"He was thrown overboard—" "Lady, pirates are thieves who prey upon those at sea. Although they don't hesitate at killing those in their way, they are most often after riches, not blood. Captain Abram is alive and well, over on de Longueville's ship, the Red Rover." "But de Longueville said—"
"What he said, he did not mean. Aye, lady, men died in the boarding. Men die in battle, and that is the way of it. But neither your captain nor any of his men were cast upon the sea in coldblooded murder. I leave that to the English." She shook her head, amazed at his words. "You are a liar yourself, or you know nothing about the men you serve!" she told him heatedly. "I can't begin to tell you what horrors I have witnessed at the hands of the English!" "And I can't begin to tell you what I know about the heinous brutality of the Scots! But I should be happy to try, if you wish!" she informed him. Unaware of her own intent, she walked toward him. "Castle Clarin, does it mean anything to you? Perhaps not, we are not so great or grand a castle as that at York, where your people also practiced horrid atrocities. At Clarin, men—farmers, merchants, artisans, as well as warriors—were herded like cattle into a barn and fires were set. The Scots came like cowards, when my father and kin were off to battle. They seized innocent people—"
"Amazingly, lady, I saw the English practice such tactics firsthand," he interrupted her curtly. "If we are cruel, we have learned our butchery from our enemies. If you'll excuse me, Lady Eleanor? I drip. And I freeze. As you surely do yourself." He started to close the door. "Wait!" He paused. "Again?" he inquired, annoyed. "Aye, again!" she said angrily. "Must you ..." "What?""Never mind. Nothing." But he still paused and watched her curiously. "Bolt the door?" he said. "Yes." "Aye, I'm sorry, I must. You are a very valuable captive, Lady Eleanor." "Then I am to be ransomed?" He cocked his head slightly, musing the question. "I've not yet decided." "If not ransomed, then—" "Ah, that's to be seen, isn't it?" "Look! As you said, I'm worth a great deal—" "In many ways." The edge to his voice unnerved her, and she forced herself to stiffen and stand firm, and keep her eyes coolly level upon his. "Ah, yes, that's the way of battle, isn't it? Plunder—and rape. Well, then, why wait? I assure you, I'll afford you no pleasure—" "M'lady, I don't think that you can assure me anything regarding what I might find to be pleasure. But, alas, at the moment you resemble a drowned rat, and I am soaked, and weary, and bitter, oh, aye, bitter! Oddly enough, you're simply not appealing enough for the energy that must be expended in such a form of plunder. I bid you good night, lady. Unless you would feel better—most fully abused at our hands—if I were to give this offer of yours up to the crew?"
Madness must have set in; the icy waters had numbed her mind. She flew at him, but he was quick, expecting her reaction perhaps. He caught her by the upper arms before she could do any harm; fingers of steel seemed to wind around her, his body, beneath the wet cold of his garments, seemed as hot as any fire she might have feared. She looked up into his eyes, suddenly more afraid than she had ever felt before, so much more aware of this enemy than any man she had ever known.
At first, his expression was dark. A scowl that threatened damnation. Surely he was aware of the same discomfort, their sodden bodies so flush. His scowl slowly turned to a crooked smile. The storm-tossed darkness of his eyes lightened to a glint, and he carefully set her away from him. "Who knows, m'lady? Maybe you clean up well and I can oblige you myself at another time."
She fought to keep herself from making the mistake of flinging against him again. "I should rather accept your offer of the entire crew," she told him, making an attempt of smoothing back her hair. The long strands seemed as if they were mortared together by sea and salt, and she doubted she managed much of a noble presence. "That can still be arranged," he promised lightly. She lowered her hand and stared at him icily. "Get out." He bowed his head and reminded her, "You summoned me, lady." "For the love of God!" she flared. "Leave! Close the door!" "Aye, of course, I am ever willing to oblige!" he assured her. The door closed. And bolted.
