She traced the fine strong features of his face, wondering for a moment if there wasn't a way that she could run . .. with an outlaw. She wondered if he meant his invitation, but he could not. For they were in France, and she was sworn to a famed, if aging, French knight. He would risk everything they had come to achieve. "I will never, ever, forget you, Brendan." Perhaps he did not mock her then, for he touched her cheeks and found them damp. "I will never let you forget me," he said. And he took her into his arms, and they used what was left of the night When morning's first light arrived, she begged him to hurry. She watched him turn the length of his plaid into a cloak, preparing to descend into what remained of the darkness. Then she held fast to him once again.
"Brendan ..." He went down upon a knee, taking her hand. "My lady, know that I do swear my loyalty to you, that if you are in danger, I will come to you." "Brendan," she murmured breathlessly, drawing him up, "you mustn't say such things. I will go to England. To ever come to me would be such a risk—" "We are fond of risks." "For Scotland, we have both agreed." "Scotland is worth a risk. And so, my lady, are you." She clung to him once again, then lowered her head, shaking. "I will marry Alain. I must, and I will." He lifted her chin, studied her eyes, kissed her lips. Long, carefully, lingeringly. She closed her eyes, and prayed the world would stand still. It did not. When she opened her eyes, he was gone.
Chapter 10
The ride to Paris had seemed long and cold. Brendan spent the day with Eric and Wallace; Margot and H61£ne were by Eleanor's side, and from time to time, Breslieu rode back to her place in the party, inquired as to her welfare, and seemed to watch her suspiciously.
She was exhausted, and miserable, and she hoped it would be better when they reached the city—when they were parted, when she no longer had to watch him ride, and know that they would be parted. Still, at long last, when they reached the outskirts of the city and then the bridge leading to the lie de la Cit£, she had to admit that Paris was beautiful, and that there was a grandeur to the island in the middle of the Seine. There were buildings, fine and stalwart. The Cathedral of Notre Dame de Paris rose from the mist upon the water in noble magnificence. Then, slowly, she became aware that Brendan had been riding behind her, and he edged his horse up to ride by her side. "I remember being so overawed when I came here. This magnificence, set so in the water ... I hadn't traveled far until then. Not that I don't believe in our own beauty. We have ancient abbeys, too, with cathedrals, castles ... and of course, a great deal of rough, wild landscape as well."
"The cathedral is magnificent," she told him smiling. "But... it is no finer than our Westminster Abbey." "Southwark does not compare to this," he told her. "You've seen Southwark?" "Aye." He gazed at her, smiling. "But you've not seen such great places close to your own home. In the borders, you'll find the greatest treasures. We've the abbeys of Jedburgh, Kelso, Melrose, and Dryburgh. They rise with incredible grace from a countryside filled with soft fields, high hills, wild, desolate moors, with the North Sea to the side, and the sky above. They are grand, my lady, as fine as any, and no warfare or ruin can take from them the beauty of what they are. I've seen your England. Aye, great places such as the castle at York, the tower in London."
"Well, there, sir, you'll see my point. The great tower in London is spectacular. And King Edward has ordered very handsome castles—" "Strong cascades—to keep the Welsh from ever reclaiming Wales, to reinforce the troops he sends out to all corners of the island to subdue a land that does not belong to him, to enslave a people who do not owe him homage." She couldn't help but feel a surge of loyalty, a determination to defend her homeland. But when she looked at him, she saw that his eyes carried a gray cast to match the darkness of his mood. She lost the desire to argue. Especially when he offered her a wry, weary smile, and said, "England and Scotland are both quite beautiful. Admit that is a grand cathedral, striking and beautiful, as fine as we—either of us—have seen," he said softly, his gaze touching on her.
