There was a lot he wanted to talk about.
But not surrounded by others.
Perhaps he should have cared more for her comfort that night; he was too angry. As yet, a 'thank you' hadn't slipped from her tongue. Nay, she was ready to gallop off again to a land where they were set to hang her, guilty or innocent.
Eric came to wake him in the middle of the night. Gregory and Collum were aroused to join him. They kept vigil at the walls until the dawn broke. Then they woke the others, and started riding again.
He rode beside Corbin for part of the day. The man seemed immersed in thought, and when he saw Brendan studying him, he explained, "I still can't fathom it. Fitzgerald suddenly decides that Eleanor, renowned to the point of being called Santa Lenora, should die rather than stand trial, and that I am expendable, to die with her. Alain was poisoned."
"Is Alfred concerned for the inheritance?" Brendan asked.
"My brother? Good God, no. He is responsible and pious to a fault; he believes deeply in God, and that God sees all, and that man will suffer for his sins on earth. I, on the other hand, believe a certain amount of sin on earth only makes a man more fit for the rewards beyond death."
"Ah. So did you murder the count?"
"What on earth for? No. As I've said, I'm sure I'm guilty of many sins. But murder is not among them. And even if the motive is sheer pleasure alone, there is motive for all my sins. There is nothing I gain by Alain's death."
"What about your wife?"
"Isobel?" he queried. "Isobel, God knows, is capable of much, but she wouldn't have wanted Alain dead. She had a sudden desire to reproduce after our many years of childless marriage. Eleanor's father has not been gone so long ... and with Eleanor married to an old man, and Alfred keeping his romantic affairs to a shepherdess or milkmaid here or there, it did seem that a child of ours would inherit. That's just as well; without me, she'll not have that child, and not inherit the property."
"What if she is already with child?"
"Isobel? If so, she would have announced it from the highest tower in the land. For other women it would be a natural occurrence; for Isobel, a personal achievement worthy of the world's acclaim."
By dusk, they had reached the fortification.
In little time, it had changed greatly. Walls had been finished, heightened, strengthened. The outer wall had been repaired; masons had piled stones to build more towers. They were seen at a distance, and a cry had gone out; the gates opened as they arrived. Wallace came striding from the castle to the courtyard, even as they rode in. Dismounting, Brendan greeted him, and was greeted warmly in return. Men, warriors turned builders, left their work to hover around. Questions were raised; Hagar wound a story of their accomplishment. Wallace watched gravely, saying nothing, while the others joked, and made much of the deed of saving an English heiress—intended for an English blade.
Corbin, too, had remained silent during the melee of their entry; then, he was noted by the others.
"And we've an English prisoner!" said Rune MacDuff. "Did you think the man would wound the maid?" he demanded, walking forward to study Corbin.
Corbin of Clarin was no laggard. He faced the brawny Rune down. "Never, sir, would I bring harm to any maid, least one who is my kin."
"Cotbin, Lady Eleanor's cousin," Brendan explained briefly.
Wallace and the others studied Corbin. Corbin studied them in return. He shrugged at last. ' 'Not a tail or horns among you. That must be rumor then."
Rune MacDuff let out a loud laugh. He was soon joined by the others.
"He's not a prisoner then?" Jem Maclver, another of the men, demanded. "No ransom?"
"I don't believe I'm worth the shirt on my back at the moment. And I'm not a prisoner. Sir Brendan has given me leave to go. Once he reaches your fortifications ... oh, your pardon. This pile of stone is your fortification."
Again, the Scots laughed. "Stay with us a spell, Englishman!" someone shouted. It was Lars, who had sailed upon Wallace's ship, and been with them in France. "There's no horn or tail upon him either, can ye fathom!" Lars stepped forward; he had been in the rear of the taller men, and had not seen all who had arrived.
He saw Eleanor, quiedy seated on her horse, and he walked to her, bowing. "Welcome to our home, m'lady, though it is not where ye'd yearn to be."
