Seize The Dawn (3 page)

But no new great armies had been raised. Still, some good had come from the defeat at Falkirk: Scotland's nobles had been forced to take some of the responsibility for Scotland. Other men were guardians now. Edward had not released his hold upon Scotland. He'd not managed to aquire the manpower to usurp Scottish rule in the north, but he continued to swear himself the great overlord. Edward I of England would never cease his pursuit of the Scots, Brendan knew. Only his death would release the threat Edward wielded over the land. But Edward fought other battles, and he hadn't the manpower to leave Scotland at this time to subdue—nay, crush—the country! His ultimate goal. Not for now.

Brendan often wondered how William Wallace, the extraordinary warrior and leader, could accept his situation with so little resentment. The great barons had used Wallace's power, the heady potency of his nationalist eloquence, his blood, and his sweat, all for the freedom of Scotland. But they had never really stood behind him. William still recognized John Balliol as king of Scotland; he had been the anointed king. But John Comyn, known as The Red, and Robert Bruce had the same blood of the ancient line of Scottish kings in their veins. It was often rumored now that John Comyn had taken his forces on the field at Falkirk and run, and thus caused the defeat. For awhile, both men, Comyn and Bruce, had been guardians of Scotland. They harried the English, but they did so with care. The age-old rivalries between the two had threatened to destroy what Scottish control remained to the Scotsmen, and Bruce had resigned, and then Comyn. John Soulis, a good Scotsman, sworn to hold the country in the name of their absent king, John Balliol, was Guardian of the Realm.

Wallace had watched it all, fearing the individual goals of the men, and even their affection for their own wealth and power. At any sign of being crushed, they were ready to capitulate to the English king; they feared the loss of their lands and titles. William Wallace had fought with nothing, and without the compromise of having so much to lose. John Balliol, the anointed king, remained alive, and though few men thought he would ever return to Scotland, he was still king. A sad king, a maligned king, a cowardly king—known most often as 'Toom Tabard,' or 'Empty Shirt.' But he had now been released from the papal confinement in Italy to which Edward had condemned him, and he was in France. He was much of the reason they now hurried to the French king with whom they had been such allies on previous trips.

"Well?" Eric demanded, drawing Brendan quickly from his thought. "Well? Will William agree? Oh, aye! That he will!" "Then we're on to it!" "Aye!" Brendan hurried down the length of the ship where the men in his command had gathered now, watching the helm where he and Eric had conferred. They waited expectantly; they had expected action. As the lead ship, they watched for Englishmen who would surely like to seize Wallace from the seas and deliver him unto Edward. "We take her!" he cried, and grinned, and quoted famous words from the leader they all followed. ' 'Not for glory, but for freedom! For Scotland!" "For Scotland, always! And for whatever riches we may now plunder as well, eh, Brendan? Needed for our failing coffers!" Liam MacAllister, a tall man with a fine humor and flaming red hair called out.

A roar went up among the men. "The Lord knows, Liam, we can use what riches we might seize from a sinking ship, indeed." A roar went up again, cries of laughter—cries that went loud. Very loud. Often enough as well, they had used such ferocity to give them courage against crushing odds. "Full said!" Eric shouted in command to his sailors. The chase was on. "They outnumber us, surely," Eric warned Brendan. Brendan grimaced. "I've never been into battle or skirmis without being outnumbered." He turned to his men. "Arrow! my friend! We'll keep them busy saving their hides from burning as we board. The best three, come forward, eh? Liam, you Collum, Ainsley, barrage them. We've pitch and rags, set her ablaze!" Men scrambled to obey his commands. They had learned well from Edward's use of archers again them. Now, they announced their arrival to the English—and the pirates. With flame. "Watch, Bridie, watch!" The door was down; Eleanor and Bridie burst out upon the deck just as a cascade of burning arrows came flying across the sea and sky, colliding anew with masts and sails. She forced Bridie to duck; a savage missile whistled past them, embedding into the wall of the cabin, bringing the smell of fire before their faces. The ship was not afire, but it might as well be. The pirate crew were adept at sea. They rushed to steady the ship, prepare for the boarding attackers—and put out the flames.

