Chapter 3
"Will she live?" Margot Thorrsen looked up, startled by the sound of the deep male voice and by Brendan's presence in the cabin. She had thought she was alone with the sleeping girl, and she should have been accustomed to the silence with which men so often wary of enemies could be.
The wind had ceased to blow, the rain to fall. With the ships in control, she had been summoned to help with their English prisoner. The girl had been afire at first, damp to the bone, and in danger of a fever that could sweep her away. But—despite Brendan's protestations that she was to be kept from her English maid—Margot had sent for the woman, Bridie, for help. Between them, they had stripped away Eleanor's wet, sea-salty clothing, cooled her with fresh water, and forced mouthfuls of broth filled with rich, healing herbs down her throat. The night of the storm had ended; another day had passed, and now, night was falling again. Eleanor had yet to really open her eyes, but she lay still and sleeping. She had become Margot's charge, men having a tendency to leave the care of the injured to their womenfolk. She was surprised to find Brendan here, though it had been Brendan's cabin on this voyage before he had fished the English girl from the sea. Margot had known Brendan for the many years she had been with Eric. Despite the wars in Scotland, kin often stayed close. Eric's father, a cousin of Brendan's, had married Ilsa, daughter of the jarl of a far northern island, land still held by the king of Norway, and so, naturally, he was more Norse now in many ways than his family name would suggest. And due to the fighting with the English, the Scots tended to get on far better with their northern brethren than they had during the early years of Viking assaults. Indeed, she had been called upon to tend him during certain of his childhood illnesses.
She had not expected to find him in the shadows of the cabin near the cot, leaning forward and looking on as she tended to the patient. His voice was deep, resonant, and brusque as he spoke to her, his eyes intent as he asked once again, "Margot, will she live?" "She will live, I believe." Margot dipped a cloth in a bowl of cool water and smoothed it over the English girl's face. She looked at Brendan, the lock of dark hair falling over his forehead, the tension locked into the lines of his face, the power in the hands that were folded idly before him. A young man, twenty-odd years, but he had known warfare—treachery, loss, victory, and defeat—for most of his life. He followed William Wallace, but he had learned to lead under circumstances of both flight and battle. The nationalists in Scotland had learned the bitter truth that freedom was not to be acquired in one great stroke against the English, but in taking their battle into time, and into the forests. Living, to fight another day, was victory in itself, even when all seemed lost.
"Is she worth a great deal?" Margot asked. "What?" Brendan said, staring at her with a frown. "Is she worth a great deal?" He mused her words strangely, then said, "Aye, I'm sure she must be." Margot started to speak again, her language Gaelic, which they spoke most frequently among themselves, though all of the men were adept at the Norman French of the English aristocracy. He brought a finger to his lips. "Norse," he said quietly. Margot switched to her native tongue. ' 'Brendan, if we go to seek a French king's help against the English, how do you go about ransoming an Englishwoman?" His voice lowered a notch with a slight irritation.' 'According to the woman, Bridie, she is on her way to meet with a French fianc6, Count Alain de Lacville."
"So... we have rescued her—or she is a prisoner?" Margot inquired. "I've not quite decided that," he told her after a moment. "God knows, all the world is one thing this moment, another the next. King Philip detests Edward, but if necessary, fears him. When an alliance with the English become expedient, there will be an alliance." "Are we safe then?" ' 'Aye, though it may well be soon enough, there is no alliance as of this moment, and if there were, Philip of France would still relish the idea of welcoming William Wallace, the one man who has stood against Edward's tyranny, never capitulating. We have sailed as we have knowing that Edward has offered a fortune to any man capturing Scottish leaders on the sea," he told her, "so he is aware as well that he will not be seizing us as prisoners, once we reach France." He rose impatiently. "Whatever she may be, she needs to live, Margot. Beyond a doubt, she has value."
