Eleanor followed Bridie, feeling the pitch of the ship but balancing to it. She wasn't afraid of the wind or the water. A sure knowledge of their character gave an intelligent respect for the wrath of the pirates. But nothing, nothing in the world frightened her as much as the prospect of being locked in. Before they reached the door, a violent shuddering sent them both flying. It was as if the whole of the vessel let out a cry. Wounded, aye, she was wounded, rammed, run down. Sailors were abandoning their positions to draw their arms. The pirate ship had come upon them, skimmed them, taken them. Grappling hooks flew into the air like silver birds, then fell to the ship's planking like winged teeth of steel.
"My lady!" Bridie called. She catapulted into Eleanor; they both went sprawling. By then, sailors from the assaulting ship were dropping on them like flies upon meat. Men hung from the rigging, then slid to the deck, their swords bared. Fierce battle was engaged. Flat upon the deck, Eleanor stared into the eyes of a dying seaman, watching as they glazed over. His blood spilled upon the deck, and trickled toward them both. "Up!" she shrieked to Bridie, and they were both on their feet. Two men, their weapons lost, went crashing behind them, plowing into the cabin. It was one of the attackers who had their first mate by the throat. Eleanor charged after them, capturing the heavy, very costiy Bible from the captain's desk, and dashing it upon the head of the attacker. Dazed, he stumbled away. The grizzled first mate stared at Eleanor.
Bridie went for the Bible. She lifted it high. "The Lord is with us!" "Is he, now?" They both spun around. A tall man stood at the entry to the cabin, his hand upon the door frame as he looked in. "Alas, mademoiselle, I think not." He stepped down into the cabin, sweeping his hat from his head.' 'Allow me to introduce myself. Thomas de Longueville. And God is with me, and against you, for the moment." He wasn't an old man, but somewhat weathered bronze by his days at sea. His breeches were a dyed dark linen, his shirt, white, his doublet, a cranberry color, his boots tall, and his eyes, sharp, narrowed, and all-assessing. A small smile curled his lips. "Ah ... so it's true. Lady Eleanor of Castle Clarin, I do believe. You sail to France—to meet a rich man. To bring new money to coffers destroyed by the Scots—God bless their savage souls! Well, we shall see what this man is willing to pay to have you at his side."
The first mate, backed to the cabin wall, suddenly came to life, springing forward. "You brigand! You'll not touch the lady—" As he surged forward, the pirate drew a knife. Eleanor quickly stepped between the two men. The impetus of the mate sent her crashing into the pirate. An unnerving little fire took flight within his eyes. She pushed away from him, still between him and the mate. "There's been enough death!" she said firmly. Thomas de Longueville arched a brow, amused. "You will tell me when there has been enough death?" "Do you kill for the pleasure of it?" she demanded. "You have taken the ship. There is no reason to kill this man." "Aye, that's true. I have the ship. And as to this man ..." Silently, he thought a moment. "Jean!" he called, and quickly a second man came running to the cabin doorway. "Throw this fellow overboard. Don't kill him, though. Whatever you do, make him hit that water alive and well!"
"Whatever you do, make sure you set him in a small boat!" Eleanor exploded, as another pirate arrived, and her would-be defender was dragged out. "Nervy little wench, eh? But then, you are the defender of Castle Clarin. Santa Lenora, eh?" "She is a lady, born and bred, a gentle maiden, mild- mannered and well-behaved!" Bridie lied, coming to put an arm around her. "And if you ... and if you ..." Her words faltered. Her cheeks flushed. "She's trying to say that if you harm me in any way, I'll not be worth nearly so much to my prospective bridegroom," Eleanor said flatly. She wondered if any of it mattered. She had been born to a battered land, and from the day her father had died, her life had become a gamble, a charade, a travesty. "Ah, but what if it doesn't matter to me, just what kind of riches I make off you?" he inquired, eyes still alight with humor.
"What if nothing matters to me, and I throw myself into the sea?" she cross-queried. Anger, a flash of annoyance, touched his face, and he started to retort, but suddenly the man named Jean was back. "A ship!" he said tensely. "A ship?" "Aye, and flying at us!" Jean said. Thomas de Longueville took the time to bow to the women. "You will forgive me, I beg you. Adieu, for the time. Lady Eleanor, a pity, we were just beginning to know one another. I will finish off this new enemy as quickly as I might, and be back with you. I would not want you to miss your engagement with the sea!"
