"Hm," the king said, and leaned back, observing his messenger, while he considered the news. Philip of France was an intelligent man and a fair ruler with the constant thought that first and foremost in life, he was a king. He was also a handsome man, a capable king, and a warrior, as befitted the times in which he ruled. Comparatively tall, and blond, he knew that many of his subjects spoke of him as Philip the Fair, and he liked the description. The term, of course, referred to his appearance, but he liked to believe that it was also an assessment of his judgment. He was a careful king, but he also believed in his heart that he had God-given rights, as well as responsibilities, and he was deeply religious, though frequently at odds with the pope. He was a moral man, and through his wife, Jeanne, he was king of Navarre as well as France. France was indisputably his domain, and having reigned now for over sixteen years, he had both confidence in right, and in his right to determine what that might be.
Despite his attributes, he was aware himself that in many ways, he did not compare with Edward I of England. Few men did. Longshanks, as the English monarch was known, was taller than most men, could wield a sword with the finest, and backed down from no man. When he decided to decimate an enemy, he did so with a determination so fierce, little could ever stand in his way. Philip admired him and despised him. Recently, he had become his brother-in-law. The game of kings was never an easy one. Throughout the years, he had fought the English and made pacts with the Scots. He had, in fact, been at war with the English since 1294. Through all the fighting, though, at times, he had made treaties with the enemy.
War was expensive. He was a king known for promoting royal power and containing feudal power, but he was also a king known for alleviating taxation.
The French and the English had fought bitterly over Gascony; so many people had died, so much of the countryside had been ravaged. His men had fought with the Scots; the Scots had fought with his men, including William Wallace and many of the men now in his retinue.
Philip acknowledged Edward for all that he was, but he admired Wallace with a far greater wonder, because the man was a complete enigma. Kings fought for their domains, for their personal aggrandizement. Knights rode off on crusade for the glory of God—and for whatever personal riches they could claim. Barons, earls, counts and dukes fought for power, to hold what was there. Wallace fought simply for a land, and for his people. Defeated in battle at Falkirk, he had come soon after to Paris, and while pleading his case with Philip, had had proved his worth by taking up arms while the fighting in Gascony was still going on fiercely. Wallace and his men were willing to risk their lives in any cause for Scotland. Sometimes it seemed an incredible waste of valor. Philip now held Gascony. He had regained it when he gave his sister, Margaret, to Edward for his second wife. The English king, it was said even among his enemies, had adored his first wife, Eleanor of Castile, but having been such a loving husband, and still a king, he had seen fit to wed again. Philip, of course, had weighed all angles. Edward was old—and reckless to a fault. He had lived hard. His new wife would not bear him the heir to the throne, nor could she reign as a dowager queen. She might not be queen of England for long at all. Also, negotiations had begun regarding Philip's own daughter, Isabelle; she would wed Edward's eldest son and heir, and there would be the needed link for the future. Philip's grandchildren would rule England, as they would rule France.
And so, the king of France hadn't given the English king his most beautiful and desirable sister, but rather the younger Margaret. She was sixteen, sweet, charming, and with an admirable integrity for such a young woman. Edward was ... well, much, much, older. That was one pleasure Philip could take in life; Edward of England might be tall, but he, Philip, was young. To look at the world was intriguing. Bitter wars fought long and hard could be ended with the stroke of a pen—and a marriage. Indeed, there was no contract so important and strategic as that of a marriage.
For his sister, he had obtained Gascony once again. And signed another treaty. That was the way of the world. And still ... He would be delighted to entertain Wallace—his brother- in-law's most hated enemy—at his court. No matter what papers he had signed, he hadn't forgotten the man, Wallace, or his service. Besides, he, Philip, ruled France, remained King of France. And this was France. "Well, sire, what news shall I carry to Calais?" "De Longueville spent his pirating days attacking Englishmen, I have heard," Philip said. Breslieu cleared his throat. "Aye, Sire. I believe he took a number of Spaniards as well, but did seem to hold regard for those vessels bearing flags of his own nationality."
