"But
"He has no home. They live in the forest when they are in Scotland. He told me what a great difference it was—being given such kingly treatment in Norway, France ... even Italy. But in Scotland, they keep the fight for freedom alive, and do so by harrying the border."
"Bridie, don't give up hope. Perhaps in time ..."
"I don't have time," Bridie said. She stared at Eleanor. "And neither do you."
"I ... don't know what you mean," Eleanor said.
"My lady, I beg your pardon. But I believe you do."
Aye, she did. And she had yet to talk to Alain, but ...
She was deeply grateful for the life growing within her. Relieved, even, to know that the child couldn't possibly be Alain's, and therefore, was a part of Brendan she could hold and keep forever. The babe would be her father's grandchild; Clarin would be his.
"Aye, I'm having a child," she murmured. "Bridie, I'll find a solution. I'll write—"
"How? And to whom?" Bridie asked softly.
Eleanor took her into her arms. "There are always means of communication. Even to enemy outlaws, fighting in the woods. But no one will take you from me, and no one will judge you, or ever send you from this house. I swear it."
"How can you bear this, my lady? How can you?"
"I must. This is my home, and ..."
"And?"
"I sincerely doubt that I'd really be welcomed by—by the Scots myself."
"He loves you; I saw it in his eyes, any time he was near you. Just as I saw the way you looked at him."
"Let's pray that others did not have such keen eyesight," Eleanor told her.
"You could run, you know. Go to him."
Eleanor shook her head. "Not now. Even if I could ... leave everything else, I could not leave Alain. He isn't well. He needs me."
"But the child is Sir Brendan's," Bridie said flatly.
Eleanor was about to answer when she thought she heard movement from the adjoining room. She brought her finger to her lips, and tiptoed quickly across the room. She paused at the door that joined the two; then threw it open.
The room was empty. But she thought she heard a clicking sound, as if the door to the hall had opened and closed. She hurried to it and opened the door, looking out.
There was no one in sight.
She closed the door. A strange foreboding closed around her heart.
That night at dinner, Isobel was talkative. She asked Eleanor about one of the farmers, who had been ailing.
"Old Timothy is not very well, I'm afraid," she said sadly. "He cannot walk without hunching over, and his wife is ill now as well."
"So they live in that fine little cottage, and will produce little," Isobel said.
"He worked all his life on this land," Eleanor said. "He has given a great deal."
"Ah, Eleanor! You will defend all the peasants! Yet, once you have a score of such fellows, Clarin will fall to waste!"
"Clarin will not fall to waste. Timothy has two grown sons who do more than a fair share of work."
"Fine, strapping lads!" Isobel agreed. "They'll be called to service against the loathsome Scots! Then, what will we do? Perhaps old Timothy and his ailing wife could be moved to a small place, and their good cottage given to a younger man, with fine young sons of his own, to till a better field. I'd never suggest that we don't care for the aged, of course ... Alfred! Corbin! Wouldn't my idea be of greater sense—and value?"
"We are doing well enough," Alfred said with a shrug.
"But we could do better."
"If we lack anything this season," Alain put in firmly, "we will bring in supplies from France."
"But Alain, your children in France surely work their hardest to improve your holding there. Clarin should not be a drain."
"Isobel," Eleanor said, maintaining her temper the best she could, "perhaps you'll be so kind as to remember that Clarin is held in my name, and now the count's, through my father."
"But it will revert to Alfred, should you not have a son. Oh, Eleanor! You've not got a happy announcement for us, do you?"
Eleanor was afraid that blood was rushing to her features. She fought to maintain a calm. "Isobel, no, I've no announcement for you."
Isobel smiled. ' 'There, you see? It is for Alfred, and Corbin, and the heir I might one day bear myself, that I cannot help but feel concern."
Eleanor rose. "They say that London grows beautiful at this time of year, Isobel."
"Do they? It's still cold here. And colder still, in Scotland, I'll warrant."
"And what is your concern with Scotland?"
"Only that our men will go and fight there again, of course," Isobel said sweetly. "I shall pray that weather improves before they are called to leave.
The next morning, Eleanor sat her horse in the field, watching Corbin and Alfred drill young men.
It was a bad time for exercises such as this. It was time for the spring planting.
But it was good for all the men to be trained; too few had known how to wield weapons when they had been so horribly set upon by renegades. She still feared for her people. Wallace had admitted to a multitude of raids and attacks, and he did feel himself entirely justified in his war against the borders. He had only denied burning those innocent of waging war against him. There were no promises from anyone that war would not come here again, or that it would not be brutal. It was necessary to train all the young men possible.
As she watched the men spear scarecrows and battle straw- stuffed dummies, she was surprised to see that Isobel was riding that day as well. Her cousin-in-law approached her, waving. "Good morning, Eleanor."
"Isobel," she murmured.
