Seize The Dawn

by Drake, Shannon

  Then he lifted her again, and set her on the horse once more.

  It was time to ride.

  "They've a huge siege engine," Gregory reported to Brendan. Fast, agile, and wily, he had been sent to observe the movement of Fitzgerald's column.

  Brendan had been busy giving commands for the defense of the walls. He had seen that quivers of arrows were counted and dispersed, and oil had been set in cauldrons to be burned, and that the last of the people living on the outer farms and homesteads of the parish were drawn into the relative safety of the outer walls, bringing with them their children, their animals, their most prized possessions.

  "A huge engine ... a catapult?" Brendan queried.

  "Aye," Gregory agreed.

  Brendan thought for a moment, aware that such a war machine could send flaming missiles into the castle, destroying them from within rather than without.

  "The walls are weakest here," he said to Corbin, pointing, "And there."

  "Aye, I'll see that the oil is ready for any who would ram the fortifications," Corbin assured him.

  "What are you planning?" Gregory asked.

  "To dig a few holes. Eric!" he called to his cousin across the field.

  Eric, setting up the positions for the longbow men, came to him quickly.

  "I'm riding out, taking a party of men, to destroy the road," Brendan said. "They'll bog down with their catapult, and buy time for us. Wallace has taken a group of men around the eastern side of the forest; they can inflict some heavy damage from the woods, especially if we can create a noose around the English in the road."

  Corbin had come to their group as they spoke.

  "I might be more useful riding with you. I'm trained for combat, far more deft with a sword than you might imagine, and good in battle; many of your men are not."

  He hesitated, watching the man. Corbin of Clarin had proved to be more than a model prisoner; he had chosen to stay. And though he wanted to trust Eleanor's kinsman, he had learned to be wary of even his own countrymen.

  But there was no question of Corbin coming with them.

  "You're an Englishman," he said. "If the rest of us are caught and taken, we stand some chance of ransom or prison. You would be inflicted with dire punishment; enough to wish that you were dead."

  Corbin shook his head. "You think you stand any chance against Fitzgerald, any more than I? No, my friend, they will but cut your bowels with a duller knife, and do it more slowly."

  "Still, you're needed here. You have defended such a fortification before."

  That he was necessary inside the walls was a lie. He knew the truth, even as Brendan spoke. But the lie was what would I be, and Corbin knew it too.

  "You will miss my sword arm," he said.

  "I believe I will," Brendan agreed.

  Corbin turned back to the task he had been assigned, and soon, Brendan was riding with a group of men from the castle walls. Deep into the south where the road was most heavily surrounded by forest, he called a halt. He thanked God for the spring rains that had already rendered the poor road treacherous and muddy. He called a halt, and his party of twenty men— farmers many, those who knew how to turn the earth, began to dig. Within an hour, they had created a gully that would bog down not just a siege engine, but many a heavy horse and rider as well. The Scots, knowing every small trail through the forests, would not face the same trap as the English, for he sent Gregory in search of Wallace with the new plan, and knew that the wily strategist would bring his forces up behind Fitzgerald's raiders.

  The farmers were sent back to the safety of the castle. Brendan left the walls again, aware that the English were very close to the trap. Eric stayed behind, in command of the defenses behind the walls. Corbin would work with him.

  Liam rode with Brendan, ready to flank his efforts on left and right.

  In time, they saw the English army approaching. From a distance, it appeared that Fitzgerald rode in front. He was heavily armored that day, a helm hid his face, but he wore his colors, and at his rear, his squire carried his standard.

  The first horse rode through the woods. From his vantage point in the trees, Brendan watched them near the gully. He calculated the distance between the first riders and the catapult being dragged through the trees by a team of six heavy draft horses. The catapult was a lethal looking weapon, and a merciless one, for properly aimed, a missile sent from it could destroy walls—and flesh and bone. Yet, he thought, it was good that Fitzgerald had thought to bring such a weapon; the transportation of it had surely slowed him down, giving Robert Bruce time to warn them of the attack.