Standing on the deck not far from them, cursing and shouting orders, de Longueville studied the oncoming enemy vessel. "They've brought land battle to sea!" he roared. "Arrows! Arrows!" He raised a fist to the ship now ready to ram them. "Fight like men! Draw your swords! Scots! Mon Dieu!"

Even as he spoke the words, grappling hooks were hitting the ship anew. It was amazing that the English vessel was not completely crushed, for the pirate ship remained lashed to her port side while this new assault came from starboard.

"Aye, pirate, we've drawn our swords!" came a cry. Eleanor looked to the new ship upon the scene, caught fast to them now. The man who had spoken balanced with a grip upon the rigging that tilted toward the deck, one hand upon the ropes and one upon his weapon. Scots. The first thing Eleanor noted was that this invader was clad n a tartan. He wore dark leggings, skin boots, and linen shirt beneath a garment of interwoven, blue and green wool. A large Celtic brooch held the tartan at his shoulder. His sword was indeed drawn as he leaped with surprising agility from the rigging to the deck, ready to face the pirate. He was young, with pitch dark hair that fell near to his shoulders, rigid bronzed features, and sharp eyes that cast a fatal warning. He was clean shaven; he had spoken in the pirate's own tongue. No matter.
A Scot!
He was
not
civilized; he was a madman, a savage. They were now being boarded by mountain dwellers,
animals,
men who killed one another over petty quarrels, and were as vicious as wolves against their enemies.

Ah, but the pirate was ready when his enemy fell; steel clanged against steel. Other men began dropping from the boarding vessel. She heard ancient cries in Gaelic; she had heard them before. Curses in Norse rang out as well. The Frenchmen cried out in the civilized tongue with which most men and women of any breeding—aye, and without—were surely familiar in this day and age. A melee had broken out, and still, Eleanor stood with Bridie, outside the battered door, staring incredulously.

"This cannot be happening!" Bridie wailed. A man fell at their feet. A pirate. He looked up at the two of them, grinned, came back to his feet, and charged the burly Scot now upon him once again.

"One attack! One attack is quite rude enough—but two!" Bridie cried out, so outraged she forgot to be terrified for a moment. "Rude! Bridie, we are in serious danger. This is not a matter of manners. We must think quickly, and act with even greater haste.""Let's get back into the cabin!" she implored. "The fire; are out, we'll not be trapped; we'll soon be skewered!" "No!" Eleanor snapped back. Her fear of fire was paralyzing But they were in dangerous positions, indeed, with the hand to-hand combat going on all around them. "Bridie, to the aft!" she shouted suddenly. "Aft!" She caught Bridie's hand, dragging her between two men just before they charged one another. They ran along the edge of the ship, heading behind the main masts and cabins to the far rear of the vessel. There, Eleanor stopped, catching her breath, staring overboard. The water churned and frothed. The Irish Sea could seldom be called a gentle pool!

Nor so was it today! It had been beautiful; the skies had been blue, blue like eternity, clear, like a promise of heaven. Gray clouds had formed, as if summoned by the violence aboard the ship. The wind moaned, crying out at the clashing steel that pierced it. "Eleanor!" Bridie cried out. "You're not thinking about ..." "Diving in? No," she said ruefully. "Then what? We are trapped! Better the cabin—"' I'll go to the sea before a fire!" Eleanor assured her, looking back to the churning water. Swim? Aye, she could swim. To shore? From here? Hardly likely! And what manner of beasts lived within the sea? Sharks with razor-edged teeth, sharper than any sword. Sea monsters! Creatures whispered about in poor taverns and inns. Creatures that sucked on the body, squeezed and crushed ...

Better than fire!
"Alors!" Eleanor spun from the sea to stare down the deck of the ship again. "The prize!" It was one of the French pirates, a man with inky-dark, oily hair, a strange pointed beard, and sly eyes. He was racing toward them. "Get back! Come, woman!" he commanded harshly to Bridie, as he hurried toward them. "Mademoiselle!" he cried to Eleanor. "By God, I will jump!" Eleanor muttered, fingers grasping the hull. But before she could do so, another man came charging after the first. He did so with such impetus that they crashed into the aft together. There was no battle; the second man had a knife, worn at his calf. He drew it and slew his opponent in seconds.

