"I have explained over and over—"
He eased to her side again, and this time, his palm and fingers spanned the distance of the swelling low in her stomach. "You've known for some time."
"Please, Brendan ..."
He rose abruptly, regaining his shirt, swiftly forming his kilt. By then, she had started shivering fiercely, and groped again for the covers ...
Very cold then, with him gone.
He seemed to realize her discomfort; he paused to stoke the fire.
Then he stood by the bed and told her, "I will do what I can to clear your name. But know this, and I swear it, the child will not leave Scotland! If you attempt anything rash or foolish, my lady, I promise you, you'll know what it is to face the savage enemy."
Chapter 18
Brendan woke on the floor, his head pounding. Someone had nudged him. He looked up to find Corbin of Clarin hunched down at his side. Struggling to his elbow, he saw that the rest of the drunken rabble had already risen.
He blinked, wincing, and opened his eyes again, staring at Corbin.
"I thought you'd like to know—there's a messenger outside."
Brendan scrambled to his feet. He left the hall of the fortification, Corbin at his heels. There was almost as much laughter and shouting in the courtyard as there had been in the hall, the night before.
A handsome horse, festooned in the colors of Robert Bruce, stood amid the cheering men; the horse's rider, a diminutive man next to the great horse, stood conversing with Wallace.
Brendan stopped first to duck his head in a basin of icy cold water, threw his soaking hair back, and approached Wallace. He was curious that the horseman had come from the Bruce; both possible heirs to the throne, the question of Comyn and Bruce serving the state together had turned sour, and Bruce had been keeping his activities to the area of Carrick, in the southwest of the country. Since Comyn, whose lands were farther to the north and admittedly not vulnerable to the constant English raids that had ravaged Bruce territory, kept battle alive and sometimes joined with Wallace, their communications with Bruce were not frequent.
But as he approached Wallace, the giant of a man turned. "A truce has been arranged."
"A truce?"
"The king of France has executed a peace between England and Scotland."
"So Philip is a man to make good his word," he said softly. "And Edward will be true to this?"
Wallace shrugged. "Aye, he'll be true to it—for a time. He raised great armies last year and the year before, came north and inflicted great injury, but then bogged down with the weather, the dictates of the pope that we were a sovereign nation with fealty due the Holy See—and the fact that his barons would give more than their two months' feudal service and his foot soldiers deserted in droves. Edward needs time to gather his forces again, to battle the pope, and raise enough money to fight us. I'd say that good King Philip has bought us time to gather our own forces."
"You don't seem as pleased as you might," Brendan said.
"Aye, I'm pleased. But it gives the great barons of Scotland more time for their own petty feuds, and you know as well I do that the raiding in the south will continue. The king will not raise a great army; but his northern nobles are nearly as argumentative as clansmen, so it will be a time for a man to stay wary, whatever fine words are set upon paper."
Many of the men in the courtyard were talking about going home, and Wallace was quick to tell them it was time to do so. Spring planting should be under way, and they should look to their families. There were those who would stay with him, wherever he chose to travel, and those who would keep the fortifications in the name of the guardian, John Soulis, who would still give appointments and commands in the name of King John of Scotland, whether John still tarried, enjoying France, or not.
Brendan knew, as Wallace did, that the fighting might have lulled, but the war was not over.
"What will you do?" Wallace asked him gravely.
"Bide time a bit," he said. "There are sure to be repercussions for the rescue of the lady of Clarin."
"Aye. 'Tis likely the English will call it an abduction."
"This poor fort was your taking," Wallace said. "Comyn had given men here, and already ridden on to his own estates; news will reach him soon of the peace. The government can give you legal writ to make this your home. Man it, build it, and let the fields grow rich again."
Brendan nodded, grinning slowly. "You're giving me the castle?"
"I haven't the power to give you the castle. But you've served your country as few other men, and we have retained some rights, and now gained more freedom to make them good. Who else should be master here?"
"What of you, William? What will you do for the time?"
"Go north," he said quietly. "Rest, as the English build their forces. Live in peace for a short spell."
"I will always be—"
"Ready to ride with me, whatever the battle, large or small? I know." William set an arm on his shoulder. "And I will be grateful of your sword arm, however great the war."
"When will you go?"
"A few days' time." He grinned. "There will be another celebration tonight, with the frightened tenants coming from the hills to reclaim their lands. Spring is a fine time for a truce."
Wallace clapped him on the back, then started through the crowd. At his back, Corbin spoke. "Ah, well there, you've become a great landed knight with the stroke of a pen!" he said.
' 'The land is not mine so easily. Scotland has a government, and a king, and a proper way to make things so."
"Ah, the king. I'm sure he'll be glad to hear he has a kingdom," Corbin murmured. "But a truce ... it will make it far easier to go home."
Brendan turned to him. "Your troubles were not with the Scots, Corbin. Your troubles spill from your own land. Y'er a free man, though. You must make your choices."
