"I've another proposition for you," she added quietly.
"My lady, you are in no position to offer propositions."
"Really?" she said. "I'm not certain that we don't have a position of power here. If Hagar moves, sir, with your numbers, you will likely bring him down. But not until more of your men are dead, and you will be the man he will first kill. Hagar wants you dead. There will be no sending your men in first. And you value your life, don't you?''
Fitzgerald's face took on a mottled hue; she realized that she had struck a blow. He might be willing to fight—but not until his men had cleared the way for him to do so with an assurance of winning.
"Let's hear your proposition," he said.
"The women take Lars and Collum away from here, before the fight begins."
"No."
"Ah, Sir Miles! You're taking a grave chance. First, of there being reinforcements still beyond your vision. Second ... that Hagar will break your neck before your men are able to kill him."
"They'll be no one leaving you, my lady—" Collum cried out, but she turned on him, giving him a warning look.
"There's no one in that house!" Fitzgerald raged suddenly.
"Perhaps. Perhaps not. One way or the other, Sir Miles, Hagar does stand just feet away. He can kill you before a man could begin to aim an arrow ... which could wind up in your back."
"No!" Collum tried to protest again. But at that moment, Margot at last caused the arrow pinning him upward to snap. The pain caused even such a seasoned warrior to scream out and fall, grasping his chest. Then ... he was silent.
She looked at Fitzgerald. "Your men stay where they are. The others leave. Then you face me alone."
"Filthy Scots—" Fitzgerald began, but a look from Hagar stilled him. He stood furiously, thinking over his options.
"The women leave, and they take their injured. They'll die out here anyway," he said harshly. He pointed at Hagar. "And that one—he goes, too."
"Never—" Hagar said.
"Aye!" Eleanor snapped. She turned from Fitzgerald, her heart sinking. Hagar was all that stood between any of them and certain death now. But alone, he couldn't kill all the Englishmen. If they didn't pay her heed, they would all die.
But they would never willingly leave her.
"If you go," she whispered, touching his massive chest again, "there may be ... God knows, maybe there will be help on the road. Other rebels, men moving north, heading home from the borders ... perhaps, perhaps there will at least be a chance. Please, Hagar, don't make Margot and Bridie die because of me, I beg you; seize this last bit of hope, there could be someone out there."
She didn't believe it for a minute. But perhaps Hagar did believe that he could double back, and die with her. He could see that the other two men were sorely wounded. They might well die. If they stayed, they would be slaughtered.
And Margot and Bridie would be helpless. Hagar was a big fellow with tremendous power, and a poor French accent. But he was an intelligent man as well.
"Aye, then, I'll go with the wounded and the women," he whispered harshly. Then he made a pretense of shrugging, as if it had suddenly become no great matter to him—not a matter worth dying for. He stared at Fitzgerald and spoke loudly. "Aye, then, you'll let us go, and I'll leave as well. This is not a Scottish battle, as it is. Though ..." He spat on the ground. "Filthy English. I wouldn't mind dying to bring them down!"
"Hagar, go."
He turned around. Collum was no longer conscious. Lars, even with Bridie's help, could barely stand. Eleanor watched the proceedings, still but furious, as Hagar lifted Collum as if the muscled warrior were a babe, and set him over one of the horses.
"We cannot leave you, Eleanor!" Bridie said miserably.
"You'll bring help," she whispered, never believing it.
"You'll die; there is no help. And after he kills you, he will only come after us. We'll all stay and fight—"
"Collum may be dying. And you can't lift a sword."
"They'll come after us to cut us down."
"No. Lars and Collum will get you out. I am good enough to keep Fitzgerald occupied for a while."
"For a while. This way there is no hope—for you."
"There may be. God is said to work in very mysterious ways."
Margot looked at her with anguished eyes, and hugged her tightly.
"I'll stay with you," she murmured. "I do know how to lift a sword."
"Margot, it's me he wants. If you don't go, Hagar won't. You must go. Keep Collum alive. And ..."
"Tell Brendan you love him?" Margot whispered.
"Tell him that... I was glad of his passion for freedom ... that I understand. Aye, tell him I love him. But go."
Margot stood in a moment of terrible indecision, then walked away, biting her hp against tears. She helped Bridie drag Lars to a horse.
With Collum thrown over his mount with as much tenderness as Hagar could manage, he moved to help the women get Lars mounted. Margot managed on her own; Bridie, shaking, did not do so well. Hagar had to help her before looking at Eleanor with deep reproach, and mounting his own horse.
"You will let them ride away," Eleanor told Fitzgerald firmly. "Else, Hagar will turn ... and we will all die, but you with us."
"I am standing here, my lady, without movement," he said politely.' 'What do I care if these rebels die today at my hand— or tomorrow, still fighting King Edward?" He lifted a hand, indicating that the rebels should go.
They were all silent as the party of Scots moved out. Eleanor held still as long as she could, listening for the sounds of hoofbeats to die away.