"Aye, Brendan," Margot said, confused as she watched him leave. Then she turned her attention back to the girl, touching her forehead, her cheeks with the cool cloth once again. The girl's eyes began to flutter. "Ah, there, you come among us!" Margot said. The girl's eyes opened, but she studied Margot with confusion."It's all right, you're doing very well." The girl still didn't respond. Margot realized she had still been speaking Norse. She switched smoothly to French. "You are with us again. How do you feel?" "Thirsty," the girl said. Margot smiled and poured water for her from an intricately carved Norse horn on the table. She accepted it with a grateful nod, drank quickly at first, then slowly as Margot gave her a warning to take care. "Thank you," she said, handing back the horn, sinking weakly back into the pillows. She still studied Margot with perplexity. "Who are you?" she asked softly. Then she hiked up on an elbow. "Where is my maid, the woman named Bridie? Is she well, is she all right—""Lie back, rest, m'lady. Your maid is fine; she rides on the other ship." "Alone—on a pirate ship?" Lady Eleanor was distressed, but then added a wry, "Dear God! I can't believe I just asked that when I am on a Scottish ship." "Only partially Scottish," Margot told her. "In truth, it's a Norse ship." "Of course. Of course, yes, Norse. But as to Bridie—" "She is confined, nothing more."
"Can you be so certain?" There was deep anxiety in her tone. Margot found herself eager to assure her, but as to just what promises the could make, she wasn't at all sure. "She is fine; you are separated because you are not trusted, and that is all." "Trusted? I should be trusted?" she inquired, her eyes narrowing. Margot smiled suddenly. She'd heard a great deal about this woman; she was legendary, having been the rallying banner herself for a host of soldiers convinced that she was all but touched by God. She had been part of the English victory at Falkirk. She didn't look much like a warrior now. Indeed, if anything, she resembled a fragile sea nymph with a wealth of deep golden hair, tangled about the fine bone structure of her face. Her eyes, bluish gray like the storm at sea, seemed large in her face. At the moment, despite the defiance in her voice, she was stripped of all warlike qualities. She was vulnerable.
"I will leave you, since there is little—" Margot began. But the girl caught her hand, the gray eyes suddenly clearer, naked, and even betraying a little bit of fear. "Wait!" she said softly. "Please." "There are no promises I can make you," Margot said. She shook her head. "No. Who are you? Why are you aboard this ship? You are the Norseman's wife?" Margot hesitated, and shook her head. "Not his wife. He is the grandson of a jarl." "But..." "Am I with him? Yes." "I see," she murmured, eyes downcast. Then she looked up at Margot. "Does he have—a wife as well?" "No. Not as yet, Lady Eleanor." "Then—" "Thus far, he has refused to wed." "He loves you," Lady Eleanor said. Margot flushed at the Englishwoman's words. They were familiar, assumptive, and—Margot believed—true.The beautiful English noblewoman seemed determined to make Margot comfortable. She smiled and continued, "If he were to wed ... well, marriage is a contract, and little more, so it seems. He will surely love you still, even if he is forced to marry. God knows, he could be contracted to a witch of a woman, a horrible shrew!"
Their prisoner was not at all looking down her nose at her, but trying to make her feel better about the situation. "What of Count de Lacville?" Margot asked. Lady Eleanor drew in her breath sharply. "Is he ... cruel? Do you even know him?" Margot asked her."Alain? I do know him; he was an old and dear friend to my father. No, he is not cruel, he is one of the most gentle men I have ever met." "Then you will be happy." "Happy?" she repeated, musing the word. "At least..." "What, my lady?" "I will not be miserable, beaten, or abandoned," she murmured, eyes once again downcast. Margot rose, suddenly feeling as if she, the commoner, were far more lucky. She didn't have legal rights, but what she did have was far greater.
; "Wait!" Margot paused. "I must go and—" "Please, what's going on now? Is Wallace aboard this ship? Do we travel on to France? What... is going to be done with me?" "That is up to the men, my lady. But you're wrong if you think that they are monsters." Eleanor at last seemed to withdraw from her. She turned her face toward the cabin door. "I've seen what they do—" "You've seen nothing—unless you've seen what Edward of England is capable of doing, m'lady," Margot told her. The captive did not respond.
"I must go," Margot said. But she couldn't leave quite so easily. "I'll bring you something to eat, soon. Please ... don't be afraid," she added. "I am Santa Lenora, courage itself! I'm not afraid," Eleanor said quickly, but she was lying, and Margot knew it. The lady mocked herself. Margot decided to leave her with the lie. "I'll be back," she promised again, and left the cabin. William's ship had come alongside the Wasp soon after the storm. Wallace had come aboard, and they sat then at the bow of the ship, drinking ale from Norse horns.