He left Corbin then, going to the stables. He was eager to ride, to run with the wind, let it clear his head. A truce. Aye, it sounded good. Land. A castle, newly built, a bare fortification. But Hebert, bloody bastard as he'd been, had set good masons to the task, and there was a strong foundation on which to build a home. It was fine enough.
He didn't bother with a saddle, and chose the horse he had called Rye, for his deep coloring, one of the massive horses bred for war that they had taken from the English knights. He started from the stables, and was startled when he found himself met by a group of the fighting men, laborers, children, wives, and farmers.
"Sir Brendan!" came a cry, and a cheer, and he could barely move the horse forward as he looked to the people with confusion.
"Aye, sir, ye'll be laird here now!" a young lad said, walking along with the horse.
"And ye'll train us, sir, aye, for the fighting to come?" asked another.
A truce. And all knew it meant only time before fighting again.
"Eh, lads, we'll have enough to do, eh, dividing land, planting, gathering what cattie and livestock have run to the hills with the good people." He smiled.
"And we'll train for war!" the lad persisted.
"Aye, and we'll train for war."
He found a clearance in the crowd. They were shouting his name, and it felt fine enough. He waved, smiled, and made his way through.
He reached the gates, still open from having admitted the messenger. The people had heard the news quickly, and begun to stream back to land long ago decimated by the English armies. At the gate, he gave the charger free rein, eased to the animal's back, and felt the earth plow up beneath him, the wind take his hair. He rode across the land, and despite his speed, he noted moor and field, and the fine way the castle sat upon a hill, and the way the stream stretched before it.
Land. His land. Won by the power of his sword.
A land a man could leave to a son.
He remembered his words of last evening to Eleanor, before - he made his departure. It had been agony to leave, yet tumult to stay, for as yet, there was no peace between them. He had meant
to leave her time, for he knew that she was mourning the man she had married, as she might have mourned her father, yet again. He'd meant to be a most decent man, chivalrous in all manner. But it rankled to manage one of the most audacious raids into England—surely of all time—and hear her so passionate to return, to clear her name ...
To again be able to lay claim to Clarin. He'd had nothing. She'd been an heiress. Aye, now, if Scotland agreed, then the land was his. A home. He had come from the forest.
And now ...
He desired her as fiercely as he ever had; aye, indeed, he had loved her, and she had married another.
He loved her still.
Yet here he was, and the times had changed, and still, in her mind, she had to do what was right ...She'd never leave Scotland now. He meant that. But he had made a promise.
He left the little hillock beneath mighty oaks where he had looked down upon the castle and land. He rode back far more slowly, again assessing the landscape. Sheep would do well here. Aye, hundreds of sheep. They'd be fine, the expert Flemings with their talented weaving of fine cloth, their centers of industry so very near. The forests here were rich and overgrown. The fowl and game would be plentiful.
He gave off his planning as he returned to the castle. The messenger sat in the great hall, talking, exchanging news. Brendan joined the group around the table. Eric was there, along with Hagar, Collum, de Longueville, and Gregory.
He nudged Gregory. "How was your night, lad?" he asked quietly, not wanting to interrupt the questions being placed before the Bruce's messenger.
"Sir Brendan, a haystack has never been so lovely," he replied with a grin.
"That's fine, lad," he said and sat, and listened to the words the messenger was now speaking. He was a young man, who flushed easily, and didn't appear much the warrior, for he was slender and small. Brendan imagined, however, that he served his post well, and could ride with a speed to cover the marshes, lowlands, crags, and heaths of Scotland quite well enough.
"The king of England had sent out a call for men, and then abandoned the quest, in time with the treaty from France. In truth, he was not able to gather the forces he required, I'll warrant, and even though Robert Bruce has made his peace with the English king, I'll warrant good Edward knew not to count on all Scots of Carrick and Annandale to fight for an English banner!"
Eric, in the stark wooden chair at the table next to the seat Brendan had chosen, turned to him. "Griffin here says that, as yet, there's been no news to Bruce lands regarding your foray."
" 'Tis too soon," Brendan said, reaching for a pitcher of cold, clear water, He nodded to the young messenger. " 'Tis too soon, but there's bound to be trouble. Will you take a letter from me to the Bruce?" he asked.
"Aye, sir."
"Do you ride on from here?"
"Others have been sent to different factions in the south. I was sent to find William Wallace, for ."
"The king's truce will never apply to Wallace," Brendan finished. "Were other men singled out?"
"There's nothing in the writing even regarding Sir William," Griffin said. "Not as yet! The king did not beat the Scots, sir, he agreed to a truce."
"And if he crushes us again, I'm sure there will be no truces for certain men," Brendan murmured.
"There's to be something of a peace, sir, and a sorry time for Sir William to die."
' 'Aye, and he plans to travel north for a time. Go home. See what family and friends he has left," Brendan said. "But if you'll excuse me, I'll write my letter, that you may take it to Robert Bruce at your leisure."
Brendan started up the stairs, and realized his English "guests" had places here, while he did not. But upon the landing at the top of the stairs, he came upon a maid setting oil to the wood atop the banister. She smiled at him, and bobbed a curtsy. "Laird Brendan—"
"Sir Brendan. I am not a laird."