  "They're nearly there," Liam said quiedy, his voice just carrying from across the road. He rode the branch as if it were a horse; ready with his bow and arrow.

  Brendan nodded. "Aim for Fitzgerald. The throat."

  "Aye, Brendan."

  The riders came closer. Brendan narrowed his eyes, and saw then that the man wearing Fitzgerald's colors and riding in the position that should justly be his was not the English baron.

  Fitzgerald had prepared for an ambush. He had sent another in his stead.

  Brendan swore softy to himself.

  "Brendan—it's not Fitzgerald."

  "I know. Take him down anyway; the horses will soon flounder."

  Liam sent out the first arrow. His aim was true, and the man clutched his throat before falling from his horse in such sudden silence that he hit the ground before others realized the danger.

  Brendan motioned with his hand. More arrows began to fly in a coordinated rain. The arrows soared, whispered against the wind, and fell.

  "Now!" Brendan shouted, and the men chosen to harry the army emerged from the trees, some rushing onto the road with fierce cries, others falling from the trees like spiders skimming down webs. Horses screamed and shrieked; there was a mighty thud as the catapult careened into the deep muddy groove in the road, then Brendan heard little else above the clash of steel that arose around them. He gave his attention to each enemy he faced.

  In a copse a good distance from the battle, Miles Fitzgerald > stood beside his horse, listening to the sounds of the battle. One of his men came riding hard to find him. "There was an ambush?" Fitzgerald said, but it was hardly a question.

  "Aye, as you expected, yet worse. We've lost the catapult"

  "Lost it?'' Fitzgerald inquired in a voice with such a hard edge it was difficult for even the messenger to reply.

  "Cracked hard into the mud," the messenger replied. "It would take days to pull it out, and ... days to repair it."

  "A sorry loss," Fitzgerald said irritably.

  "We've lost scores of men in the mud as well," the messenger said.

  "Thank God, then, that I did not ride at the fore," he murmured. Then he told his man, "Go back; keep your distance. Whatever is lost, see that the horse surrounds the walls. They may keep a distance, but be obvious to those in the castle."

  "Aye, sir." The messenger hesitated.

  "What is it?"

  ' 'The men believed you would take command once the initial fighting was over."

  "That had been my intent. The situation has changed. Sir Roger Lawton will lead in my stead; tell him so, and give him my orders that he must be seen from the parapets."

  "Aye, sir. And then?"

  "And then?" Fitzgerald said irritably. "And then I will return, and he will receive further orders."

  "But sir—"

  "I will ride north, and capture those who intended to escape our righteous mission," he said. "Go!"

  When the messenger had departed, he signaled another man to emerge from the tent he'd erected in the copse. The fellow was Dirk of Pawley. He had served the king for a time, in the tower of London, until too much drink had cost him his work.

  No matter. Fitzgerald had known a true artist when he had seen one.

  Dirk was nearly as broad as he was tall, but his weight was muscle. He'd lost an eye in a tavern brawl, and a patch of his scalp was missing as well. He was uglier tha
n sin; the broader

  his smile, the uglier the man. He smiled a lot. He liked his work.

  "Bring him out," Fitzgerald said.

  Dirk nodded, and returned to the tent, dragging out the man a group of riders had caught in the woods that morning. There had been something familiar about the young man, who seemed to have a talent for talking and charm. He'd spoken poorly, pretended that his French was bad, and that he was a simple farmer, cast from his desolate lands by the extent of warfare, and looking for nothing other than an evening meal.

  But Fitzgerald knew he'd seen the man before, among other young men taken from the northern tenant lands to train for battle. His first thought had been to string up the lad from the next available tree. Dirk would have been glad to manage a noose that would strangle the man to death slowly, rather than breaking his neck; a good end to a traitor. Dirk was a good man to have, he knew.