Apprenticed to his cousin, Arryn, as a young man, Brendan had come to know Wallace through his elder kinsman. He had never met a man he more admired, a greater warrior—nor a more intelligent man. Wallace was often underestimated by his enemies. He was a commoner, but his education had been excellent. He was muscled, tall, honed to perfection—but his victories had been earned more with careful strategy than with the force which had as yet served him well. In victory, and in defeat, he never faltered. He would die for Scotland, and Brendan was aware that in riding with Wallace, he made the commitment to do so as well. If necessary. But like Wallace, he prayed for life. Tonight, the winds were calm. The moon touched the water. Where sea and horizon met could not be seen, and they might have been adrift anywhere in eternity.
"I like the pirate. De Longueville," William told Brendan. "There's an honesty in the fellow." "He's been plundering ships at sea for years." "Aye, and he honestly admits it," William agreed, a twinkle in his eyes. Born to his role as leader and warrior, he was striking in his very appearance of power. His voice had a power; his words an eloquence that could move men. And had. But those close to him knew as well that he was a man, not a monster, and a simple man in his way, familiar with pain, but eager for moments in which to smile. "So a wrong is right—if one admits it?" Brendan inquired. "Then in God's name, somewhere, there must be forgiveness for King Edward, since he admits to wanting to seize all Scotland and destroy all Scotsmen."
"I would rather an honest enemy than a dishonest ally," William told him gravely. "Ah, now there's the truth of it," Brendan muttered, drinking deeply once again. He shook his head, keeping silent. But he couldn't help but think how very right William was—it had been said, and said again, that Falkirk might have been won, had John Comyn the Red not turned away from the battle with his cavalry. Comyn was cousin to the deposed King John, in whose name William continued to fight for Scotland. Robert Bruce, contender to be king along with John Comyn, had as yet never fought with Wallace. He had, at times, fought with King Edward. After the battle, however, Bruce and Comyn had held Scotland together in an uneasy, unholy alliance. But Robert Bruce had soon resigned his guardianship, and this time when they set sail from Scotland, there was rumor that he would soon sign a peace with Edward. He was a man with much to lose.
"Out with it, Brendan!" William said to him. "It is merely something I think—now and then." "Aye, let me hear it!" He glanced at the man he followed. "All right. You have never faltered. You have fought for Scotland. Not for gain. Edward has tried to bribe you. King Haakon of Norway would gladly welcome you and give you lands—and a title. Philip is aware of your journey to France now, and in his travels our good friend the Archbishop of Lamberton has spoken highly of you at every opportunity. We've been to France before; feted at the French court. We've been to Italy, to Rome and back, and we seek to keep Philip now from a pact with England that can only hurt Scotland. No matter what, though, you'd be welcome in France. Philip is always eager to welcome you to his country, give you command of troops, and reward you handsomely. But you, sir—you stubborn ass, if you'll give pardon—you will continue to fight. Our nobles—bless their blackened souls—backed away when we were winning victories! They cry for Scotland, then squabble among one another. Who will be king? I won't fight if I won't be king. Sorry. But I admit, by God, I do wonder at times—just what we are doing, how can we ever fight Edward when we so endlessly fight ourselves?"
Brendan wondered if he had evoked Wallace's anger, but the man was grinning. Then he started to laugh, and gave Brendan a huge clap on the back. "An ass, am I, sir?" "Only at times—sir." "Aye, well there it is. If Robert Bruce rides with me, he loses everything. He holds too much that lies in the king's power. He wishes to marry an English heiress, and word had it that he was in love, deeply infatuated with the beauty, and there, ah, yes, there, many a man has lost himself, his soul, or even his country, for love." He was quiet a moment, and Brendan did not urge him on. The woman Wallace had once loved had been murdered by the English under bitter circumstances, and many said that her death was one of the reasons he fought with such vengeance.