In time, they did so.
' 'There is truly no one in that hovel, is there, Lady Eleanor?''
She looked at the deserted, thatched dwelling, taking as long as she dared with her reply. "What do you think, Sir Miles?"
Fitzgerald stared at her coldly. "Seize her!" he commanded his men.
The order wasn't instantly obeyed. She was amazed to see that his men seemed to shuffle uncomfortably as one.
"Seize her!" Fitzgerald cried again.
One stepped forward. "Sir Miles! You're a man of your word, or so we'd believe. You told the lady that—"
"She is a murderess. Lies to a murderess mean nothing."
"A man's word means everything, Sir Miles!" one young man said.
"You risk your livelihood, you fool!" Fitzgerald said to him.
"If they'll not take her," said another man, stepping around from the rear. "I will do so!" He wore a patch over one eye. His face was twisted in a knot of hatred ... and anticipation, she thought. She felt weak. He was a man to enjoy the task of killing.
She felt the flutter of life in her stomach again, and the world seemed to pitch and weave precariously. She had never wanted to survive more in all her days. If she died, her child died with her. It seemed an unbearable injustice.
And yet so many had died ...
At war. Even cruelly at war. The English; the Scots. The fight had become vicious, brutal, and inhuman, surely ever so before the eyes of God.
But this was not due to a war. Or freedom, or ideals, or even the passion of one arrogant king who felt he had the right to rule from coast to coast, sea to sea.
This was some strange intent on .. . murder. Cold-blooded murder.
The strange ugly man with the patch on his eye came toward her. "I don't mind taking on the task, aye, not at all. Cutting such a pretty piece to ribbons, a lady, and all, will be a pleasure. Like taking hold of that fellow in the woods, aye, the good Scotsman who betrayed you. Took some time for the fellow to do so, I'll grant you that. Could you suffer so long for another, Lady, I wonder? Turned out he was a treacherous rat, trained for the likes of Sir Modes, there. We broke four of his fingers and ripped out most of his nails before he began to give ... beat him to death for the details, aye, that we did."
Her heart pitched. She thought that she would be ill all over the man before either of them could raise a blade.
Some insanity swept through her that not even the prospect of her coming child could curb. She had always been taught not to lose her temper, never to lose control, always to remember her weaknesses.
But the ugly fellow was too close. She lifted her sword with uncanny speed and precision, bringing it down on the man's shoulders with a fury and strength that seemed nearly superhuman. She had the sheer pleasure of seeing the amazement on his face before he staggered back and fell.
Fitzgerald stepped forward, staring at her, then at the man bleeding into the earth. He nudged the man with his boot. There was a groan.
Fitzgerald looked from his prone and bleeding servant to her. "Dirk was a good man, aye, and served me well. Another sin you must pay for, my lady."
She stared into his eyes, wishing he were a few steps closer, that she might repeat the feat that so amazed her.
"He is living still," she said, suggesting that he take the time to bandage the man's wounds.
"We can take no injured from here," he said flatly.
"The man is not dead!"
Fitzgerald shrugged. "Do you think that Englishmen are not aware they risk their lives in Scotland? We will be leaving here in some haste, madam."
"And you will leave a man so grievously wounded?"
"How very kind, my lady, for you to show such concern for the man who tortured one of your poor fellows—to death."
"He was loyal to you."
"He was a man who needed sanction and authority for his pleasures."
"And still, he would have died for you."
"He did not intend to die."
"But he will."
"He underestimated you. I will not."
"Indeed. He failed, and now, the battle is to you."
He watched her a moment longer, angry, but shaking his head in rueful admiration.
"It is a pity that you must die. And that we met too late. We might have wed, and you'd have no need to rid yourself of an old, decaying, husband."
"I'm not eager for death, but between you and the grave, worms do become all the more enticing."
The last infuriated him. And he did not underestimate her. He'd have preferred to have his men seize her ... so that he could slay her without danger of injury to himself.
But that couldn't be. He had lost his opportunity to avoid the fight with her. His men would brand him a coward, and he would lose respect in their eyes, and maybe even the authority to force them to allow his intended execution.
"So, madam, you're eager for a taste of eternity, and the crawl of worms about your flesh. Then it is time. My lady, it's time to meet your maker."
"Or you, yours."
"Doubtful. I am good. Give in; I'll end it quick, a thrust to your heart."
"You are good, but a lightning bolt could fall from the sky."
"Say your prayers, my lady."
"Say yours, Sir Miles."
"As you wish. We'll see then, if you can repeat the prowess you exercised on Dirk there. It is time to be finished here."
Chapter 22
Fitzgerald had known exactly where the little party of Scots was headed. Gregory had been tortured into telling all he knew. But Brendan knew the ground better than Fitzgerald, and would not have to search for any trails.