  Just as King Edward knew that Fitzgerald himself made a fine sheriff, a servant in the king's name. Edward thought of himself as a great hammer of justice. A hammer of justice needed men who were not afraid to use force themselves.

  The captive was not so cheerful and charming now. He couldn't walk; Dirk literally dragged him by the scruff of his neck. The hold must have been painful; the fellow could no longer cry out.

  Dirk dropped the man. Fitzgerald stepped forward, picking him up by the hair. "Once again; the lady is no longer in the caste?"

  There was no response. Fitzgerald frowned, and kicked the man in the ribs. Again, no response.

  He shook his head, looking at Dirk. "You've killed him already," he said with annoyance.

  Dirk shrugged. "He talked. He said what you needed to know."

  "I would have liked to assure myself that his words were true."

  "I promise you; when he spoke, his words were true," Dirk said. "What shall I do with him?"

  ' 'Throw him on the road,'' Fitzgerald said dismissively.' 'Let him be a warning to any other would-be traitors."

  Dirk hefted the man, carrying him through the woods like a carcass. Still south of the action, he threw the man into the mud. Fitzgerald had mounted when he returned. "To horse, man," he said impatiently.

  He let out a long whistle.

  The ten men he had picked to ride with him gathered from their hiding places within the woods. Two could play at such a game of warfare.

  "Northward, and at as fast a clip as we dare. There is open field between the castle and the next passable road. We bypass die ditches through the routes learned from the traitor."

  Horses stamped their feet; his men nodded their agreement.

  A good lot he had chosen, he thought. They were all from his own holdings; men with much to lose if they betrayed him or faltered in any way, and much to gain if they fulfilled their quest. Some of them had been with him when Sir Brendan Graham delivered his humiliation upon them at the stream on the road to London. They would be thirsting for vengeance as well.

  "Speed matters," he said. "Don't fear the open ground; the other flank of our forces will keep die Scots busy at their walls."

  He turned, now ready to lead.

  He could almost taste a victory that would be incredibly sweet—and rewarding. And he might have lost it all...

  His reckoning had been wrong.

  But now ...

  Now he knew where she was. And he could almost see the

  stature that her capture would give him, taste the importance his name would take on ...

  They fought until the advance troops lay on the road along with the fallen catapult; then, when the rearguard began to swarm around the obstruction, they began their retreat to the castle walls. They could hear shouts of surprise when Wallace's men began attacking from behind, and they made good their hard ride back to the castle.

  Eric saw their advance, ordered the gates thrown open, and when the last of their number made it through the gates, they were quickly closed again.

  Brendan shouted out orders, racing up the steps to the parapets. They saw the troops advance and disperse around the front of the fortification. Riders surged forward, but as the first hail of arrows rained, a large group fell; those who made it closer were met with the boiling oil. They retreated; hovering at the edge of the forest.

  They didn't ride forward again.

  The Scots at the castle waited, tense, ready. The riders came no closer.

  "What are they doing?" Eric asked. "Awaiting reinforcements?"

  "Maybe," Brendan said.

  They watched; they waited. The English held their distance.

  Night fell.

  On the parapets, they continued to keep guard. The English seemed to have settled in for the night.

  "If this is a siege, it's the most curious siege I've seen," Eric murmured.

  "There's something else curious," Brendan said.

  "What's that?"

  "Fitzgerald has been missing from all this."

  Corbin had come to stand with them as they stared out at the line of opposition. The English had lit fires, and appeared to be bedding down for the night at the edge of the forest. They were easy to see; they remained at a distance.

  "How can you be certain Fitzgerald isn't there? He isn't wearing his colors; he doesn't want to be seen," Corbin said.

  Brendan shook his head. "He isn't there. He wasn't in the lead with his men; we were on foot with the front guard, hand to hand. He was not among them."

  "He is cowering behind all those forces," Eric suggested.