Wallace lifted a hand in the air. "Robert Bruce is still a Mend to Scotland; you mark my words. Aye, he seeks a crown. That has been the single-minded obsession of his family for decades. God knows, maybe he is the right man to wear the crown. But just the same, John Comyn hopes to be king. They are both powerful men. I don't believe that John Comyn deserted us with intent at Falkirk; it is my belief that the horses broke and ran, and there was no rallying he could force." "You are looking at the man with a kindly eye. Some say he was eager for you to lose at Falkirk, that he doesn't want Balliol restored to the crown, though they are close kin, since, of course, he, too, wants the crown for himself."
"Those in line for the crown do want it. Therein does he the problem!" Wallace murmured. "Their weaknesses, and my strength. I don't want the crown. I want freedom." "But the army is broken." "Aye, that it is. And without the nobles, I can sway common men, but not enough to follow me in suicide against Edward again—not for now. Now, we must look to diplomacy, and whatever aid we can gain from foreigners." Brendan stared broodingly out on the water. "And what now, young friend?" Brendan shook his head with rueful disgust. "When you resigned as guardian, and the barons met at Peebles, it was a member of my kin to suggest that your lands be taken as forfeit for you leaving the country without permission of the assembly? Sir David Graham!"
Again, William seemed amused. "My brother Malcolm was there to stop any such foolishness.""But that he should—" "Grahams have covered the countryside, Brendan. I do not hold you responsible for all who bear the name. And I know, as well, that David Graham has his own allegiances. He is loyal to Comyn, and is not to be blamed for that. My brother is a supporter of Robert Bruce; he cast his loyalty to the Bruce long ago. He tells me that we might forget our King Toom Tabard, and look to Bruce. He is the one who must one day save Scotland from the English, and then rule her. Ah, Brendan! It is difficult to see, in the midst of the blood that we have shed. Brace and Comyn both sit back at times, praying for King Edward's death! He is aging, and his son prefers games, pastimes and the friendship of his favorites over battle. Perhaps waiting is the greatest weapon against Edward. He cannot live forever." "Excuse me, but it appears he is living far too long."
"Well, we are on our way to see another king, a French king. One, who, as you say, will welcome us and be pleased with the penitent pirate we bring him." He was silent for a moment, studying Brendan. "A pirate ... and an heiress. Interesting collections for the journey, eh? Though I have heard that the Lady Eleanor is still very ill." Brendan let out a sound of irritation. "She is much better. Margot says she will live, and Margot is seldom wrong. If Lady Eleanor is ill, it is her own fault. She insisted on a swim."
Wallace laughed and slapped his knee. "Against all odds! Ah, well, a woman of my own heart." I don't think so. She sees you as we see Edward. I believe, in fact, that she thinks you have a tail and horns upon your head, and were spewed from
the earth by the devil himself.""Many an Englishman does. I am supposed to have ridden into battle wearing the skin of my enemies. I paint myself like a heathen. Well, I am guilty of many things, but not until such crimes were perpetrated on me, or on Scotland, did I retaliate in kind. I know about this woman. She led troops at Falkirk. Because men, claiming to be under my leadership, burned a village. So be it. I have burned many an English village. I have plundered and raped the English countryside where I could. I did not, however, murder innocents, but fighting men. Tell her to remember Berwick, where the king's men cut down even pregnant woman as they ran in the streets." "Tell her?" Brendan queried. "We are in a precarious diplomatic position. She is a good pawn to hold in our hands. I had thought that you—"
"You fished her from the sea. She is your concern." "We are on a most important mission. Perhaps you should not trust her to me." Wallace stared at him curiously. "And why is that?" Brendan lifted his drinking horn. "We have met before." "Aye?" "At Falkirk." "Oh?" "She very nearly killed me." Wallace stared at Brendan a long time, then laughed, slamming him on the back once again with his big hand. "You? I've seen few men more proficient with a sword, nor more determined to use one." "We are all vulnerable." ' 'But you? Ah, yes, of course. She cast off her armor, and found your Achilles' heel. Well, they do say, revenge is sweet, and before God, I must admit, there have been times when I have killed men and the pleasure in seeing them die has been great!" His face darkened. "So much pleasure, indeed, that I fear I myself will rot in hell for a hatred that deep." He sighed, looking back, and Brendan wondered whether he thought of killing the men who had murdered his father, or the woman he had loved. Or both. If vengeance didn't just become a part of life.
Seize The Dawn Page 5