"Does it make you want to bear armor again, and go rushing to the defense of your country?'' Isobel inquired.
"No. It makes me sad to think of the horror and death that follows any battle."
"Ah, Eleanor! You are a true paragon. Of virtue, that is. Aren't you?"
"Isobel, please, if you have something to say to me—say it. And if you find yourself too miserable here, I'm sure that it would be far more comfortable to await this latest campaign in London. You can bear a child there as well as any place, and no matter where the child is born, if I don't provide the heir and Alfred doesn't marry, well ... you can return when the time is right!"
Isobel didn't answer for a moment. Eleanor thought that for all her determination and zestful effort, Isobel had yet to conceive the child she was so ardently—and openly—planning.
"Corbin remains here for the time. So will I. By your good grace, kindness, and benevolence, of course."
"The property remains his home, and Alfred's, as my father wished. You are Corbin's wife."
"Aye, we are kin. That's why I've come to warn you."
"Warn me?"
Isobel appeared very grave. "There's rumor afloat."
"Oh? And how have you heard this rumor?"
"Your husband came here with men and servants of his own."
"And his men come to you—with rumor?"
"I have befriended a few."
"Um."
"Enough to know that Alain has sent men to Liverpool in search of the truth."
"What?" she said sharply.
"Your husband is a dear and noble man! He listened, of course, to the pirate's story that he was paid to seek out your ship on the Irish Sea! He has sent them to make inquiries."
Eleanor said nothing, not wanting her to know that Alain had not discussed his fears, and his determination to find the truth, with her.
"Apparently, certain rogues in Liverpool mentioned the fact that if you were not quite safe from the brigands before, you are now. Clarin will never be attacked by the Scots."
"I was Wallace's prisoner. His forces were decimated at Falkirk, but his words still carry great authority."
"Yes, so it's said. And there's another outlaw, a pupil of his, so they say, who had made astonishing raids, and cut deeply into the English efforts to rule the savage ruffians i
n the south of Scotland. His word carries great weight as well."
"Really."
"They say you became his mistress. Poor dear, it might have been to save your life—"
"The Scots did not threaten my life," she said. "And whatever words come from the streets of Liverpool do not interest me."
"But you see ... the Frenchmen talk as well."
Eleanor clenched her teeth, then took in a deep breath. She looked to the troops, and heard Alfred's sharp commands. She turned back to Isobel. "How is it, Isobel, that you draw such conversations from these men? Do you visit them at night? Do you fear my cousin will not prove himself fertile enough? Would you foist another man off as my cousin's in order to secure Clarin—should I fail to produce the heir?"
Isobel didn't even rise to anger; she smiled. "What of you, Eleanor of Virtue? Would you foist the bastard of a Scottish rebel and outlaw upon your husband?"
"Isobel, as I said, I have no announcement to make at this time."
"Alas, neither have I," Isobel murmured. "Eleanor, don't be cross with me. In truth, I merely came to warn you about what was being said."
"How very kind of you. But you'll excuse me, I have no time for rumor. I believe I can give some assistance to Alfred."
She spurred her horse and started across the field.
Alfred was stunned when she insisted on helping to give instructions on the proper use of a sword.
She took his heavy weapon, hiked up her skirts, and gave a solid lesson indeed to a youth who was just learning to handle his own steel.
She practiced till dusk, exhausting herself.
And even then, her soul remained alive with fury.
And unease.
Brendan drew up his plans to attack Hebert's holding, his diagrams drawn in the dirt with a stick, his men at his side, giving grave heed. The night before the attack, they all knew where their meager forces would be, and when, and where, they would move.
As arranged, they came as close as they dared to the fortress before dawn on Friday. They watched, they waited.
Dawn came. Nothing. Eric's eyes conveyed his lack of trust in their newfound friend.
But then, the courtyard became filled with activity. The stronghold was manned by about fifty men; horse soldiers all. Within an hour, thirty had ridden from the fortress.
Heading northwest.
When the last of them had gone, Brendan sent Gregory back to the gates in a tinker's wagon; Garth, able to perfect a north country accent, drove. Once they were in, Garth drew attention, pretending to be a vendor of needles.
Gregory slipped to the gates. Brendan counted his time, knowing that there were a few moments that could still prove Gregory's news to be a trap—and they could fall in. But as they surged across the fields for the walls, the gate—his job to lower—fell open, and the Scots were able to rush the fortress.
Within two hours, the structure was secure. The remaining defenders were locked into the dungeon. Hebert was not among them.
Brendan had to agree that Lady Hebert looked like a mastiff. She might well bite like one, too. They didn't give her such a chance, sending her instantly packing toward the north where she could be held for ransom.
Eric doubted that anyone would pay to have her returned.
They set up their guards and sentinels and waited again.
When the English troops returned, weary and despondent at the quarry which had given fair battle and disappeared into the mists, they were allowed in—only to find themselves surrounded and trapped.
