Toward dusk, Brendan arrived in their room. He closed the door behind him, and walked slowly to the fire.
She watched him. "Isn't it time to be leaving?" she asked softy.
"Soon," he said.
There was a tap at the door. He walked to it, as if expecting the summons. When he opened it, the woman Joanna was there with a tray and two goblets of wine. He thanked her and closed the door, and brought the tray to set on the stool before the fire.
"Brendan, we need to be leaving—"
"Soon," he said softly. "Come here."
He sat in the large carved chair before the fire and when she approached, he caught her hand, drawing her to him. He pulled her down on his lap, and stroked her cheek, his eyes curiously intent as he studied her features.
"Why are we going by dusk?" she asked.
"We needed the day," he said simply.
"Alfred may be dead already—"
"Don't think that way."
He lifted the wine, offering it. She sipped it, studying him. He didn't care much for wine, but preferred ale.
"Brendan, perhaps ..."
"There's time. We're waiting to see if Robert Bruce will, or will not, ride with us."
"Do you think he will come?"
"I don't know. If he does, we ride with a large number of men, and we are not immediate outdraws the minute we cross the border."
"And if he does not?"
He shrugged. "We make it to Clarin anyway. Finish your wine," he added softly. She did so, handing him the goblet. He studied her intend again, then kissed her, his lips oddly tight but coercive.
"I do love you."
"I know. You are riding to Clarin."
A single tie laced the front of her tunic. His fingers wound around it. They brushed her flesh over the soft linen beneath it. She caught his fingers.
"We have to leave."
"There's time."
"Brendan—"
"Time together, alone, is precious. We've learned that." He brushed her hand aside, continuing to tug at the lacing. The hot calloused feel of his fingers brushed her flesh. She swallowed at the surge of warmth that seemed to sweep her so very instantly.
"Brendan—"
"Make love to me," he said intently.
He stood, lifting her with him. A moment later, all her careful dressing preparations for the ride were strewn on the floor by the side of the bed. His plaid lay upon them. The searing arousal of his flesh touched her, yet he rose over her, eyes still so intent as he studied her face, his manner serious, strangely wistful.
"I do love you."
"I know."
"I do what I do ... because I love you," he said.
She smiled and touched his face.
"I know."
"For your life," he whispered.
"Brendan
But his mouth downed upon hers then, and his kiss lingered long and hard, with the stroke of his touch, the thrust of his movement. He cradled her gently, yet made love with a fierce vigor. She saw his face, the passion, something else ...
Stars seemed to dance in the firelight. She rose to meet him, moved with him, clung to him. The sweetness of their climax seemed to wrap around them like a blanket of molten steel; she clung to him, lay down with him ...
Later, she woke with a start.
For a moment, she was completely disoriented. Then she remembered. They were to leave. She had been ready, but...
She rolled over. She lay in bed, naked.
Brendan was gone.
She looked to the side of his bed. The plaid was gone. Her clothing remained.
She leaped out of bed, heedless of her wildly tangled hair, stumbled into her clothing, and raced to the door.
It didn't budge. She was locked in. She stared at it in amazement for a moment, then rushed to the window that led to the balcony and parapets.
It was day.
And the balcony was not unguarded. Thomas de LonguevUle sat on a bench outside, reading. He looked up when he saw her. "By a Frenchman," he told her.
"Thomas, what are you doing on my balcony?"
"Seeing to it that you don't seek to escape."
"How long have they been gone?"
"Nearly a day."
"Thomas, you should rot in hell for being a part of this."
"Oh, Lady Eleanor! This is one of my good deeds," he said cheerfully. "I'll rot in hell for many others!"
"Thomas, you'll always be a pirate!" she told him angrily.
He smiled. "Thank you!"
She let out an oath of aggravation and returned to the room, furious. How could Brendan have done this to her.
And she knew.
He feared the danger for her in England. She knew ... she understood...
And she was all the more afraid for him, and worried to be with him.
She burst through the draperies to the larger bedroom next to the lady's chamber, thinking perhaps they had not thought to bar her way out from there.
Margot sat in front of the fire, calmly sewing. She looked up at Eleanor.
"They're long, long gone," she said softly.
"But—"
"It's very, very, dangerous for you to go to England now."
"It is my battle, though, Margot—"
"If it is your battle, it is his as well. Let him fight this one for you."
"But what if Bruce didn't ride to meet him? He'll be an outlaw alone in enemy territory—"
"He will come back to you," Margot said.
"How can you always be so certain?" Eleanor cried.
"Practice," Margot told her, and looked serenely back to her task. "And because he loves you," she added softly.
They waited at the juncture of the road from the southwest, their horses pawing the ground, too much time going by.
"Robert Bruce will not come," Eric said. "He has given us all the help he dares—while keeping his position with the king."
Brendan was about to agree; it had been futile to hope that Robert Bruce would come. He was in far too deep with King Edward at this time. Newly married, his personal papers of fealty and truce so newly signed.
But that was just why he must come. With him at their side, the pretext of their visit would work, and no man would be in danger.
"There!" Liam cried suddenly. "There! Horses. I see them— the Bruce rides with us!"