They had ridden through the night, hard, each man aware that time meant everything. He feared what he would find with each hoof beat that brought them farther north, into the woods, closer to the shelter Collum had intended to reach for the night They were grimly certain of their destination, and that they followed behind. They had used the night riding as hard as they had ever learned to do in their pursuit of the English— or in the days when they had been forced to flee.
He lifted a hand when they neared the area of the safe house; in silence, they all slowed their gaits. A gesture from him, and they came to a halt and dismounted, ready to venture the last of the trail on foot
He looked at the hand he had raised. Shaking. He feared so greatly that he would come to the copse, to the house, and find a field of dead lying there ...
Eleanor ...
Fitzgerald had no plan to take her back to England. He would rid himself of any further threat of her, then and there.
He felt a hand on his shoulder. Erie.
Eric motioned to the ground.
He saw a trail of blood, crossing the road from the narrow twist into the woods to an overgrown path on the other side. Few knew of it.
"Collum Hagar?" he mouthed.
Brendan nodded. He and Eric turned toward the trail.
Then he froze, hearing the unmistakable sound of clashing steel.
From the opposite direction.
Facing Fitzgerald then, Eleanor tried to remember everything she had ever been taught about swordplay—and strategy. She remembered Falkirk. The dead and the dying all around her. She had been in full armor, surrounded at all times, and she had shirked from the horror. She had carried a sword; she had known how to use it. She had never wielded it once ...
Other than to use the hilt to knock Brendan to die ground.
And now ...
Her life depended on her skill.
As did her child's.
Fitzgerald drew his sword, raised it, lowered it. Both arms out, he invited her forward.
"Come now, 'tis time. The battle has come to us."
This time, it was she who was taken by surprise. She barely parried his sudden lunge, and felt the furious weight of it through the length of her arm into her shoulder. She jumped back then, seeking to avoid his next heavy blow, and purchase herself time to regain her strength.
She moved closer to the horses, moving with a speed greater than he, yet without the protection of the heavy mail he wore beneath his tunic. He raised a heavy blow that missed her, and landed in the earth. She tried to capture him there, struggling to retrieve his sword. He moved in time, yet she caught his lower arm below the mail, drawing blood. He paused, then looked up, and the fury in his eyes sent her scrambling behind a tree to avoid his next blow. They had left the center of the copse. Though his men milled into the copse, watching, they kept their distance.
She kept behind the tree, moving back and forth, causing him to follow.
"This is foolish," she told him. "I would willingly face a trial."
"There can be no trial, my lady," he said, feinting quickly to the left.
She flew to the right.
"Why?"
"There can be no trial," he repeated.
"You are about to kill me. What does it matter if I know the reason. You didn't kill Alain, you couldn't have, I'd never seen you before you came to Clarin that day."
"Tis true, we never met. But I have known Clarin." He thought he had her still; he swung, embedding his sword in the tree. She tried to strike again while he disengaged his weapon. He pulled out just in time, and what should have been a death blow was deflected. Her sword went flying across the copse. She stared at Fitzgerald, judging the distance, and knew her only hope then was to distract him for a moment.
"I think I understand," she said slowly. "It's true; you didn't kill Alain. But you know who did."
The fact that he didn't answer gave her all the reply she needed.
"Isobel!" she gasped out furiously.
His lip tightened, and she realized, she was right. Isobel.
"Isobel poisoned him," she said aloud.' 'And you are serving Isobel."
"I serve no woman, my lady."
"Ah... but you are with her. You and Isobel... are together in this ... you poisoned a good man, you caused him to die in agony ..."
"My lady, apparently, he did not wish to go," Fitzgerald said with rueful disregard.
"But you were never at Clarin," she said. "So how ... ah. . . you met in London. You were lovers there, planning all this, and when I returned so unfortunately with my husband from France, you had to find a way to rid yourselves of both of us. You sent men to find de L
ongueville and pay him to seize my ship. But that plan failed. All the better. Clarin was in deep need of funds, and bringing home a wealthy count improved the fortunes of the estate. But then, you had to find a way to rid yourselves of us both. If I were executed for Alain's murder, we'd both be out of the way."
"Aye, lady. You are perceptive. And you may take it all to your grave."
"Wait!" she cried, sidestepping as he took a massive swing, that again missed her.
"What about Alfred. And Corbin?"
"But they were meant to die as well. Alfred is in danger, even now. As to Corbin ... I will find him."
She wished they hadn't fought their way into the trees; his men should have heard this, should have seen the colors that raged on his face, mottled, red, giving away the truth though he never spoke.
He raised his sword again. "Madam, the lands adjoining Clarin have become mine through a number of unfortunate deaths in my family. Isobel's child would inherit Clarin."
"And Isobel's child would not be my cousin's," she said. "At least, that's what you'd be told. But I have information for you. Isobel was like a rabbit with Corbin."
He paused, actually smiling at her. "The child ... aye, well, her first child would have been Corbin's. We are not fools. Alas, so many infants perish ..."
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