The door slammed upon them. Eleanor let out a shriek of terror, flying toward the cabin door. It was bolted tight. "My lady—" Bridie cried, coming to her. She could not be locked in. Confined.
Yet, suddenly, she flew back, slamming against the captain's desk. The ship let out a long, terrible shudder. Wood. Groaning, cracking ... giving. And then ... The scent of fire. "Fire!" she turned on Bridie."We were told to stay here; the fire is beyond us—" "We'll not burn, I'd rather a swift sword through the heart!" "Eleanor—" "I refuse! I won't do it, I won't!" Eleanor cried, and she recklessly began searching through the cabin for a weapon, any weapon, to use against the door. At last, behind the tapestry that protected the captain's bed, she found an axe. An old battle- axe, perhaps a weapon of war, or maybe just a necessary tool. She didn't know which. She didn't care. She gripped the axe with determination.
"Eleanor, you mustn't," Bridie told her. "Listen. Pay heed to me! The captain said that we must stay here. We could be killed by accident." Eleanor stopped dead still and stared at her maid. "No, Bridie, pay attention to me. Don't you smell the fire? Shall we die like trapped rats?" "But, my lady—"
"I don't care how I die, Bridie, as long as it is not by flame. Bridie, listen—breathe! Fire, there is fire aboard!" Bridie took in a deep breath. Indeed, there was fire. How serious, Eleanor did not know.
But she would not be trapped. "Fire, Bridie, fire!" Bridie took in a breath again and seemed to come to life. "Fire!" she gripped Eleanor's shoulders, staring at her wildly. "Fire, Eleanor! Let me help you. What can I do?" "Stand back, Bridie. I wield such instruments well." To prove her point, she took several steps back, then hacked away with vigor and efficiency at the door.
"Can we take her?" Brendan demanded, looking through the captain's glass. "Aye, if you're willing!" Eric Graham, a kinsman, commanding the Wasp, told Brendan. "Oh, I am willing!" Brendan murmured. It was a strange sight at sea. The pirate ship had rammed an English vessel flying the colors of Edward I; they had come upon a battle scarcely completed.
Both ships had suffered damage in the scuffle. Both had surely lost men as well. The Wasp was of Norse design, built in the North Islands still under Norse rule. She was smooth and sleek and carried a handful of seamen with the blood of Vikings strong in their veins—and Scotsmen, too often defeated, and too honed to battle. "You know the pirate ship?" Eric inquired. He was a large man, Brendan's own height, but where Brendan's hair was dark as night, his kinsman sported a pate and beard the color of copper, and his eyes were a paler Nordic blue than the almost cobalt coloring of Brendan's own. They lit upon Brendan then with good humor. "Tell me, you do recognize the colors flying!"
"Cousin, I've spent most of my life fighting upon land," Brendan reminded him. Aye, he'd come to adulthood fighting. He barely remembered the time now when he had been a youth of good family, naturally learning the instruments of war, but spending nights with books as well, with language, mathematics, history, and music. "It's only of late that I've had these— opportunities?—to come to the sea." And his mind had been otherwise occupied when he had been asea, so he knew little about the flags being flown by different men.
He turned to Eric. "Eric, are you intending to share the information?" "The ship belongs to Thomas de Longueville." Even he knew the name. "The infamous Frenchman?" Brendan inquired.
"Aye, an intriguing fellow. Knows how to bargain when the time is right." "And he has taken an English ship? Let's have at them then!" "Will Wallace agree? We are on a matter of national diplomacy," Eric reminded him. "To taking a Frenc
h pirate on our way to France—and capturing a vessel flying Edward's flag? Aye, he'll agree." He turned, training the glass aft of their ship. Wallace's vessel rode somewhat behind theirs. Before they had come upon the curious sight before them, they had been prepared for battle at sea.
They always sailed prepared for battle. Though Falkirk had been lost, William Wallace, the great defender of Scotland, had lived. And there were few men King Edward I wanted dead with a greater vengeance. Since Falkirk, Wallace had never faltered from his dream of freedom, or his ideals for Scotland. But he was an intelligent man; his only real power as a leader had lain with his success, simply because of the feudal structure of their society. Wallace wasn't a great lord or nobleman with hereditary rights over men. He did not have scores of tenants sworn to serve him in times of war. Since the Scottish loss at Falkirk, he had continued to tirelessly defend Scotland, harrying the English troops who had kept a foothold in southern Scotland, seizing supplies, fighting where speed and strategy could outweigh the forces of might and resources against him. He had traveled as well, to Norway, the Shetlands, and most important, perhaps, to France and Italy.