Brendan watched as the horses neared them, as he saw the colors of Carrick ... and Robert Bruce himself, riding at the fore.
Brendan rode forward to meet him. He was grave. ' 'Thank you for coming."
"We're not going to war; just to pay a visit upon English lands not far from those that belong to my own family," Bruce said.
He had been called a traitor many times.
And many times, he could have turned the tide for the Scottish cause.
But today, he rode his horse in his colors, his banner borne by a squire, and his jaw was set. The same age as Wallace, he was a different leader. Born to be nobility.
Born to be a king? Brendan wondered.
"Aye, Bruce, that is the plan," Brendan explained.
"I've written to the king as you requested, telling of this plot, and to the queen as well, hoping she will intercede. She is very young, grave in her duty, and of course, sister to Philip of France, who holds you in great regard."
"I will be grateful for whatever steps she takes to see that my wife is cleared of any charge of murder."
"She has married a Scottish outlaw; he will never let her hold the property."
"The property is no matter; it is the charge of murder we want set right."
"A just enough cause," Bruce said. "And this charade you've planned ... I rather like it. Will you don my colors now? Or later, when we come closer to Clarin?"
They approached Clarin by early morning; the blast of a horn announcing the arrival of a rich and powerful man, the train of the troops stretching behind them.
Naturally, a guard rode out quickly from Clarin to greet them; the colors
of Bruce, a great landholder in England as well as in Scotland, were well known—as was Edward's recent, necessary agreement with the possible claimant to the Scottish throne. The gates of Clarin opened even as they rode close.
The horses clattered through the gateway.
From the main entrance to the tower, Isobel appeared.
She was a stunning woman with her dark hair, regal bearing, and delicate features. She walked straight to Robert Bruce, dropping a low curtsy.
"My Lord Bruce—"
"You know me, madam?" he inquired.
"Of course. I am Isobel of Clarin, all who can greet you here, I fear. Still you are welcome. Do you travel to London? I beg of you, quench your thirst in our hall."
She indicated the open door, and followed behind him. Corbin, Brendan, and Eric, clad in mail and Bruce colors, and helms, followed.
Robert Bruce wasted no time. Even as Isobel called to servants for wine and food, he demanded.
"Where is the master of the castle?"
"The master, sir?" she said sorrowfully. "I am afraid we are in woeful trouble here. The lady by right, Eleanor, poisoned her poor dear husband. She was to be taken to London for trial, but the king's man, his sheriff, was seized by—" here she hesitated, then continued, "Scottish outlaws. She has fled to the north, with her lover, I'm afraid. But the sheriff has gone after her even now. And my husband ..." she pretended a soft, controlled sob, "was taken with ho-. Alfred, who manages here, was just in a terrible accident. His saddle... broke. While he was riding. He lies abed upstairs right now. Ah, the wine and food come."
Servants had come, with a quickly prepared feast Isobel had truly yearned to be lady here, Brendan mused. She had ordered the repast as soon as she had seen Bruce's colors on the riders, while they were still far away.
"The food will wait."
"Your pardon, Lord Bruce? You are truly welcome here. I know that you have made your peace with King Edward, Lord Bruce, and though I am so nearly mourning ... I believe that Corbin is dead now. He was surely slain by the outlaws. Sir Miles Fitzgerald has indeed given me hope, and yet Corbin is so honor bound to his kin. He will defend Eleanor, you see, even knowing that she must have been her husband's killer."
"Where is Alfred of Clarin now?" Bruce demanded.
"Upstairs, where I am tending to him. Come."
Their identities still well hidden beneath the Bruce helmet, Brendan, Eric, and Corbin followed Isobel up the stairs. She opened the door to a room.
Alfred was in bed, looking ashen. "His leg is broken, I'm afraid. It was a terrible accident when he was thrown. His horse never frightens, but that day ..."
"You've been treating him, of course," Brace demanded.
"I would allow no other one to tend my dearest brother-in- law. If my own poor husband is dead ..."
"But your own husband is not dead, Isobel," Corbin said, stepping forward and removing his helm.' 'And if you so much as touch my brother again, I'll skin you alive!"
Isobel stared at him in horror. By then, Brendan and Eric had removed their helms as well. Isobel's cheeks sucked in with the horrified O she made of her mouth.
Then she gathered herself together, backing away from Corbin. "What is this mockery of justice?" she demanded.
"No mockery, madam," Brace said. "I've come to escort you to London—along with Sir Miles, who has told us all about a very lengthy and lavish plan to rule these lands together."
"Aye, dear wife," Corbin said. "He has told us quite a bit—about the two of you."
Isobel stared at him, and must have realized in terror that she was truly caught.
She argued at first. "Whatever he has said to make you heathens spare his life is surely a lie. The king will never believe the word of a traitor who deserted her country for a Scottish outlaw, against the word of his own sheriff."
"He might just. There are five of his men who will swear to the fair treatment Fitzgerald received at our hands—and the merciless end he meant for Eleanor," Brendan told her.
She made a mad dash across the room.
It was Brendan who sprinted after her, capturing her before she could hurl herself from the window to the pavement below.
