lad?" Brendan demanded.

  "Gregory, sir."

  "Gregory ... well, we will let these fellows live. We did not intend to do murder. They are, however, hated tunics. You'll leave them. And the capes."

  "We've bare linen shirt and hose—" one of the men protested.

  "Nice hose," Eric said.

  "Aye, I've a use for those," Liam said with a sigh.

  "You heard him!" Brendan said.

  "You'd leave us with nothing—" the protester said, astonished.

  "Naked Englishmen, alone in the woods!" Liam said, tsk- tsking.

  "Imagine all those English tally whackers, a-blowin in the breeze, all shriveled with the cold. Why, 'tis downright dangerous. An angry fishwife could come along with her gutting knife, and leave the fellow a limb short!" Eric commented, shaking his head.

  "Well, they'll not be attacking our farmsteads so," Brendan mused.

  "Sir," Gregory interrupted. "Begging your pardon, but the coming of spring is not so warm in Scotland. If you'd leave men to freeze, might as well cut their throats."

  Eric looked at Brendan. Brendan shrugged.

  "I suppose I can do without new hose a while longer," Liam said, sighing.

  "Go!" Brendan told the Englishmen. "Go!"

  They started to move, uncertain, unsure. They came toward the Scotsmen.

  "Not that way!" Brendan barked. "Southward—back to England."

  They quickly turned. Walking at first, they looked back, and then started to run.

  All except Gregory. He stood still, waiting.

  "Go, son," Brendan told him.

  But Gregory stood still, watching as the others ran now, getting farther away.

  "Go!" Brendan persisted. "Would you walk back to England alone?"

  "I could be of use in the woods," Gregory told him quietly.

  "Ye canna trust an Englishman!" Liam warned Brendan.

  "I'd not betray you," Gregory said.

  "You just betrayed your own," Brendan reminded him.

  Gregory shook his head. "I was allowed to leave for service in York, but then taken to serve with troops under Lord Hebert. By his order, I was taken out to a field to learn to use a sword, and then commanded to come to Scotland. It was a service I did not seek." He hesitated. "Lord Hebert would have butchered every man of you, had the situation been reversed."

  "Don't underestimate us," Eric warned. "We have been known to slay a few men."

  "That I know. I see the bodies beyond you. But it's wrong. Wrong that a king should claim a land that is not his, and wrong that we kill our neighbors time and time again so that Edward may grasp for all in sight."

  Eric turned his back on the young man. "You canna trust an Englishman!"

  "I say we give him a chance,'' Brendan said after a moment

  "Tis your funeral, if you choose," Eric told him.

  Gregory came walking toward him, and lowered to a knee. "I never gave oath of fealty before. I swear now, my honor, to you, sir."

  "Get up, lad,'' Brendan said.' 'We've seen it often enough— words and vows do not prove fealty. Actions do. We shall see how yours stand up. Gather the swords and mail!" He said to the others. "We'll move from the road before one of the treacherous bastards doubles back—and makes it to Hebert"

  That night, they dared a campfire deep in the woods. They were protected by the river to their one side, and the protection of a steep hillside
to the other. They always had an escape route planned, wherever they took shelter.

  The goods from the wagon had already been divided; most of the weapons were on their way to Wallace who was meeting with John Comyn, the Red, a fierce fighter with an eye on the crown himself, though he was kin to Balliol. Comyn had never catered to the English, and he was a warrior, if perhaps, he did not have the diplomatic or tactical skills of Robert the Bruce.

  Thomas de Longueville had found some beautiful silks; he meant to give some of them to the lovely little dairy maid who had been so talkative in bed.

  "La!" de Longueville said happily, modeling the silk. "My round petite will be lovely in this."

  There had been a barrel of apples among the goods, only slightly damaged and aged. They sat around, enjoying the sweetness of the fruit in the coldness of the night, watching de Longueville's antics.

  "Ah, lovely—and dead—if she's caught wearing it by the mastiff, Lady Hebert!" Eric told de Longueville.

  "Perhaps it will not be so healthy for her to remain where she is after today!" de Longueville mused. "We'll move her north, eh, Brendan? There are many cows in the highlands!"

  Brendan nodded. "Aye, she needs to slip away by night."

  Gregory spoke up. "Where I came from—" He broke off suddenly.

  "Where you came from what?" Brendan demanded sharply.

  "Well, they've suffered greatly from the Scots; the village was razed ... and many were burned to death. Alive. That's why, when the Duke of York called out for more men, it did not seem such an evil thing to be taken for training, though it was not what I would have desired."

  "A call for more men!" Liam spat. "When Edward has much in his hands, now, with his truce being made with Robert the Bruce!"

  "Did the man have a choice?" Eric inquired quiedy.

  "Ah, Eric!" Liam said with disgust.

  "Aye, now, wait," Brendan said, putting up a hand. "I've considered him the worst of turncoats myself, and, aye, he seeks the crown! But you can see the way the man was thinking; John Balliol, freed from Rome, across the channel in France. That was a fear to King Edward, and surely to Bruce as well, for if Balliol had returned—ever does return—he is the king. There was the matter of Bruce falling in love with Elizabeth de Burgh—whose father is Earl of Ulster, and one of King Edward's most staunch and loyal supporters. And then—" he said, putting a hand up again to stop the protests about to begin, "there was the matter of his family. A large family, brothers and sisters, far too close to the English king for comfort."

  ' 'He did put a fine fight for a few years; his army at Carrick was strong," Eric said. "A threat to the English before—a boon to them now. Mark my words, though, he is a Scotsman. He'll weary of his subservience to Edward in time."