Lord Hebert was among them. He found himself on equal footing with his men in the dungeon.
That night, they celebrated in Lord Hebert's newly built great hall. The supplies were plentiful. They drank, roasted beef and lamb and all manner of fowl. There was wine and good ale. Brendan sat in the lord's chair by the roaring fire and watched the festivities. A number of men had been killed that day, but a number of Scottish citizens had lost their bondage to the enemy as well.
If they could hold the fort, he knew.
He met de Longueville's milkmaid, who was far more voluptuous than round, and the envy of many a man. Those not on guard feasted and ate too much and drank too much, but such a fine victory as this, so easily won, did not come often.
Eric pressed his shoulder. "Eat! Drink! Be merry. Find a lass; bed her."
He looked at Eric. "Someone must stay sober."
"Aye. You were almost so. Until the young Englishman mentioned Clarin."
Brendan didn't respond.
He had spent the months after leaving France eating, drinking, fighting, and winning—being merry. He'd found many a lass. He'd learned that the bitterness in his heart could not be so easily expunged; and this evening, he was content enough to watch the cavorting of his fellows.
"Brendan, if the old fellow dies, you have to realize, she will always be a million miles away. She is raising troops to ride against us, even now. And if she were not—"
"I am still wanted dead or alive—preferably alive, to die a slow and agonizing death. I am aware of all that," Brendan said.
"Then start to live again."
Brendan stared at him and leaned forward. "I am very much alive, though by our day to day lives, we probably share as great a percentage as de Lacville in the odds against dying tomorrow."
Eric lifted his hand. "You know the saying, Brendan. Who wants to live forever? That's why you must live for today."
Brendan pointed to Margot, across the hall, laughing at one of Liam's antics. "Perhaps you should live for today, since there is no assurance for tomorrow."
"And what does that mean?"
"It means you should marry her."
"You know that it's not possible. My father—"
"Your father is in Shetland; you are here, she is here. You risk your life, but not your father's wrath?"
"I'm afraid of no man—" Eric began, then laughed. "All right, so I fear his ... disappointment."
"Were I you," Brendan warned him. "I would be more afraid of losing her."
"Well, cousin, you are not me. You are brooding over the enemy, a woman you can never have."
"Go to Margot," Brendan said quietly. "Leave me to brood alone."
"When you are done brooding, tell me. I'll find you a woman."
"When I'm done brooding, I'll find my own."
Eric laughed, clapped him on the shoulder, and went to join Margot. He slipped his arms around her. Margot leaned back into them, looked up at him, and smiled.
Brendan eased back in his chair, watching them. At the moment, he was tired.
Just tired.
The following day, Wallace arrived with John Comyn, and they set about putting a Scotsman in charge of the castle, manning the fortification, and guarding it.
They meant to hold it.
While he and his group prepared to move out, Gregory came up to him.
"I'd like your blessing, sir, to leave for a few weeks."
Ready to mount, Brendan paused, looking at him. "Why?"
"I need to go home."
"Why?" His question was one of surprise rather than anger.
"There's someone I left behind. I'd like to bring her here.
"If you're taken by the English, and any man recognizes you as a man gone to the enemy, you'll be arrested, face a mock trial, and probably a brutal death," he warned.
Gregory shrugged. "The men with me were not from Clarin; nor did they know I changed my allegiance. They were too busy running when you said the word to realize I'd been left behind. At any rate, sir, I don't intend to hand myself over at the castle. Just slip home, and then away."
"Who are you going back for?" Brendan asked cautiously. Margot was the only woman who had ever traveled in their company. She was indisputably with Eric, who was a frightening prospect for any man, and she was careful in helping when hiding in the woods preparing food—and living under the most extreme circumstances.
Gregory smiled. "Not a woman, sir. Well, yes, a woman. My si
ster; she is two years older, and all I have in the world. If I am ever recognized or discovered, as you warned, they may seize her, harm her ..."
"Of course. You have my permission. Take the sorrel mare over there; she is a Scottish pony, and can't be recognized as any mount from an Englishman we might have captured or killed."
"Aye, sir, thank you. I'll be back soon enough."
Brendan nodded, watching as Gregory took the horse, waved, and started off.
Eric came to stand by him. "Where's he off to?"
"England."
"Had enough of the woods, eh?"
"No. He's going home for his sister."
Eric shook his head. "His sister?"
"Aye."
"He'll not be back."
"I warrant, he will."
"Um. He'll come back with an army of Englishmen, ready to ride into the forest, and furrow us all out."
Brendan shook his head. "He'll be back. I know it."
"Aye? Do you know it?" Eric demanded. "Or do you think he'll bring back some word of the countess."
"Both," Brendan said curtly, and mounting his horse, he began to ride.
Seize The Dawn Page 20