"Thank you," she said softly.
"You'll be an exile now, from hearth and home."
"I will have to return," she said.
"Aye, she's a wealthy countess!" Jem said.
Eleanor shook her head. "It is not wealth. It is my name."
"Well, you'll not be going back this night," Wallace said. He looked at the new arrivals. "Margot said ye'd be back by tonight. There are rooms prepared, poor as they may be as yet, but then, I'm afraid, my lady, we're not known for the elegance of Paris."
"I am thankful for the hospitality of Scottish earth, which seems most elegant, since I fled for my life, sir,'' Eleanor told Wallace.
Brendan stared at her, still seated atop her horse, her voice, her manner, entirely gracious, her thanks to others sincere. And the men—dozens of them, burly fellows, stalwart, war weary, honed like the sharpest knives, stood in thrall of her. He didn't know why; he was tempted to take her from the horse and shake her.
At that moment, Bridie, who had ridden close behind Eleanor, let out something of a sigh. As all eyes turned to her, she started to slip from her horse in a swoon.
"Sweet Jesu!"
Despite the fact that she had been mounted and the men had not, Eleanor was the first to reach her maid, catching the woman before she could collapse flat upon the earth.
But Lars had been close. He lifted her into his arms. "We'll get her inside, get her water," he said. "By God, though, what ails the maid?"
Eleanor spoke sharply then. "You, sir, should know!"
A sound of laughter rose again from the crowd. Lars, a blond man with a fair complexion and freckled cheeks, blushed. "My lady—"
"Bring her in. She needs water."
Lars started for the inner keep, then up the steps leading to the central stone edifice. Eleanor followed, as did Wallace, Corbin, and several of the others.
Brendan did not. Eric had remained with him. He clapped his horse on the neck. "The horses need feeding, the arms and equipment need unpacking. Shall we leave it to others?"
"No. I'll tend to it. You, cousin, should go see Margot. She surely realizes you've come by now."
Eric smiled. "Aye, then."
, Brendan watched him go. His cousin loved the woman, he thought. She was loyal, true, silent through any hardship, and beautiful. He shook his head. Eric was a fool. They had chosen lives as rebels, outlaws. He should marry the woman.
Yet he wondered if his cousin paused not because of Margot's birth—but because of his own acceptance that death could come any time.
He started leading the horses to the stables, joined by some of the younger men, raw youths from lands run over by foreign powers, ready to learn to fight for their land. ' 'So you donned a priest's cowl, and walked straight into an English caste?" a lad demanded.
"It seemed the proper thing to do at the time," he said with a shrug. ' 'Come along, if you lads would give me a hand, do it then, and let's hurry along."
At length, when he came into the great hall, it was to find a fire burning in the central hearth, a dozen hounds scurrying for scraps, and a great haunch of venison roasting. There were women as well as men, wives, mothers, sisters, laundresses earning what meager wages the men could pay, and a few women, of course, who simply followed soldiers, and earned what wages they could at entertainment.
By the time he arrived in the hall, their English "guests" had been shown to their quarters; a quantity of ale had flowed, and news had spread. Hagar could weave an incredible tale in his native Gaelic, and he did so then, describing their antics with the English. Sir Miles Fitzgerald, he told them, had horns and a tail, and his English soldiers had been just starting to sprout such
appendages. There was a great roar of laughter, and for Brendan, tremendous applause.
The ale flowed freely. In the company of these men, with no need of the tension brought by being on constant guard, he let himself relax. He drank, ate, and laughed when one of the camp followers fell into his lap while filling his cup. She rolled against his chest, laughing as well, and touched his cheek.
"A handsome hero, eh?" she said.
He grinned, amused, but when he looked up, he saw that Eleanor had come down; she stood at the foot of the winding stairs, her hand upon the iron rail. Her eyes met his. He thought that she would turn, and walk away, but she did not.
She came across the room, and the party sobered. She ignored Brendan, and walked to the large chair where Wallace relaxed before the central fire.