She stood, staring at it. For the longest time, she fought the urge to throw herself against it and cry. Instead, she cast herself upon the taut rope cot. Covered with a soft feather mattress, it offered a surprising comfort. There, she burst into tears, and exhaustion at last seemed to overwhelm her. She was dreaming, she knew. Reliving the moments that had brought her here, now, tossing, turning, in pure misery. She was home. At Casde Clarin. The Scots had been defeated at Falkirk. She had ridden with English troops. She had been called Santa Lenora—for simply acting on instinct. The enemy had come, invaded, pillaged—and yet not done so thorough a job of it, for Castle Clarin was a fortress in stone, with a stout stone wall around the immediate tower, and that protected as well by a natural moat.
The weakness of the homestead and her father's hereditary Clarin lands was that it offered little help for the villagers surrounding the castle, for the tenant farmers, the merchants, the people scrambling to eke their lives from the earth and their own talents. And so, though she had been forced to safety in the tower, she had watched as the men had been grouped into the barn beyond the walls. She had seen the fire lit. And she had seen the Scots, with their shields and siege works, stand to watch. Alone, she had refused to do nothing. She had ordered he castle defenders to the ramparts, demanded that oil be cast down upon them, that their own fires be lit. Arrows had caught the attackers with fire as well, and burning themselves, they had fled in retreat while she raced to the barn, the castle guard and wives and children in her wake, to hack down the walls for the men to escape. Burning like torches, they had thrown themselves into the moat at her command, and amazingly, they had lost but seven of their number. Ah, but those losses!
Still, rumor spread. Men at arms from the surrounding area, called by the king to fight the Scots beneath Wallace, sent out a war rally: she must come. She must ride with the family Clarin. Men would come then. Whether forced by feudal law or no, they would come, they would rally to a saint!
So it had come to pass. And the Scots had been defeated. But on the same day that she saved the men in the bam, her father was killed while protecting a supply wagon intended for the king's effort against the Scots. His death made it easy for her to ride against such a heinous enemy.
But that time had come and gone. And though she was her father's heiress, the law was such that she merely held the castle, the lands, and the revenue—until she produced "male issue." Despite her father's death, she was not alone. She had kin; kin held responsible for her, by her father's deathbed requests. She saw again, as if she were there, the great hall at Clarin, in the well-protected tower. That day, no threat of war tormented them. A fire burned in the hearth. New tapestries by Flemish masters, gifts from nearby merchants, hung from the walls, keeping out the dampness and cold. Battle had ended, the farmers prospered, the merchants did well. She had adored her father, a man before his time, an educated man who believed in the mind, and in the soul. But he was gone, and she would miss him until her dying day. A great deal of responsibility had become hers. Welcoming the king's men when they traveled north. Caring for the disruptions in their small village. Looking after the sick, caring for the church, burying the dead, welcoming the new life that came to each household, just the same. Her cousins had contemplated many a matrimonial contract on her behalf. They had paraded Europe's most illustrious— and wealthy—men before her. Castle Clarin was a beautiful place. It had also seen devastating loss at the brutal hands of war. They needed new riches in their coffers for repair, to arm the fighting men Edward was forever demanding.
To her horror, it seemed that each wealthy suitor they found her was worse than the last. Robin of Lancaster was no taller than a ten-year-old, and suffered from a strange, rotting skin disease. He was, at least, courteous and well-educated. Tibald, Lord of Hexin, was next in line to an earldom, but though a handsome man, he enjoyed drowning kittens for amusement. And so it went. She turned down suitor after suitor. The Count Etienne Gireaux, a Frenchman, passed through, eager to meet the h
eiress of Clarin. He was as bad as the rest. He came, he left. But the following morning, just when she felt somewhat at peace with herself and her world, her cousin Alfred begged her presence in the great hall.
"There is no excuse for this procrastination!" he told her angrily, pacing behind Eleanor's chair. He gripped the back of the carved wood seat and leaned close to her ear, adding a fierce, "None! You were rude last night, quite frankly, rude. And Count Gireaux descends from one of the finest families in all Normandy!" He straightened, a tall man, well-built, a soldier who had earned respect in battle as well as by birth. He walked away from the banquet table in the great room and strode toward die hearth where a fire burned brightly. "Eleanor, it has been as if we walk on eggshells around you. You lost your father, you were forced to the defense of your home, but the attack was years ago now. You are far past being a child in any semblance of the word. Indeed, word of your courage and grandeur has turned to speculation that there must surely be some terrible mark upon you, that you are daft, crippled, or—" "So ugly that none with the required position and fortune will make claim to her?" Corbin inquired, the question voiced from the great chair that flanked the hearth. Corbin was two years younger than Alfred, and her kin with the greatest sense of humor regarding life and society. He, too, had fought for the king. Valiantly. It would never be said that any of the Clarins of north York shirked their duty to their country. But his attitude toward Eleanor differed greatly from Alfred's. Corbin was content to let things go on as they were; Alfred had an annoying sense of responsibility toward her late father. She wished he would realize that her father would not have forced the issue.