She smiled. "It is a grand cathedral," she said. "As fine as either of us has ever seen." "You'll probably be married there, my lady," he said, spurring his horse, and moving on. Before they reached King Philip's palace, another escort arrived to meet them. Eleanor was startled when she realized that Alain de Lacville was among the men riding to bring them to the palace. Their party came to a halt. He rode forward. Alain rode well. For all his years, he sat straight in the saddle, tall and proud. His features, though deeply grooved, were fine and lean. His eyes were deep set, dark brown, and he had a full head of wavy silver hair. He was dressed in his heraldic colors, and a squire rode behind him, carrying his banner. He met Breslieu, Wallace, Brendan, and Eric, at the lead of the party, and she saw that he smiled, and welcomed all of them warmly, listening to something Wallace said, then looking at Brendan, and embracing him once again, before taking his hand in a firm clasp. Then he moved on, coming to her horse. He gallantly bowed to her, and took her hands, searching her face, as if he feared for her health. "My dear, sweet Eleanor! Welcome, my lady, you fall under my most devoted protection here. I pray that you are well."
"Exceedingly," she said softly. Her heart seemed to catch in her throat. He would marry her to rescue her. She had spoken of the time when they reached Paris; but she had been betraying him all along. And yet ... She ached. She loved Alain. A good, dear friend. She was in love with Brendan, and that love would haunt her all her life. "It's been a long journey for you. A very long journey. Come. There will be warmth and sustenance at the palace, where you will stay, until our wedding." And so the party rode again, to the palace. Grooms and servants were everywhere to assist them.
"You'll have time in your quarters, my dear, and then you'll meet the king," Alain told her, escorting her. She turned back, looking for Brendan. She couldn't see him in the bustle of activity in the yard. "Eleanor? Is there something you need, someone ..." "No, no. I'm fine." The ladies trailed behind him as he led her into the palace. It was magnificent as well. High arches, gleaming stone entries, tapestries of embroidered Sicilian silk. As they moved through a long hall and up a single flight of steps, Eleanor realized the importance Alain must hold with the French king. They reached a grand set of double doors, and Alain pushed them open. The chamber was spacious. A large bed was set on a dais covered in silk. The hearth extended half the length of the wall. There was an elegant mirror above a chest, a curtained antechamber, and windows that looked out on an inner courtyard.
"Rest, my dear," Alain told her. He lifted her chin, studying her eyes. "My poor child. Your father... well, he had different plans for you. I was so sorry to hear of his death. And you! The chances you have taken, dear, dear, child. Please remember, I am your friend, have been your friend. I would not hurt you for the world." She touched his face. "I would not hurt you, sir." She had already done so! she thought. Even if he never knew. But God, he could not know how in hurting him, she had scarred her own soul. "My lady, oh, my lady, Eleanor!" Bridie suddenly came bursting in from the antechamber. With no ceremony, she threw her arms around Eleanor. "Bridie!" Eleanor said, and hugged her in return. "Oh, I was so afraid for you, so very, very afraid! But then, I must say, upon the ship where they kept me, the Scotsmen were the kindest of captors, polite, and courteous, to a maid such as myself! And I tell you, of course, I did give them all a piece of my mind, as soon as I ceased to be terrified for my life. Why even that rogue pirate was a decent fellow, and I had thought ... oh, I had thought all manner of things ..."
"Which might have occurred, if it hadn't been for young Graham," Alain said, interrupting Bridie. "Such dangers at sea ... and I had feared only rough waters. Ah, well, you're here now, and that is what matters." "That is what matters," Eleanor repeated. "Oh, my lady—" Bridie began again. "I will leave you to rest and refresh, and return in a few hours time to bring you to the king," Alain said, interrupting quickly. He kissed her forehead, and departed. The door closed. "Oh! Eleanor, to have you in my sight again," Bridie went on. "Will you forgive me if I a
dmit that even Wallace was a decent man? You cannot imagine the languages he knows, and how charming he can be—oh, forgive me, but he did quiz me about Clarin, and he told me that such actions were not his. Oh, not that he did not admit to brutality! But he claims never to have ravaged a town in a manner to slaughter women and children and innocents, and oh! He did lock men in a barn to burn, but they were soldiers sent to trap him, but he was warned of the trap ... and oh, dear, you look exhausted; we'll summon a bath, a very hot bath, with steaming water to ease your sore bones ..."