But no new great armies had been raised. Still, some good had come from the defeat at Falkirk: Scotland's nobles had been forced to take some of the responsibility for Scotland. Other men were guardians now. Edward had not released his hold upon Scotland. He'd not managed to aquire the manpower to usurp Scottish rule in the north, but he continued to swear himself the great overlord. Edward I of England would never cease his pursuit of the Scots, Brendan knew. Only his death would release the threat Edward wielded over the land. But Edward fought other battles, and he hadn't the manpower to leave Scotland at this time to subdue—nay, crush—the country! His ultimate goal. Not for now.
Brendan often wondered how William Wallace, the extraordinary warrior and leader, could accept his situation with so little resentment. The great barons had used Wallace's power, the heady potency of his nationalist eloquence, his blood, and his sweat, all for the freedom of Scotland. But they had never really stood behind him. William still recognized John Balliol as king of Scotland; he had been the anointed king. But John Comyn, known as The Red, and Robert Bruce had the same blood of the ancient line of Scottish kings in their veins. It was often rumored now that John Comyn had taken his forces on the field at Falkirk and run, and thus caused the defeat. For awhile, both men, Comyn and Bruce, had been guardians of Scotland. They harried the English, but they did so with care. The age-old rivalries between the two had threatened to destroy what Scottish control remained to the Scotsmen, and Bruce had resigned, and then Comyn. John Soulis, a good Scotsman, sworn to hold the country in the name of their absent king, John Balliol, was Guardian of the Realm.
Wallace had watched it all, fearing the individual goals of the men, and even their affection for their own wealth and power. At any sign of being crushed, they were ready to capitulate to the English king; they feared the loss of their lands and titles. William Wallace had fought with nothing, and without the compromise of having so much to lose. John Balliol, the anointed king, remained alive, and though few men thought he would ever return to Scotland, he was still king. A sad king, a maligned king, a cowardly king—known most often as 'Toom Tabard,' or 'Empty Shirt.' But he had now been released from the papal confinement in Italy to which Edward had condemned him, and he was in France. He was much of the reason they now hurried to the French king with whom they had been such allies on previous trips.
"Well?" Eric demanded, drawing Brendan quickly from his thought. "Well? Will William agree? Oh, aye! That he will!" "Then we're on to it!" "Aye!" Brendan hurried down the length of the ship where the men in his command had gathered now, watching the helm where he and Eric had conferred. They waited expectantly; they had expected action. As the lead ship, they watched for Englishmen who would surely like to seize Wallace from the seas and deliver him unto Edward. "We take her!" he cried, and grinned, and quoted famous words from the leader they all followed. ' 'Not for glory, but for freedom! For Scotland!" "For Scotland, always! And for whatever riches we may now plunder as well, eh, Brendan? Needed for our failing coffers!" Liam MacAllister, a tall man with a fine humor and flaming red hair called out.
A roar went up among the men. "The Lord knows, Liam, we can use what riches we might seize from a sinking ship, indeed." A roar went up again, cries of laughter—cries that went loud. Very loud. Often enough as well, they had used such ferocity to give them courage against crushing odds. "Full said!" Eric shouted in command to his sailors. The chase was on. "They outnumber us, surely," Eric warned Brendan. Brendan grimaced. "I've never been into battle or skirmis without being outnumbered." He turned to his men. "Arrow! my friend! We'll keep them busy saving their hides from burning as we board. The best three, come forward, eh? Liam, you Collum, Ainsley, barrage them. We've pitch and rags, set her ablaze!" Men scrambled to obey his commands. They had learned well from Edward's use of archers again them. Now, they announced their arrival to the English—and the pirates. With flame. "Watch, Bridie, watch!" The door was down; Eleanor and Bridie burst out upon the deck just as a cascade of burning arrows came flying across the sea and sky, colliding anew with masts and sails. She forced Bridie to duck; a savage missile whistled past them, embedding into the wall of the cabin, bringing the smell of fire before their faces. The ship was not afire, but it might as well be. The pirate crew were adept at sea. They rushed to steady the ship, prepare for the boarding attackers—and put out the flames.