"Alfred, perhaps he is immensely wealthy, and respected," Eleanor said quietly, staring at her hands, folded in her lap before her, then heatedly pushing back her chair to stand and meet his eyes. "But he smells frightfully, and he's ... he's a..." "Lacking in any admirable quality whatsoever?" Corbin suggested. His brother shot him a withering glare. "Brother, you don't help matters in the least!" Corbin grinned, winking at Eleanor. "If she refuses to marry, and therefore produces no heir, the property reverts to you, Alfred. One would think you'd let her be." Eleanor gave him a quick grin. "Since I, a lowly woman, hold the property in the name of my male issue only, Corbin is quite right." Alfred's eyes, dark and damning, touched hers. He shook his head with aggravation. "Eleanor, it's my duty to see you legally wed, taking your proper place in society. It is your duty to continue your father's line. At the death of so many, how can you question this debt to the man you claim to have loved so greatly?" "I adored him!" she cried, distressed. "And he left you in my care, yet you sit there and scuttle every effort I make to do justice to his name."
She inhaled. "Alfred," she said, and began to count off on her fingers. ' 'Listen to me. Count Gireaux is cruel to his servants. He is coarse in his speech. He is vicious in battle—""That might be considered a virtue," Corbin said, interrupting. "Especially by our honored king." His brother shot him another stern glare. "Vicious, cruel, merciless, with no sense of justice," Eleanor insisted. "You would talk of justice?" Alfred asked softly. She felt a weakness in her knees. It returned every so often, when she would remember the terror of the time that the Scotsmen had raided here. When the fires had burned. "There must be some reason and sanity among men," she said evenly, and continued, "Count Gireaux might well turn on a wife in the same way. And he is most unpleasant—"
"Actually, he's a pig," Corbin said cheerfully. "A swine! But a rich swine, nicely landed." "And there's my point. He's rude, offensive—" "You have met my wife, haven't you?" Corbin teased dryly, interrupting again. "Aye, and look where you are, and where she is," Eleanor reminded him. She hadn't meant to be cruel herself. Corbin had married as had been required. He had acquired his title through marriage, and a great income as well. But they despised one another. Isobel was a shrew, selfish, self-indulgent, and demanding. She was a beautiful woman, but Corbin often said that he wished he'd been blessed with a hag.
Isobel lived in London most of the time. Corbin remained at Castle Clarin. Corbin rose, stretched, and came to her. "Alas, that's the way with marriage, my dear. It matters not if we wed the most repulsive creature in all the land—should that creature have position and wealth. Maybe you won't have to see him that often." "Alfred, I will not marry Count Gireaux. It's not that he's a repulsive boor—it's that I believe him to be mad!" Alfred shook his head. "There is one alternative." "I am not going to a nunnery." "No. You will go to France. Count Alain de Lacville has been recently widowed—without issue. He is older ... but you have always liked him and admired him, right?"
She hesitated. Alain was a good man, and a very rich one. Intelligent, soft spoken, kind. He had a full head of rich, white hair, and despite his age, his features were still well-defined and very handsome. She liked him very much. But... "He is older than my father was!" she whispered. "I think that my wife is older than God," Corbin said cheerfully."Corbin, she isn't old!" "Aye, I think she is. A witch, who keeps her beauty through her pacts with the devil!" he said, eyes wide, a rueful smile on his lips.
"Eleanor, your father died in the king's service," Alfred reminded her, impatient with both of them. "You were young, and you served him at Falkirk. But if we're not careful, sooner or later, Edward will remember that it's his right to step in on marital negotiations, and if the king decides that you should wed a warthog, you will do so. Go to Normandy, meet with him. We have been communicating since the death of his wife. Accept his proposal; venture out as his fiancée. If you do not reach a happy agreement, we can simply let the negotiations lag." She was silent. "Eleanor, Count Gireaux might take his proposition to the king." "I'll go to France," she quickly agreed. And so ...She had gone asea. And she had avoided Count Gireaux and whatever petition he might put before the king.