"That will be lovely, Bridie." "You are well? The scoundrels didn't hurt you?" "I am amazingly well." "Oh, my lady, I have to tell you. There was a seaman, a young fellow named Lars. He's a Douglas, though, Norse mother, Scottish father, and he ... well, he took my breath quite away. I was almost sorry to come to Paris, to part... do you think he is here now, that he rode in with Wallace?" ' 'Perhaps, there were a few in the party I did not know well. Yes, I think one might have been Lars," Eleanor said, amused, and loving Bridie, and grateful to see her, but so very exhausted and heart-weary "I shall send for the bath." "Please." "The water will soothe you." Nothing will ever soothe me! she thought.
King Philip, for all his beliefs in his God-given rights, did not make them wait. Brendan had thought they would adjourn to their quarters, but the king was ready to see them straight upon their arrival, so he and Eric joined Wallace as they entered the king's private council chamber. They were all clad in their highland garb, no mail worn beneath tunics or tabards, just their swords at their sides and their knives at their calves. They approached Philip with the courtesy due a king, but he quickly bade them rise, and greeted them in an affectionate manner, immediately calling for wine and sustenance, and sitting with them at a table before the great fire that burned in the room. He was a striking man, tall, with an appearance of being slender, yet there was substance to him, and he knew the art of warfare. He was interested in events in Scotland, and listened as Wallace spoke, assuring Philip that the Scottish spirit never broke, despite the fact that his army had been decimated at Falkirk.
Philip, in turn, explained his current position, his latest treaty with Edward. Naturally, under such circumstances, he couldn't offer troops. They were, of course, always welcome at his court, he'd naturally arranged a meeting with John Balliol, or "King John," as the guardians of Scodand continued to refer to him, and if he could offer supplies or comfort in any way, he was pleased to do so. Brendan watched as Philip spoke, and thought again that all the world played the game in the most expedient way; Philip spoke in excellent terms, but gave them nothing. He thought that this voyage had been in vain, that they had been better off waging their forest wars against the supply wagons of the English in Scotland. In the midst of winter, most of the roads to the north were all but impassable, and whatever English goods passed through the lowlands were usually ripe for the taking.
"You've done me great service, as usual," Philip told them. "It is to my greatest sorrow that I cannot do more. Now, as to the pirate Thomas de Longueville ..." Despite whatever disappointments Wallace must be feeling, he leaned forward as he spoke in defense of the pirate. "De Longueville is a French loyalist at heart, your Grace. He has spent his years upon the sea in pursuit of your enemies. He wearies, however, of the status of a thief of the sea, and humbly asks your pardon."
"I'm assuming he is ready to share his largesse with his liege?" Philip inquired. "Indubitably," Wallace assured him. "And what of the greatest prize aboard the pirate ship?" Philip demanded. "As you are aware, Count Alain de Lacville is one of my most trusted advisers, and a knight without whom many a past campaign would have failed." "He never would have brought harm to the lass," Wallace assured the king. At that, Brendan lowered his head, remembering all that de Longueville had told them. Would he have realized the importance of Count De Lacville and sought a greater reward from him? Or might Eleanor have disappeared?
Philip stared straight at him then. "You are the man who seized the pirate ship?" "Aye." "What is your assessment of de Longueville?" "An interesting fellow." "Would he have harmed the Lady Eleanor?" Brendan weighed his answer. "He has taken down many an English ship. One does not do so without a measure of violence. I saw his manner of battle, and he would kill in a fight, aye, but I'm sure he had no intention of taking a sword to the lady." "That's not what I meant." ' 'I believe that his desire to most humbly beg your pardon is sincere. As to what a man might have done ... Sire, I am in no position to say."
"Thank God, then, that you took the lady into your care." "Aye, thank God," Eric murmured solemnly, but his irony was not lost on Brendan. "He has taken and hidden many great prizes throughout the years, and he is willing to give these all to your greater glory," Wallace said. "And to my coffers, emptied by warfare?" Philip inquired wryly. "Precisely," Brendan said. Wallace lifted his hands. "We all know that war is costly."