  "Aye, but if he rises, will the people rise with him?" Liam demanded.

  "He'll have a lot to prove," Brendan agreed. "If he wearies of his subservience. For the moment, the English position is good."

  They were all silent then, staring at the fire. Eric cleared his throat. "Where is it exactly, young master Gregory, that you come from?"

  "A small but fine place, just north of York. Clarin. 'Tis a beautiful land, a valley, rich with streams—"

  "Where?" Brendan demanded, tensing.

  "Clarin. There's a fine stone castle, begun soon after the arrival of William of Normandy—who did not so trust the Scots himself. There's a fine mixture of people there, English, of course, but many of Scottish descent, and some who have married Flemings, and of course, some with Norse and Danish blood—"

  "Clarin," Brendan said.

  "Aye. You know of it?"

  "We know the lady there," Eric said.

  "Aye, then! You're the men who took my lady at sea—"

  "Aye," Brendan interrupted roughly, and again, the group fell silent.

  After a moment, Brendan said, "How fared the lady of Clarin, when last you saw her?"

  "Ah, well, she is well! Though I fear the count sickens."

  "Sickens?" Eric inquired, and added, "You mean he ages?"

  "No, he is ill, very ill. A sickness in the stomach, and the bowels. It's sad. The lady does set such store by him."

  "How do you know this?" Brendan asked sharply.

  "Because Lady Eleanor is frequently about, seeing to repairs on the walls, visiting with her tenants, the craftsmen, and all. Clarin isn't London, you know. Or even York. Yet I believe she is a far greater lady than most; she talks to her people, she visits them when they're sick, brings gifts when a child is born. You can see her eyes, though, how troubled she is, when one asks about the count."

  "She is such a great lady," Brendan said, his voice still too harsh, ' 'but she sent you off to fight for the English—when it was not your choice?"

  "The Duke of York sent out a call for men," Gregory explained simply. "To learn the use of arms ... it seemed a way to perhaps better my position in life."

  "Aye, well, you've bettered it!" Collum said with a laugh. "Now you are an outlaw."

  "If you win your freedom, I will have bettered my life," Gregory said.

  "If," Eric murmured.

  "When," Brendan said firmly.

  Gregory proved to be as valuable an asset as Thomas de Longueville. Well versed in many languages, he could listen in on any conversation spoken, and with his youth, agility, and speed, he was able to slip in and out of many places—and appear innocent all the while.

  On a day about three weeks after he had first come to ride with Brendan's company, he came back with news about Hebert's castle. The following Friday, the main body of Hebert's men would be moving out—ready to attack Wallace and Comyn north of the forest. The still not complete fortress would be vulnerable.

  And Wallace and Comyn could be warned of the attack.

  Brendan listened gravely to all he had to say, then dismissed him, musing over the conversation.

  "How do you know we can trust him?" Eric asked. "How do we know it's not a trick to draw us into the fortress?"

  "We watch before we leap," Brendan said simply. "We send warning right away to William and John, and then we prepare ourselves to move in once we're certain that the English have moved out."

  "We could be dead men, trusting this lad."

  "We could be dead men any day."

  Eric shrugged. "Who wants to live forever?" he muttered.

  Chapter 13

  Eleanor loved Clarin. It was good to be home.

  The castle was drafty, and not nearly as fine as Alain's estates just outside Paris, but there was a heritage, she thought, that was unique to their north country. Old customs with the serfs and tenants remained; ancient wiccan holidays had combined with Catholic holy days. Certain days were given to feasts, and certain days were given to rest.

  Interceding when the village had been under attack had given Eleanor a relationship with the people that she cherished. She was welcomed in every home, and she was glad to visit the sick, the elderly, and those in need of help.

  She had known that she would never forget Brendan, but she hadn't realized that she would be haunted by memories, day after day, and in her dreams. Riding around the estate with Alfred was something she enjoyed; looking into the fives of her people gave her pleasure. If she could not find a real happiness herself, she could at least provide it for others, giving permission for marriages, and visiting newborn babes. Life went on, and with it death, and it was sad to attend burials as well, but important, and she was very glad to keep as busy as possible.

  The days were bearable.

  The nights, when she lay alone, haunted her. Awake, she would pray for the dawn, sometimes see to Alain, who seemed to toss so restlessly in the adjoining room, then lie awake again.

  Day. Aye, day was better.

  Night was memory, a haunting that seemed to grow more grave with time.

  She kept so busy when she first returned that she didn't notice how Bridie moped about. One afternoon, when she had spoken to her several times and her maid had not
answered, she walked to the window where she stood, looking out at the grounds. They were alone; Alain was in the great hall with Alfred and Corbin, giving instructions to the builders and bricklayers who continued to strengthen the fortification. They were in Alain's section of the chamber; Eleanor had brought in a bouquet of the first spring flowers and set them in a vase, hoping they would cheer him, since he had not felt well since they had arrived.

  "Bridie!" she said sharply.

  And when her maid turned to her, her eyes betraying a wretchedness similar to that of what she was feeling, she instantly regretted her tone.

  She walked to her, putting an arm around Bridie's slender shoulders.

  "What is it?"

  "Oh, my lady, what will I do?" Bridie wailed.

  And she realized, in her own anguish, she had forgotten the nights that Bridie had slipped away, and how she had talked about her Lars.

  Eleanor hesitated. She loved Bridie. They had been together forever.

  "Perhaps ... perhaps you could go to Scotland," she said.

  Hope leaped into Bridie's eyes, then faded. "From your kindness, yes. But my lady, I don't know his feelings."