She released his arm. "I'm glad. I... pray for him. Go now; go quickly."
"The water."
"What?"
"The water has boiled. I should pour it."
"Yes, yes, of course."
Just as he was pouring the water, the oversized guard peeked in. "Come along, lad," he told Gregory.
"Aye, sir."
Carrying the last empty bucket, eyes downcast, Gregory left the room.
Eleanor closed the door behind him. She stared at the water, and decided on a bath. Leaning back into it, she pondered his words, closing her eyes as the steam wound around her.
She might face a trial; but she had already been judged guilty. Someone had killed Alain. Mercilessly. Isobel. It could only be. There was no way to exonerate herself, and prove the truth. For all appearances, Isobel would have nothing to gain by Alain's death.
While she ...
Isobel would have seen to it by now that the "rumor" about her Scottish lover was well circulated. Edward would be the final judge in this matter, as Alain was a beloved subject of his new brother-in-law. Edward would be incensed that any loyal Englishwoman would willingly fall to a savage, heathen, rogue of a rebel outlaw—a man in the service of the loathed Wallace.
She was condemned, without being tried.
For a moment, her heart beat too quickly. Gregory had seen Brendan. He was alive and well. Still fighting with his ragtag band. His head would remain on his shoulders no longer than hers.
He would come for her, she thought whimsically.
No. She was not worth Scotland to him. Nothing was. Her own family, in command of guards and sizable troops, dared not help her lest they all be cut down. He mustn't come for her ...
She prayed then that she would be long gone before he ever appeared. Not even he could stop what was to be, though he had stopped her often enough ...
That thought caused her to look to the window. She gazed back to her bed, and wondered if she couldn't rig a rope of bedding once again, and make it to the courtyard. If she could do so ...
And reach the crypts and dungeons, there were sewage laden tunnels that followed the water to springs beyond the walls.
If she was to escape, she must manage on her own. She had some time at least ... a day and a night.
She looked uneasily to the window.
She could well kill herself, trying to slip out.
Yet they would kill her if she did not!
Chapter 15
Brendan lay in wait so long that it seemed the branch of the oak would give way with his weight. But they had set the trap; whatever time it took, they were in position, and there was nothing to do but stay silent, and let the time pass.
At last, when twilight was nearly gone, he heard the approaching horses. From across the road, Eric signaled to him. He returned the signal. A whisper went through the branches.
They might well be abetted in this scheme by the deplorable state of the road. The Romans had long ago carved it, on their few prods into Scotland, before they decided that the riches to be gained were not worth harrying the warlike people of the north. Since Alexander's days of peace, wars and lack of funds had let the roads worsen from what the weather itself was likely to effect Deep grooves marred the road; it had rained, so the terrain was slippery and dangerous.
He listened; felt the oak vibrate. They were not coming quickly, but the horses were heavily laden with the riders in the armor. He wished they would opt for a little more speed, but with night coming on, they would not do so.
The horses came closer and closer.
They paused; Brendan swore, listening. Someone asked if they shouldn't stop for the night, but the lead rider replied tersely. "Nay, we'll not bed in this forest!"
"We are armed men against a handful of outdraws—"
"We'll not stop until we've cleared the forest!"
The horses came on again. Brendan's heart began to beat faster. He could see faces in the trees, all tense. They waited. The horses moved with a greater speed.
They reached the trees—and the all but invisible ropes stretched between them. Three horses in the lead; they immediately went down, screaming and shrieking in panic. One of the great animals backed into the others, causing another group to bolt. They, too, were caught in the web set to trip them in the road.
Screams and shouts went out; more horses floundered; men, in a panic, were caught beneath them. The others scattered, seeking the danger that only then leaped down upon them.
Indeed, they were like prey, caught in a tangle, and the Scots were like spiders, falling upon them, catching them in their webs.
"What, ho!" Someone shouted.
"Rally, rally!"
"Rise!"
"My leg is broken."
"Roger's skull is crushed."
"Rally, gather, form ranks!"
It was not to be; the felled Englishmen were left to flounder, those still horsed were dragged from their bolting mounts. They were heavy in their armor, awkward in the confines of the woods. Though they outnumbered the Scots, and gave good battle, they were caught, as if in quicksand. Men were trampled as many of the horses managed to bolt; others were slain as they gave fight. And when it at last appeared that they had the advantage, Brendan shouted out, "Surrender! Your lives will be spared."
"Nay, you heathens will cut our throats!" Cried one man. "Men! Cowards, wretched dogs, stand tall against these ragged outlaws, fight!" He rushed Eric, who sidestepped him, and indeed, neatly slit his throat before he could turn and take Eric down with his sword.