"My lady," Wallace said, and rose, ever courteous despite his reputation for violence.
"Sir William, please, sit. It's evident that this evening is one of leisure for you and your men. I have come only to express my deep appreciation to your men, those who took tremendous risks in coming south in my defense. They owed me nothing; their kindness is a debt I can never repay, and will never be forgotten."
"My lady, I fear I was no part of it, on behalf of the fellows who rode, your life was the prize worth a gamble, and indeed, the exploit adds to the legend of our abilities, despite our sorry state of being. You have been a worthy opponent, madam— there are those who do say your company helped the flow of English valor at Falkirk—"
"Sir, a sorry slaughter, the likes of which I hope never to see again."
"Nevertheless, you have been a worthy opponent—" he broke off, smiling, "—a less than model prisoner, but now, indeed, a very welcome guest."
She bowed to Wallace. "I will excuse you all to your merrymaking. And I give you thanks again, for allowing me to be a—guest"
She didn't look Brendan's way, but headed for the stairs.
For a moment the company remained silent as she disappeared. "Cheers!" cried one of the men. "Cheers to a strange breed of English! Those with integrity and valor!"
The room became raucous again.
The woman, frozen there when Eleanor had appeared, smiled at him. "Aye, hero, you saved a woman of valor. But is she a lass of any warmth?"
"Tis time she and I did have a talk," he muttered, and rose, setting the woman aright.
Gregory was watching him. The woman was pretty, with a quick smile, and tender touch. He prodded her toward Gregoiy. "Entertain Gregory there," he said. "Now there's a lad who's a hero, if there is one among us!" The woman moved forward, and crawled over Gregory. Hooting, cheering, clapping, filled the room. Attention was off Brendan.
Brendan looked at Wallace. "Where would the lady be as our guest?"
"Up the stairs, the ell to the left, last door."
He started to turn away.
"Brendan."
He looked back. Wallace was grave.
"A brave stunt, and well accomplished. But dangerous, indeed."
"I asked none of them to come with me; they chose to do so.
"We may all die, but let it not be for foolishness—or the headstrong wills and desires of one man."
"I have given my all in the pursuit of freedom; I swore it when I held my cousin in my arms as he died as Falkirk. Sir, there is no fault in my ardor for my country."
"I didn't suggest so. I value your talents, Brendan, your abilities, and aye, your valor and your life's blood. As I valued those of your cousin, John Graham, and many other of your kinsmen. I ask you only that you value your own life as well."
"Aye, sir, that I do," he said gravely.
"Go then," Wallace said. "Such valor does deserve its just reward."
He nodded, and headed for the stairs slowly enough, but then took them two by two. It was time to talk.
Eleanor walked around the room in great agitation, fuming despite herself. She had married another man, and said goodbye to Brendan, in all belief that she would never see him again. Miraculously, he had come for her in a time of deepest danger. She should be grateful, and nothing more, and realize that his life had moved on, as had her own.
"My lady, you must sit and calm yourself. You'll harm the babe," Bridie said.
Eleanor bit her lip, grateful that Brendan knew nothing of her situation. She couldn't help but feel a tremor of pain, no matter what logic she realized within her mind. Nay, it wasn't pain; it was pure bold jealousy, she thought, and aye—anger. And with such a thought she couldn't help but realize again the differences of their lives; aye, he cared for her. But for Scotland more. And this was his way of life; fighting, taking shelter in strongholds held by the Scots despite Edward's heavy hand. And when he had rested, completed one raid, one fight, one battle, there would be another, and he would return to the forests, and seek out the English again. But there was nothing he called home, other than this earth, and the longer she had been away, the greater dishonor it seemed that she had not had a chance to speak her case in court. Had Fitzgerald really meant to see to her death or disappearance on the way to London? It still seemed far too unbelievable.
"My lady, please, sit, you'll be ill."
"I'm not in the least ill. Bridie, you were the one to faint!"