And instead, she had sailed straight into the hands of the Scots. Not just the Scots in general. The Scot she had met on the field of battle. The Scot who had attempted to destroy everyone and everything she had known and loved for a lifetime.
She tossed and turned, sleeping, waking, dreaming, seeing the carved wood of the confines of the cabin where she lay. It seemed that, as she slept, as she dreamed, her head was spinning more and more viciously. She was back in the forest at Falkirk. Lost in the woods as the English surged forward with the breaking of the Scottish ranks. She raced into the trees, desperate to hide. But he found her. She could remember raising her sword. She'd had lessons, yes. But she had been an unwitting heroine at Castle Clarin, desperately moving on instinct alone. And now ...
The sword beat down hard on hers, wielded by someone who had mastered the craft of warfare. She was going to die. She would be sliced to ribbons in another few seconds ... "Wait!" And she had dropped her cape, pulled the mail from her head. And he had stopped, and stared with surprise. His sword had lowered. Etched... Yes, his face had been etched in her memory then. The deep blue of his eyes, the darkness of his hair, the high set of his cheekbones, the arch of each brow. Time had changed him, as it had changed her. But never enough that she shouldn't have known him.
And known that look. The way his expression had changed when he realized that an enemy had come behind him. Just before he had turned to defend himself from the Englishman about to swing his sword, and decapitate him. She had seen that look ... And brought the hilt of her weapon crashing down on his head before he could turn back to her, certain that she had cried mercy just so that he might be slain from behind. He had fallen. And she had heard his fellow Scots coming, racing through the woods. She had melted into the trees, and in the aftermath of battle and war, she had never forgotten that moment, and yet she had convinced herself that she would never see him again. She had dreamed of him sometimes. Dreamed of his face, of the way he had looked at her. And sometimes, she had almost thought that war was as horrible for the enemy, for the youth of Scotland, striking and proud, were dying as well. But she couldn't forgive the Scots, and so she could offer them no sympathy.
&nbs
p; Edward hadn't had the strength of arms right then to really crush Scotland as he had wanted, and in die north, Scottish barons were ruling Scottish holdings. But Falkirk had been a serious victory for Edward, and the Scots would not venture south again, and so she would be safe. Safe! The ship tossed. Her head reeled. She sneezed and coughed, and realized that she was still damp, and twisting with a fever. The door suddenly burst open. She wanted to jump up. She could not. She hadn't the strength. He stood there. She saw his face as she had in dreams. He filled the door frame, head taller than the clearing, shoulders spanning it side to side. He had changed his clothing, and a hated woolen tartan was once again over his shoulder, held there by a silver Celtic brooch. She saw him, then he seemed to fade.
Was she dreaming, or was this real? There was light; morning had come. But the light was like mist, and she knew then that they still rode the storm. "Come with me, lady. Now!" he commanded. The devil had come, she thought. In the flesh. Older, grimmer, harder. Aye, vengeance had found her. But she smiled, for whether he were dream or real, she could not obey. She tried to open her mouth and speak. She hadn't the strength. "Stubborn wench!" he swore, and came to her. "I'm trying not to leave you locked here in the midst of this tempest! Is there anyone to whom you listen, any point at which you stop being such a stubborn fool?" He reached for her, and she couldn't fight him. He swore suddenly. "You are still soaked to the bone, ice and fire in one!" His arms wrapped around her. He lifted her, and carried her, steady despite the rock and sway of the ship. They left the cabin. The misty light fell more fully upon them from the stairway to the upper deck. Then a flash of lightning ripped through the fullness of the sky. It created an illumination like a burst of pure white fire. Thunder roared. The sea meant to kill them. The wind, the rain, the thunder, the lightning. God's great hand upon them all. But she couldn't care. Her head fell against the chest of her greatest enemy. Darkness descended. The heavens continued to roar. But for the time, Eleanor knew no more.
Seize The Dawn Page 4