  Suddenly, Corbin pointed beyond the gates. "Look, there! A lone rider, one of ours!"

  It was true; Brendan saw a horseman, dead low against his animal, rushing for the gates. He carried no standard, but Brendan recognized the tunic he wore.

  "One of Bruce's men," he said briefly. He was amazed; it had been a feat of true courage for the rider to brazen his way through the English line with speed alone. Indeed, he was followed by an awkward, uncoordinated spate of arrows; each flew, and missed its mark, but struck the ground dangerously near the horse and rider. "The gates!" he roared. "Open the gates!"

  A shout had gone up among the English; a group hastily mounted their horses to come in chase, perhaps hoping to rush the gates as well, though it would be a foolish attack, since there was no time for the men to organize.

  "Archers!" Brendan cried, running down the ramparts and grabbing a bow and arrow himself, taking aim over the form of the man now spurring his horse desperately to reach the opening gates.

  Brendan let his arrow fly. He was not the archer Liam was, but his missile flew true, catching the first of the Englishmen in the chest. The man had opted for speed rather than safety.

  He wore no mail or armor. He was lifted cleanly from his horse, and left in the mud.

  A hail of arrows flew from the parapets. The night came alive with the sound of screams and shouts of agony.

  The rider entered through the gates. The gates closed behind him.

  Brendan ran down from the parapets, eager to meet the man who had dared brave such a treacherous ride.

  In the courtyard, the man's horse stood, trembling, foaming. The man instantly leaped from his horse. Brendan saw that it was the Brace's rider, Griffin.

  He was breathless, but strode with hurried purpose to Brendan.

  "I've news from Wallace," he said quickly.

  "Wallace?" Brendan said, startled, frowning. He set a hand on Griffin's shoulder. "He is well? He was to harry the rearguard, and retreat with his men into the trees."

  "Aye, and that he did. Sir William is fine." He drew a breath. "The Brace gave me orders to observe what I could—" He hesitated, and shrugged, "give what aid possible if needed ..."

  "Aye, but keep the name of Brace out of this skirmish, eh?" Brendan said quiedy.

  "I joined with Wallace from the rear, and was with him when he found your man."

  "What man?"

  "Gregory of Clarin. They came upon him half dead in the road, but he was desperate to speak. He met with
some torture at the hands of a talented master and was left for dead. His lips were swollen, his teeth having gone through them, but he was determined to let Wallace know his deep sorrow—he told Fitzgerald everything he knew about your defenses. And die fact that Lady Eleanor was not here, but had been sent on with a large party."

  Brendan stared at Griffin, feeling as if his life's blood fled from him.

  "What?" he demanded harshly, the wind seemed to rush in his ears.

  "Fitzgerald has been no part of the attack, and never was. He avoided the front, afraid you'd have an ambush. And when he discovered the truth, he skirted the forest, using the battle to cover his movements. He doesn't care if his men ever take the castle." He hesitated just long enough to catch his breath.

  "Sir Brendan, Miles Fitzgerald has gone straight for the Lady Eleanor. And he is now hours ahead of any possible pursuit."

  Chapter 21

  "We'll stop here for the night," Collum announced.

  Eleanor wasn't at all sure where "here" was, for it seemed that Collum had chosen nothing more than a place in the middle of the road, surrounded by trees and darkness. Though distraught at leaving, she had not found the ride unpleasant—the landscape was beautiful. They had ridden for hours once they left the fortification, stopping only once to water the horses, and then riding again, if not at a breakneck speed, with steady determination.

  They had passed through beautiful countryside, hills and vales that rolled gently, filled with glorious colors. Heaths had seemed the color of royal purple, carpeted in wild flowers; the ( forests they passed were heavy and rich with deep greens. They had traveled through mud, as well—sticky black and brown, but in all, the sun had broken through trees, then it had begun to set, and the colors changed all over again, cast into the gentle shades of the coming night.