Bridie smiled. She whispered, "Because I saw Lars again."
Bridie had always seemed so slim, and gaunt. Now, she appeared pretty, very pretty. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes were alight.
"Does he know?" Eleanor asked.
"Well, aye, my lady, since you apparently explained the situation when I fell."
Eleanor shook her head. "I'm sorry, so sorry, of course—"
"My lady, it's all right." Bridie was silent a minute, and Eleanor came at last to sit across from her. She smiled at Eleanor. "You did suggest that I get to Scotland, and meant to help me do so."
"Aye. However, I had not meant to join you."
"But my lady! He rode for you! Rode into England! He ignored dozens of Englishmen, trained with swords, decked himself in the guise of a priest, and walked right into the castle. He hid his face and dared pretend to be an escort. How could you not be glad to be here?"
' 'The Scots are fond of daring exploits that rub English noses in the dirt," she said.
"He risked his life."
"I am grateful for that fact."
She started then, for there was a sudden slamming at the door.
It had swung open.
He looked every bit the wild rebel warrior, as savage as any half-civilized highlander from any of the horror stories told to English children.
His hair fell free and dark to his shoulders, his features were tight, jaw set, eyes hard. He wore his plaid, kilt over a linen shirt, and doeskin boots. He hadn't bothered to knock at the door, but had simply thrown it open with purpose and careless determination.
Bridie jumped up as he entered, looking scared. Eleanor came to her feet as well, defensive and wary—and somehow stronger and bolder if she stood.
Brendan stared at Bridie. "So ... you're to have a child. With Lars?"
Bridie flushed the shade of a rose.
" 'Twill be fine. The lad's a decent enough fellow. Now, if you don't mind, young woman—out."
"Your pardon, Sir Brendan!" Eleanor exclaimed. "Bridie may stay—"
"Out!" he repeated.
Bridie scampered away. The door closed behind her.
Eleanor stared at Brendan. His eyes were somewhat reddened, with weariness—and with drink, she thought. Still, her heart fluttered. He stood as he did when he was angry—and self-righteous. His jaw was squared at a tense angle. The breadth of his shoulders rose and fell with his every breath. Muscles rippled beneath linen and wool. He stared at her a very long while.
"Well?" he said at last.
"Well?" she murmured. "Has the party broken so quickly? How strange, it seems I still hear sounds of revelry from below."
He ignored her question. "Have you nothing to say to me?"
She stared at him une
asily.
"Thank you?" she inquired. "I didn't mean to be so rude; I did, in fact, descend the stairs to express the depths of my appreciation, and I would have addressed you ... had you not been so occupied. Your hands seemed quite full at that moment"
He ignored the comment, dismissing it. "Thank you?" he inquired. "Is that really all that you have to say to me?"
Her unease increased as he walked around her, arms crossed over his chest. She followed his movement, suddenly as afraid he would pounce when her back was turned. He seemed like a cat, with a definite quarry in mind, or an animal whose territory had been threatened, and would not yield.
"That is all that you have to say to me?" he repeated.
"Thank you ... very, very, much."
He came to a standstill, his eyes as sharp as blue flame.
She found herself faltering, and speaking too quickly. "I do thank you, truly, with a depth you can't imagine. Except that, you have to see, I must find a way to go back. I am branded a murderess now, and worse. A traitor. A woman who killed her husband, to flee with her country's greatest enemy."
"You won't be going back."
"I am a guest here, not a prisoner, so I've been told."
"A guest—who will remain."
"Brendan, there's a way—"
"There's not a way."
"Am I your prisoner then, not a guest?"
"You may see it however you like. You're not going back."
"Brendan, the fact that Fitzgerald was not an honorable man does not make monsters of the entire English populace. There are those in England who do want the truth, and this is not a matter of war, but of a terrible wrong done to a good and honest man. And it is a matter of my honor. There must be a way to send messengers to someone close to the king."
Seize The Dawn Page 27