Standing on the deck not far from them, cursing and shouting orders, de Longueville studied the oncoming enemy vessel. "They've brought land battle to sea!" he roared. "Arrows! Arrows!" He raised a fist to the ship now ready to ram them. "Fight like men! Draw your swords! Scots! Mon Dieu!"
Even as he spoke the words, grappling hooks were hitting the ship anew. It was amazing that the English vessel was not completely crushed, for the pirate ship remained lashed to her port side while this new assault came from starboard.
"Aye, pirate, we've drawn our swords!" came a cry. Eleanor looked to the new ship upon the scene, caught fast to them now. The man who had spoken balanced with a grip upon the rigging that tilted toward the deck, one hand upon the ropes and one upon his weapon. Scots. The first thing Eleanor noted was that this invader was clad n a tartan. He wore dark leggings, skin boots, and linen shirt beneath a garment of interwoven, blue and green wool. A large Celtic brooch held the tartan at his shoulder. His sword was indeed drawn as he leaped with surprising agility from the rigging to the deck, ready to face the pirate. He was young, with pitch dark hair that fell near to his shoulders, rigid bronzed features, and sharp eyes that cast a fatal warning. He was clean shaven; he had spoken in the pirate's own tongue. No matter. A Scot! He was not civilized; he was a madman, a savage. They were now being boarded by mountain dwellers, animals, men who killed one another over petty quarrels, and were as vicious as wolves against their enemies.
Ah, but the pirate was ready when his enemy fell; steel clanged against steel. Other men began dropping from the boarding vessel. She heard ancient cries in Gaelic; she had heard them before. Curses in Norse rang out as well. The Frenchmen cried out in the civilized tongue with which most men and women of any breeding—aye, and without—were surely familiar in this day and age. A melee had broken out, and still, Eleanor stood with Bridie, outside the battered door, staring incredulously.
"This cannot be happening!" Bridie wailed. A man fell at their feet. A pirate. He looked up at the two of them, grinned, came back to his feet, and charged the burly Scot now upon him once again.
"One attack! One attack is quite rude enough—but two!" Bridie cried out, so outraged she forgot to be terrified for a moment. "Rude! Bridie, we are in serious danger. This is not a matter of manners. We must think quickly, and act with even greater haste.""Let's get back into the cabin!" she implored. "The fire; are out, we'll not be trapped; we'll soon be skewered!" "No!" Eleanor snapped back. Her fear of fire was paralyzing
But they were in dangerous positions, indeed, with the hand to-hand combat going on all around them. "Bridie, to the aft!" she shouted suddenly. "Aft!" She caught Bridie's hand, dragging her between two men just before they charged one another. They ran along the edge of the ship, heading behind the main masts and cabins to the far rear of the vessel. There, Eleanor stopped, catching her breath, staring overboard. The water churned and frothed. The Irish Sea could seldom be called a gentle pool!
Nor so was it today! It had been beautiful; the skies had been blue, blue like eternity, clear, like a promise of heaven. Gray clouds had formed, as if summoned by the violence aboard the ship. The wind moaned, crying out at the clashing steel that pierced it. "Eleanor!" Bridie cried out. "You're not thinking about ..." "Diving in? No," she said ruefully. "Then what? We are trapped! Better the cabin—"' I'll go to the sea before a fire!" Eleanor assured her, looking back to the churning water. Swim? Aye, she could swim. To shore? From here? Hardly likely! And what manner of beasts lived within the sea? Sharks with razor-edged teeth, sharper than any sword. Sea monsters! Creatures whispered about in poor taverns and inns. Creatures that sucked on the body, squeezed and crushed ...
Better than fire! "Alors!" Eleanor spun from the sea to stare down the deck of the ship again. "The prize!" It was one of the French pirates, a man with inky-dark, oily hair, a strange pointed beard, and sly eyes. He was racing toward them. "Get back! Come, woman!" he commanded harshly to Bridie, as he hurried toward them. "Mademoiselle!" he cried to Eleanor. "By God, I will jump!" Eleanor muttered, fingers grasping the hull. But before she could do so, another man came charging after the first. He did so with such impetus that they crashed into the aft together. There was no battle; the second man had a knife, worn at his calf. He drew it and slew his opponent in seconds.
Seize The Dawn Page 2