"I assume then, that a pardon might be arranged." "And as to the Scots?" Philip pushed back from the table and rose. "They are welcome at my court. Indeed, we must assure Count de Lacville that his bride will soon arrive safely to our care. And ..." He hesitated. "The abdicated king of the Scots, John Balliol, resides so near. We must make him welcome, also." There was contempt in his voice. When Edward of England had first begun setting a vise around Scotland, most learned men of the day had agreed that John Balliol should rightly inherit the Scottish throne. The claimants to the throne had come down to the descendants of the sisters of King David, and he was the descendant of the eldest sister. But a poorer choice among the nobility could not be found. Balliol was not a bad man, just a weak one. His first attempt at power had been ruthlessly crushed by Edward. He had abdicated and been banished to Rome, under papal care. Now, he was living in France, and doing so happily. Men fought in his name, but Balliol was far happier an outcast in France than a king in Scotland. He hadn't the stomach for the job. He hadn't the valor and integrity of a Wallace—or the cunning of a Bruce.
"We will be delighted to see our good friend William Wallace, we will pardon the pirate when the petition is made, and we will reward the young hothead follower of Wallace who rescued the betrothed bride of our good servant Alain de Lacville, and see that all are reunited." Breslieu bowed low to him. "Sire, as you command." Philip seated himself again as Breslieu departed. He smiled slowly and reached for the wine. A good wine, though a young wine—a very young wine—from the estate granted to the exiled king of Scots. He hoped that Edward heard of this meeting. He'd be angry, of course. But what was a king to do? Philip thought mockingly. After all, the Scots were returning an English noblewoman to him, to the arms of her rightful French betrothed. All kings negotiated upon necessity. Edward must understand. Yes, he must understand. And still, he'd be furious.
Philip started to laugh out loud. Aye, Edward would be angry. He might just have an apoplexy. Eleanor's captors, whom she had assumed to be the worst manner of thieves, harlots, and brigands, were not. The following morning, the statuesque Helene tapped gently at Eleanor's door. "Countess, you are awake?" She was only halfway so. She shrank beneath the fur, but Helene did not enter the room. "M'lady, we must watch out for your safety, of course, but I thought you might like to see some of Calais." Pardon?" Helene laughed. "Word has gone out to the king of your arrival; we believe an escort will be sent. We, cannot trust you alone—there are too many cutthroats about—but with an escort, I thought you might enjoy a walk." "Aye, yes, yes! But I need to wash and dress—" "Of course. I'll bring fresh water. And your trunks will be brought as well." She heard Helene's footsteps receding, and she lay back for a long moment, thinking about what she had done. It had seemed ... something she desperately wanted. And rightfully so, because she knew what her life would be: She meant to be a good wife to Alain, and bring prosperity to Clarin, and be the young woman of compassion and integrity her father's child should be. Her life was preordained. She, of course, loathed the Scots who had slaughtered so many people in their vengeance! But still ... Something in her ached terribly this morning. Ached and reveled. She could remember his every touch, the sound of his voice, his whisper, the feel of his lips, his flesh ... aye, his flesh, taut, smooth, the feel of muscle beneath, the heat, the stunning heat ...
She had wanted to know, and she had wanted a memory, and she had wanted, just for a brief moment,
him. But what she had done was to create a lifetime of torture for herself, for aye, she had a memory, and it would haunt her, and she would never forget. "Water!" Helene called as the door opened, and she brought in a large ewer and bowl. "I'll give you time," she said pleasantly. She smiled at Eleanor. "Your trunks arrive behind me." Eleanor sank deeper within the fur as youths she had not seen before lugged in her heavy trunks, then departed with Helene. The door closed behind them softly as they left.
Eleanor rose quickly, shivering as cool air touched her naked flesh. She trembled as she washed and dressed, for it seemed he somehow remained with her, and as she splashed her face with cool water, she realized that she wanted him now with a great urgency; there was an agony in her soul unlike anything she had ever imagined. With a greater fervor, she washed herself, and reminded herself of the brutal truth. He was an outlaw without a real home, an enemy of her king, one of them—the hated Scots. He would spend his silly life following after Wallace—and having his head removed with his hero as well, most probably! She was a woman with great responsibilities, and that was the brutal truth in life. And a greater truth was that they had nothing in common, despised one another's loyalties, and were not just nations apart, but worlds apart. She really didn't like him at all; he had played a terrible trick on her, and they had all laughed at her, and she ...