She scratched and clawed him.
"Oh, no, madam," he told her. "You will go to London. And answer for Alain de LacvUle!"
"You!" she hissed. "You are—the priest, no, the treacherous, filthy Scot, you bastard!" she raged.
She started clawing at him. Corbin pulled her away, drawing her hands behind her back, where he tied them none too gently.
Then Eric came and took her arm. ' 'We do want her to stand trial" he told Corbin. "I'll see that she is taken to the other prisoners, and made ready to ride."
Corbin nodded.' 'I have some talking to do with my brother,'' he said softly. He looked at Bruce. "If your physicians will attend him first... ?"
That afternoon, they rode from Clarin. Robert Bruce would take his men south. Brendan's party would ride home.
He had thought that Corbin might want to remain at Clarin, but with Alfred in true healing hands, he intended to ride with them.
"This never was my property, and Alfred manages so very well. I'm coming back. To Scotland."
"What of Isobel?"
"She will meet the king's justice. I believe I'll be granted a divorce."
They stayed long enough to eat the meal Isobel had prepared for their coming. Then they departed once again.
Two days later, as they neared the castle, Brendan wondered just what the extent of his wife's fury would be.
He hadn't dared let her come. If Robert Bruce hadn't come with them, there might have been trouble. There would have been no way to find the justice they needed.
The gates opened as they returned. He rode at the head of his men, an able man, a proud warrior, fierce, and ever courageous ...
Except now. His palms were damp.
He rode in .. .
And there she was. Standing on the steps. Awaiting him. Eleanor of Clarin. Nay ... Eleanor of Scotland.
She saw him across the courtyard; her eyes met his.
He raised a hand to her in victory. She smiled.
And she raced across the courtyard to greet him. He dismounted, and swept her into his arms ...
He held her for a very long time. Then, knowing how concerned she must be, he pulled away, studying her features.
"Alfred will survive, so the Brace's physicians assure me," he told her. "He was badly hurt, but in the few hours in which he was no longer under Isobel's tender care, he improved greatly."
"But he ..."
"Aye, he will live; he's strong. He spent a long time with Corbin before we left. She looked beyond him, and saw that Corbin had returned as well."
Brendan shrugged. "He has decided to be a Scotsman."
Epilogue
Eleanor's baby was born on November 4th, a girl.
She had expected a boy, but Brendan, who received the swaddling bundle before she did, was delighted.
"Of course, we're in serious trouble with such a one," he told her.
"Why?"
"She could be like her mother, crawling out balcony windows, and such."
She was called Genevieve Margot, the first, for Eleanor's barely remembered mother, and the second, of course, for Margot, who stood as the child's godmother, while Eric was godfather.
Three weeks after the baby was born, the news at last reached them about events in London. Beneath an English judge and through English peers, Sir Miles Fitzgerald was proclaimed guilty of the murder of the French nobleman, Alain de Lacville.
Isobel, too, was convicted. Rumor from Robert Bruce's lands had it that Isobel used her very best wiles on Bruce, but the Scotsman was far too in love with his bride-to-be to so much as notice. She, too, was pronounced guilty. Fitzgerald was granted the mercy of a beheading over hanging; Isobel, distraught at the prospect of either, had ended her days in much the same manner as Alain; she poisoned herself.
Eleanor knew that
despite everything that had happened, Corbin could not help but be dismayed at the fate she had brought on herself. Yet he had embraced Scotland with even more enthusiasm than she had. When he heard about Isobel, he rode out, as Brendan often did. When he returned, it was as if he was healed.
That following year was an especially rich time in their lives, but it wasn't to last too long. The following year, the king once again managed to muster the army he needed for a mass invasion of Scotland—the truce, for what it had been worth, had ended. In May of 1303, Edward reached Roxburgh; he went on to ravage Edinburgh, Linlithgow, Perth, Brechin, Aberdeen, Banff and Elgin. In November, he rode on to Dunfermline, where he spent the winter, his young second wife joining them there. The Scots' resistance made no headway in stopping; only at Brechin, where Sir Thomas de Maule resisted from the castle wall—until he was killed there.
The king did not attempt to raze or sack their castle or the village that grew up quickly around it; the land nearly adjoined Bruce holdings, and it was probably for that reason that the English monarch's soldiers kept their distance. Many, many men capitulated to the king. William Wallace was at Menteith then, visiting with his family. A number of men who cared greatly for him urged him to take the opportunity to make peace with King Edward as well. His answer was that he would stand for the liberty of Scotland; he would not surrender. The king ordered Sir Alexander de Abernathy to keep watch at the River Forth, in case Sir William attempted to cross. He was ordered to give Wallace no terms, other than complete surrender and subjugation. Wallace had no intention of surrendering. In this time, there were still pockets of resistance. In March of 1304, Wallace, Sir Simon Fraser, and their supporters were attacked in Tweeddale, and forced to retreat through Lothian. At Peebles they were defeated, but neither Wallace nor his followers were captured; they were warned that a turncoat had given the English notice of Wallace's whereabouts. The warning had come from a secret source, a man supposedly now a good servant of the king.
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