"I will take the matter of de Longueville into deep thought, but he seems a worthy man to receive forgiveness from his king. You must be weary. Take your leisure for the night. Tomorrow evening, we will celebrate the betrothal of de Lacville and his lady. You will, of course, attend?" "Naturally," Wallace said. ' 'Your Grace,'' Brendan said, leaning forward quickly before they were dismissed, "I would have a word with Count de Lacville, if I may." "He is eternally grateful, owing a debt of gratitude to the lady's father, as well, I believe," the king said. "He intends to thank you—" "It isn't his thanks I seek—" "I'm sure he intends a magnificent reward—" "Nor a reward—" "We will take a reward," Wallace interrupted sternly. "Warfare is expensive," Eric reminded politely. "I simply crave a word with him." "You'll find him in the knights' hall, the blue chamber," Philip advised, "for whatever matter lies between you." "Aye," Wallace said, eyeing him sternly, grinding his teeth.
"Do you care to divulge what affair this is?" "I fear for the lady, that is all, your Grace," Brendan said. He thought that Wallace audibly sighed, and he wondered if his mentor hadn't been afraid that he had gone entirely mad, and meant to bare his heart and soul to the lady's would-be husband. "The pirate swears he was paid in the port of Liverpool to find the lady, and see that she did not reach France, nor return to England."
"The English! Ever devious," Philip said, relishing the evil of his enemies. "But do you think it's true?" "If so, I fear the danger." "I ask again, would the pirate have harmed her?" Philip demanded. "Your Grace, the pirate is a businessman. I believe he willingly pocketed the money paid him, with the full intent to simply ask de Lacville for an even greater ransom."
"Good business is not a sin," Philip murmured, "while the English ... Go, and tell my friend de Lacville of this, and warn him he must guard his lady most carefully."
"That is, indeed, my intent," Brendan said.
Alain de Lacville was a man Brendan both liked and admired. They had first met on the field of battle, when he had arrived with Wallace, following the loss at Falkirk. William, despite his passionate belief that one day the people and the nobles of Scotland would rise in union against the English, was a realist.
Realizing his army was lost, he had immediately turned to ancient allies for support. In France, there had been no better way to cultivate the good will of the French king than to take up arms with him against the English.
De Lacville had been leading French troops as they stormed a fortification. Brendan had seen a weakness in a wall, and the French count had been more than willing to listen to the plans of others. Brendan had led a surge against the weak point, and they had prevailed. He and de Lacville had gained an instant recognition of one another at that time. He felt a fondness for the old knight, injured a dozen times over, loyal, courteous, pious, and never lacking in courage. His quest to warn de Lacville of the danger Eleanor did not accept as very real was important to him, yet as well, he was earnest to see the man.
To assure himself that de Lacville's age and injuries would keep him from being a husband as well? he queried himself as he traversed the halls of the palace. Ay
e, that as well. He had been a fool. He had known from the beginning the ultimate end of this relationship. The burning he felt now was an anguish he had brought upon himself. There was no other way for this to finish. If he were to attempt to abduct the lady, he'd be quickly arrested and most probably beheaded. He would destroy his own people, destroy Wallace, everything they had fought for, died for. He had vowed himself that he would never cease to fight—until Scotland was free.
Nor did he have the right, for Eleanor's own cause was determined. She meant to marry de Lacville; she was a countess, and strongly passionate for her own land. He had no right to interfere with her desire to uphold her betrothal, and live the life of a noblewoman in her home—ravaged by his people.
De Lacville was stepping from his room as Brendan arrived, but the old man was quick to greet him with an embrace and words of gratitude.
"I am in your debt, and of course, sir, plan to make what earthly compensation I can!" de Lacville told him, encouraging him to enter, and join him for wine from his own estates. Brendan did so politely, sipping the wine, but he was beginning to get a headache; he longed for a long swallow of cool ale from his homeland.
"What compensation you would make, sir, is not necessary, but I have been informed by my fellow outlawed and impoverished Scots that on behalf of my country, I am to accept it."
"It will be given in the best spirit," de Lacville assured him.
The count's apartment at the palace was rich. Tapestried, warm, with a great hearth of stone and marble, and a long window, covered now, but which must look out on the great cathedral of Notre Dame de Paris. The coverings on the bed were fine, embroidered with infinite detail. He looked away.
"I didn't come here for reward, sir—"
"You would not do so."
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