Had thrown herself at him. She straightened. Pride, she assured herself, must somehow come to her salvation. This was not a casual game she played. Word had gone out to Philip—a king. She was betrothed to a French nobleman. Lives could be at stake. There was a tap at her door again. "Lady Eleanor?" "I am ready." As ready as she could be. She had chosen a simple blue tunic, a soft gray under dress, and warm hose. She eschewed any of her fur trimmed cloaks for a simple Flemish wool. She was glad, when Helene opened the door, to see that her escort was dressed similarly. "Come then, we're to the baker and the market."
Anne-Marie was waiting at the foot of the stairs. She seemed friendly and rueful, though not apologetic as they left the house. "The ruse was not my idea, of course," she assured Lady Eleanor promptly. "But, la, Brendan was angry that you would have so little faith in the Scots getting you to Paris!" "One has to look out for oneself in this wretched world," H61£ne said. "Lady Eleanor was right to seek her own freedom." Anne-Marie gasped as if Helene had said something horrible. But H61£ne defended herself. "Look at the many terrible things which have happened to women in the wars with Edward!" She spat out the name. She looked at Eleanor. "Wallace's woman was murdered in her own home for refusing to tell what she did not know. And he has never been the same since."
"Aye, he's wreaked vengeance everywhere," Eleanor murmured. "They have all become bitter and cruel," Helene agreed. The house seemed some distance from the town, but she moved quickly, and Eleanor found that she was hard-pressed to keep up with her. Anne-Marie was accustomed to the pace, and she continued Helene's explanation. "Which is why Brendan was so angry with you. He said that you had foolishly risked your life time and time again against men who meant to get you where you wished to go." ' 'So what is right?'' Helene persisted. "How was Lady Eleanor to be certain?" ' 'Diving from a ship to the docks of Calais could have landed you in the hands of stupid men who would not know your worth, and who might have killed you for the gold in your skirts alone," Anne-Marie said. "And if you had been left to de Longueville alone ..."
"Anne-Marie!" Helene said. "We were told—" "Aye, look to the harbor. "A cold day, but a beautiful one. Look at the sun shining on the masts—" Eleanor came to a halt, causing the other women to do so as well. "What about de Longueville?" Eleanor demanded. "He is a pirate; he seized ships, but I believe now that he is no cold-blooded murderer, but a man to ask ransom for those he captures."
"Usually, of course," Helene said. "Come along; we'll not have the best choice at the fish market. It is a beautiful city, our Calais. A big city, but you'll not see so much from here— we are near the docks, the outskirts, but look! We go down the slope, and it will not be easy to see, but the city is a lively place! So many goods hawked along the streets," Anne-Marie told her. "If we get going," Helene said impatiently. She started off briskly. They had reached an alley fringed by shuttered houses. Eleanor followed, determined that eventually she'd have her answers. But the other two women were moving very quickly, and for the moment, it was fascinating to be in the narrow streets. It was a large city, houses abutting one another, some very old, some new. Children played, kicking stones in an alley. Housewives threw open their shutters, shouting, "Attendez! L'eau!" She backed against a wall as a stout woman cast out the morning's wash water—and the morning's waste—with a haphazard throw.
"Watch! Watch! They are quick and careless along here!" she cried. A baker passed, his goods balanced in a straw basket on his head. A donkey cart carried a tinker with his various needles and scissors and sewing goods. The street was busy, and dirty, and boisterous, but it felt good to be out, and to see the town, and all that went on with such industry. On a street corner, a vendor peddled what he hawked as "bonjour vin." He saw them approaching and advised, "Ah, ladies, gentle, light, and sweet, a taste of the grape to just quench and soothe te palate!" Anne-Marie decided that she must have a taste, and they stopped, drinking from wooden cups. "Be she the countess?" Eleanor heard the little man whisper to Anne-Marie.