"Here, ye be laird, sir. Sir William Wallace has said that you would be master here. And there, yonder—" she inclined her head to the first door to the left of the landing, "there be y'er quarters, if they be to y'er liking, that is. But 'tis fine space." She sniffed. "Laird Hebert meant to rule a little kingdom here, so set himself up a fine enough private palace, so he did."
"Thank you ..."
"Joanna, sir. I am Joanna."
"Ah, then, thank you Joanna. I need paper, ink, a quill—"
"Aye, sir, and ye'll find them in Hebert's desk."
He nodded again, and left her to her work. He opened the door, and closed it, looking around.
The room was spacious, indeed. The bed within it was enormous, and could sleep four men, even Wallace's size. It sat upon a platform to the far side of the room, and was sheltered by embroidered draperies. The great hearth was to the side of the bed, in the center of the west side of the room. A stalwart desk of carved oak was to the north, set before windows opened to the spring day. Embroidered draperies hung to the sides of the windows, heavy fabric in rich hues of deep blue and crimson, and those, too, were opened to the beauty of the day beyond, held back by thick cords interwoven with silver thread. There was a wardrobe and a large heavy trunk at the east side of the room.
He walked to the windows first, and saw that it led to the north battlements of this, the inner tower, and that it looked far out over the road that led to the castle from the south. The master here, if not warned by men on guard, would know when forces rode from the south—and the dense border forests where so much trouble brewed. Well planned; Hebert had greatly feared the "savages" whose land he had meant to rule. Yet Brendan was glad of it; they would know if the English rode in from the south. The height of the caste would guard it from the western approaches.
He didn't sit at the desk right away, but walked to the giant bed, with its immense, beautifully woven woolen cover. He hesitated, then bounced upon it, and lay back. Firm, soft. A good bed for a man who had slept too often on the open ground.
He sat up again. He had been the guest of the kings of Norway, and France, and the lesser jarls in the out isles. He had seen splendor, and yet, was far better acquainted with dirt. There was much to be done here. He already felt an affinity for the place.
It was his. His.
Aye, Scotland must approve it. But a warrior knight was needed here, and he was that, indeed.
He rose, and walked to the hearth, and noted that it was double, leading to a room beyond. Standing, he saw the archway to his right, the curtain there so heavy and dark he hadn't given it note at first. He walked to it, and opened it then. A second room lay beyond, with a more delicate and far smaller bed, and furniture much more gently carved. A lady's room, he thought. To the side of the hearth there was a large barrel structure with dragon heads, adorned with brass and gold, on each side. It was a great, heavy bathtub, he realized, of Norse design. The carvings about it were finely done, and denoted Thor, God of Thunder, casting down lightning bolts, and Odin, lord of all gods, raging across the skies in a dragon-prowed chariot. A bath, he thought, might be in good order, since he had spent the night on the floor with drunkards and hounds— good friends all, but, alas, he must not smell too sweet.
But first, he wanted to write to Robert Bruce. He sat down, found ink, quill, and paper, and set to relaying his thoughts.
When he was done, he rolled and tied the document, and saw the small pot of sealing wax beside the inkpot. He hesitated, then lit a candle with a straw from the fire. He'd never sealed such a document before. But he wore a ring, a gift from his own father before his early death, and it bore an G, and a bird of prey. He melted the wax, sealed his letter, and set the insignia of the ring into it. He studied the document for a long moment, then rose, and hurried downstairs.
The great hall had somewhat cleared; Eric sat by the fire, whittling a piece of wood, still talking with the messenger, Griffin. "I'll see it to the Bruce, my hand to his," Griffin said.
"Aye, then."
"He'll be pleased with the fine gift you're sending him."
"Aye
?"
Eric glanced up. His cousin had remembered to send a gift, in his name.
"The hour grows late; you're welcome here, if you've a mind to start by morning."
"Nay, Sir Brendan. With this in hand, I'll be on me way." He rose, touching the leather bag at his side. "A fine ride. Good food from home, and a fine enough meal for the journey to return. God keep you all ... and Scotland."
"Aye, God keep us all."
Brendan and Eric escorted him out of the great hall, and to the courtyard. A lad and his horse, ready to ride.
They watched him mount and ride. The gates remained open, and would until sunset—there was no danger to be had that day. "He says he's glad you've a correspondence for the Bruce," Eric told Brendan. "He says that Robert admires you greatly, as he does Wallace. Wallace, for being a man truly ready to give up everything for his ideals."
"If he admired him so, he would have fought with him," Brendan said.
Eric shrugged. ' 'Each man does as he must. And every life is a spool of thread; where it ends is determined when his life begins."
"Norse legend. You don't believe that. Men make their own destinies."
"Do we now? Or are we all entwined, and therefore, destiny preordained?"
"You're philosophical today."
"You didn't ask why the Bruce admires you."
"All right. Why?"
"Because you don't betray a trust."
"What makes him certain?"
"He's seen the disdain in which you hold him."
Seize The Dawn Page 29