"Surrender!" Cried one of the survivors.
This time, there were ten.
"Who will speak for you?" Brendan demanded.
One man stepped forward.
"And you are?" Brendan inquired.
"Lord Gilly. Lord James Gilly," the man said.
"Gilly, Lord Gilly."
"You promised our lives," Gilly reminded him.
"A promise I intend to keep—unless one of your men raises a sword to me."
He stared at Gilly.
"Drop your weapons," Gilly commanded.
Steel clattered to the earth, thunking and clanking. Brendan looked around the circle of his men, now surrounding the English.
In a body, they lowered their weapons. "We're curious, Lord Gilly. Why is such an esteemed body of men moving southward?"
Gilly was silent.
Brendan smiled, pointing northward. "More rebels do lie in that direction."
"We're called on an English matter. Not to fight the Scots."
Brendan leaned on his own sword. "Lord Gilly, I beg to differ. Scotland lies yonder, so if you are not headed to fight us, that was surely your previous activity."
Gilly stood silent.
"Be so good as to inform us regarding this English matter you are riding off to handle."
"We are to see that a prisoner is taken from her home without trouble, nothing more."
"Her?" Brendan arched a brow to Eric. "A troop of armed and armored men is sent to take one woman?"
"A murderess," Gilly explained. "We are taking her to trial."
"How like the English. She is labeled a murderess, but has yet to go to trial."
"The evidence is clear, I'm afraid."
"So all you men are sent?"
"It is an English affair—"
"But you are Scottish prisoners, and I am curious."
Gilly shrugged beneath the weight of his armor. "The lady is loved in her land. She must be taken, for the king's justice."
"A noblewoman?"
' 'Countess Eleanor of Clarin and de Lacville. It is her husband, an old, renowned French nobleman, who was poisoned."
He nearly fell from his sword.
"When is she to be taken?"
"The day after tomorrow."
"Where?" he asked brusquely.
"To London, and there to stand trial, and meet her judgment."
"And death?" he said harshly.
"As I have said�
�"
But he had heard enough. "We'll have your armor, gentlemen, and your clothing. A few of these fine, stalwart fellows will see you north; no man who holds the peace will be harmed. Your families will be notified, and we will gladly see that you are ransomed home. Lord Gilly, I will have another word with you, and quickly!"
He took the man down the lane while Eric ordered the knights to help one another off with their mail. The few squires in the company came forward, and the clanking of the steel seemed very loud in the night.
"I need to know everything you know about this situation," Brendan told Gilly. ' 'The count is definitely dead? Why is the lady accused? How many men are at Clarin, and beneath whose authority have they come?"
"The Duke of York sent out the sheriff, Sir Miles Fitzgerald. He has, if I understand correctly, ten men beneath him. Apparently, at the count's death, the symptoms of his illness suggested poison, and an examination of the body was demanded." Gilly stared at him a long while. "It was a sad duty, but one to which we were called to obey. I knew the lady's father well; a fine man. I remember the countess as a child, sitting upon his lap while he read stories from around the world. It is a tragedy that she should come to such an end."
"A tragedy, indeed. Clarin is not so small that she does not offer her own troops."
"It is feared that her own people would refuse to obey the order to bring her to trial."
"So there are about ten of the sheriff's men?"
"Aye; we would have brought the number to fifty." He cleared his throat. "We were a trained fighting force." He sounded confused, as if he still weren't sure himself how they had managed to fall to a small number of outlaws in the forest.
"This is news I am deeply grateful to have," Brendan told him. "I'll see that you are ransomed quickly, and that you and your men are detained in the best comfort we have means to offer."
Gilly bowed to him in acceptance. Brendan moved back to the body of his men. Eric had the armor gathered, the men's tunics taken, and the situation well in hand. "Off to the north you go, good fellows," he told the Englishmen, striding for one of the horses. Liam was assembling the men to move back along the trail, the way they had come.
Eric walked to Brendan, halting him.
"You can't go riding off to Clarin."
"I must."
"You'll pull the noose right around her throat."
"They have her condemned already."
"Brendan, damn you, you must come up with a plan. We must come up with a plan. It is sure death—"
"I'll ride alone. I'll have no man's death upon my shoulders."
"Brendan! Has your fear made you daft!"
Brendan paused, breathing deeply. "Aye!" he muttered. Then he sighed. "I'll take care. I'll ride like no madman. I will come up with a plan."
"We'll come up with a plan."
Brendan leaned low to him "We may not live forever, but I know that you'd like to see a few more years."