"Aye, so she be, and watch your tongue!" Anne-Marie advised. "You're taking the lady to be Alain de Lacville's wife to the fish market, and I should watch my tongue!" the fellow demanded with laughter. "You should watch it, else Wallace should slit it!" Helene warned. The fellow backed away, but a moment later, as they left him, she heard tones strummed on a lute, and the soft sounds of a ballad. Seized by a pirate, to be a fine prize, upon the Arab plain, Seized by a Scot, to be a fine prize, against an English king, But a Frenchman is to be the saint, The one to end the ring, Ah, the beautiful lady of Clarin, alas, Shall face but the pain of betrayal again.
Eleanor stopped walking and stared at both of the other women. "Come, come, my lady,'' Helne said.' 'The little jackanapes is right—we shouldn't really have brought you out. You're a countess, far superior to such a jaunt as this—" "What is it that everyone knows and no one tells me!" she demanded. "Nothing!" Anne-Marie denied quickly. "Nothing that we can see," Helene amended, seeing Eleanor's eyes. "You must ask Brendan, or Wallace. Or de Longueville himself."
She turned, and Eleanor knew that was the end of it for the moment, but the joy had gone out of the morning. They purchased bread, fish and even flowers, all to be brought to the house, and they returned, Helene and Anne-Marie still speaking lightly. "Am I allowed to ask this," Eleanor said as they approached the wild and overgrown expanse leading to the house, "How have you come to know the Scots, and isn't it dangerous, perhaps, with the French king's sister now wed to the English king?" Helene laughed. "Well, for one, I am not French at all." "Scottish?" Eleanor asked. "A little. Mostly Norse." "And I," Anne-Marie said, "have a French mother, and a Scottish father." "And even Jacques!" H61£ne said. "His father is a Frenchman, and his mother kin to Douglas of Scotland." "A fine warrior," Anne-Marie commented. "Aye, and that's true," Helne said. "So..." "The French may have signed a treaty with England, but believe me, the alliances with Scotland over the years have been deep and binding." "And here, in Calais ... what do you do?" Eleanor asked, surprised to feel her face flushing. "She thinks that we are really ..." Anne-Marie began. "Prostitutes!" Helene said. They both went into gales of laughter. "It would be the appearance you have given!" Eleanor said tardy. "But, of course!" Anne-Marie said. "We are not prostitutes. We are ... messengers. We stay on the coast, we watch the comings and goings of others, we keep our ears open." "You are spies?" she inquired. "Messengers," Anne-Marie repeated firmly. "And more, perhaps," Helene said quietly. "We are all interwoven, you see. Friends and relatives—who do not care for Edward I, the tryant of England. He has his right to be king—of England. He destroyed the Welsh, obliterating his enemies. It is what he intends to do to
the Scots. While he also reneges on the French. We are all loyal to a man who fights for simple freedom. Our place at the moment is here, and that is all."
"Are you related to Eric?'' Eleanor asked her. She smiled. "Eric is Brendan's cousin. The Graham family and the Norse have had ties for many, many years. And yes, I am related to Eric, though not to Brendan. Eric has long been an adventurer, yet loyal to Brendan's cause, and Brendan has said that no man in the world has the integrity of William Wallace, and no matter what battles are lost, the English will not have the wild northern and western isles that remain either heavily Norse, or under Viking domain. And aye, simply in the lands that once belonged to Picts, or those that were ruled by Moray before his death soon after the Battle of Stirling, freedom is not forgotten."
"Freedom," Eleanor told her, "is often only a word—" "Aye. Because you're not at all free, are you?" "I was seized by a pirate and handed over to men who are my enemies—" "I don't mean that at all, and you know it," Helene told her. She sighed. "Forgive me; you are a countess, and about to marry a man admired here in France, a man known for his valor and integrity as well. But you are not free. You are not free of your family, and you are not free of your king, and you will do as you must and live out your life in your English prison, no matter how great the power of your king. Again, my lady, I beg your forgiveness."
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