Eric grinned. "Liam will not let you ride alone. Nor will Collum. And a number of others."
"We need an escort to take the English north."
"Aye. We'll split."
"We cannot leave them short—"
"Brendan, note the road."
He did. It was littered with the men who had fallen. Hagar, a huge Scotsman, kneeled sadly by the head of one of the horses brought down. The animal had broken its leg. Hagar was much fonder of animals than people—especially Englishmen. With tears in his eyes, he took the horse's head, smoothed its nose, and in an instant, broke the animal's neck, ending its pain.
Brendan looked back to Eric.
"We'll bring Hagar," he said quietly.
"Now there's a plan," Eric agreed. "At least the seed of one."
"May we ride south as we take it further?"
"Aye."
"And we'll bring the arms—and the colors of these fellows."
"You have a plan?"
"Not yet. But we'll be prepared."
Thomas de Longueville strode to him. "We ride south?" he inquired cheerfully.
"Aye, if you'd join me."
"I'd not stay away. You know, a pirate and a good fight."
"A deadly fight."
"I've beat the gallows once. God rides with me."
"Let's pray He does."
The following morning, Eleanor was working with the sheets she had gathered when a firm rap came at her door. Composed, she cast the sheets on the bed, covered the knots with a pillow, and walked to the door.
Miles Fitzgerald stood just outside. ' 'My lady, I am heartily sorry, but an escort would arrive in a day's time. It is my duty to bring you to London. I have no choice but to bring you to justice for the murder of your husband."
"I didn't kill him, sir," she said quiedy. "I am innocent"
"My lady, I wish that were so. With all my heart. But I must do my duty."
"Indeed, you must"
"Make yourself ready for the journey to London. You will have the day and night to pack and prepare."
"As you say. I will defend myself; I am innocent."
"I will send a priest that you may cleanse your soul."
"You may send your priest; my soul is amazingly pure."
"God help us all," Fitzgerald said softly.
"I know He will help me," she said simply.
"Good day, my lady. I do pray for you."
"And I do forgive you your duty," she told him. He turned, and she closed the door. For a moment, far more anxious than she would ever let on, she paced the room. She forced herself to get back to her work.
She was running out of time. Tonight. It must be tonight.
She knotted, twisted, used the weight of the bed to test her work. At each sound of a movement in the hall, she hid it all again beneath a pillow, waited, and started up again.
An old crone brought her meals. She did not see her family. She was offered water for washing, but not another bath.
She prayed that Gregory had made it safely away.
And she thanked God that he could not reach Brendan. God knew, the Scots were rash. He could come ...
The very idea raised incredible hope in her heart. Hope she quickly dashed. She would not kill him as well.
At times, the very real threat of facing an execution came to her, and the panic she felt was paralyzing.
The day passed; twilight came.
Soon after, there was another rap at the door. She was amazed that her keepers at least kept up such a show of courtesy. But she was, of course, even as an accused murderess, a noble one.
She hid her sheets, plumping the pillows above them.
"You may enter," she called.
The door opened.
The light in the hall beyond her room was dim. She squinted for a moment.
There, a silhouette in the night, stood a man. Tall ... filling the doorway. He was cloaked in encompassing brown wool.
A cowl covered his head, and most of his face.
She stared at him blankly, then rose, remembering. Paris, the palace on the lie de la Cit6, and the night that he had come to her so.
I have sinned! She had told him.
And you will sin again! He had replied.
Her heart took flight.
She could not help but feel a ray of ecstatic hope—but then her hope was mingled with dire dread. He had come for her! The fool.
He would die for her.
Aye, for the duke's men were everywhere. Brendan would be killed as well. She had to get him to leave, quickly. And still ... she was shaking. She couldn't stand.
She grabbed his hands, so weak that she fell to her knees. "You have come!" she cried out.
The man cast back the cowl that had covered his face. It was not Brendan. It was a tall, gaunt-faced priest with the eyes of a fanatic.
"Of course, I have come. The Church will hear all confessions. You will forfeit your mortal life, but it is my duty to see that your soul goes to Christ! Confess, my lady, and the king will make every effort to see t
hat you may keep your head upon your shoulders, though Philip of France will scream long and hard, demanding your blood. Count de Lacville's heir will demand that your life be sacrificed after the cruel treachery you practiced upon so noble a man!"
In horror, she stood.
"I did not kill my husband," she said icily.
"If you confess—"
"I will not confess to what I did not do!"
"God, and the king, are kinder to those who admit their deeds."
"Again, I tell you, I did not kill my husband. And you are not my confessor. If I need advice or counsel, I will call my own priest."
"You no longer have such a privilege."
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