The pirate's sword came flying across the deck. Instinctively, Eleanor reached down for it. The weapon was fine, honed steel. Excellent. A Frenchman's rapier, light, sharp ... She picked it up. Tested it in her hands. Then she saw that the enemy who had so quickly slain the Frenchman was coming toward her. It was the dark-haired savage who had first fallen to the deck, leading the attack. There was something about him ... "Lay it down, lady," he told her quietly, his Norman French as well accented as any she had heard at court. She would never be deceived. She knew these men. She had learned about them firsthand. "Nay. Go your way, highlander. Go your way in peace. Leave me.""You're English." "I'm on my way to a French fiancé, and therefore, you had best take care."

His eyes were very deep blue. He showed her even more amusement than the pirate de Longueville. Yet he watched her curiously as well.
As if he recognized her.
"Drop the sword," he told her. "We'll discuss this fiancé, your journey—and your future." "There is no future when one faces
Scots!"
she said, her loathing and contempt lacing the last. "Give it to me, or I shall take it." "Give it to him!" Bridie encouraged. "M'lady, for the love of God!"
Eleanor gripped the skirt of her gown, sweeping it behind her, stepping forward.
By God, she wouldn't burn. She might go to the sea, but she wouldn't burn, and she would never, ever throw herself on the mercy of a Scotsman!

"Drop it!" He came forward with a thrust intended to ring power through the steel of her blade, and force her to drop it. She held fast, returning the strike with a speed that caught him unaware. She nicked his arm, drawing blood. Startled, he stared at the wound. She experienced a moment's supreme satisfaction at her small victory and his amazement, but when she quickly thought to make good on the element of surprise, he was ready. She attacked, but he parried. She was backed against the hull. She saw the danger of her position, and thrust and parried in a manner intended to free her from her position, to give her leverage to fight. But each clash of steel cost her more and more. She gained new position, but lost strength. She moved down the deck, grimly fighting, parry for parry. She knew nothing at first but the sound of steel harshly shrilling against steel, over and over again.

Then she realized that no more battle sounds came from the rest of the ship. Daring to glance around, she saw that the battle had ended. How, and in whose favor, she could not tell. They all stood about: Scotsmen, Frenchmen, Norse sailors. Captain Abram and his English seamen had disappeared; they had either been killed or cast to sea long ago now. Her audience was one of enemies. Pirates. Madmen. Her opponent came at her with a force that first caused her arm to shudder in a terrible reverberation, then the length of her body. Even her teeth chattered and threatened to crack. She held fast to her weapon. But she looked into his face and saw a look of grim determination in eyes a darker blue than the roiling sea. His lips were drawn in a tight line. One hand was held behind his back; he wielded his sword with only the other. He had not so much as drawn a sweat, though she was still glad of the blood that stained his left sleeve. She did not drop her sword. She gasped for breath, and prayed for strength. She flew toward him, aiming for his heart. He watched her ...

And retaliated at the last minute. And this time, his blow was such that no fear of fire or flame or even eternal damnation could give her the power to hold on to her own weapon. Her steel clattered to the deck. She held herself still then, teeth clenched hard, jaw set, the length of her rigid. She stared at him.
No, she did not know him. Yes, she did. There was that something, so familiar ... A hint of recall, of seeing those eyes.
Cries went up all around them. Maybe the pirates and ever the Scotsmen applauded her courage—and stupidity.

But
he
was staring at her. Just staring at her, eyes narrowing He knew it, too. Knew that he knew her ... from somewhere "Who
are
you?" he demanded softly, curiously. "Who are
you?"
she cross-queried. Suddenly, she knew. She barely choked back a gasp. Perhaps he remembered as well, at exactly that moment, for it seemed that his entire countenance tightened and darkened He was prepared to take a step toward her. Her heart was beating faster than a hummingbird's wings. She dived past him, racing down the length of the ship. When she reached the aft, she didn't hesitate. She was aware of Bridie's shriek of alarm, yet it meant nothing to her. She leaped to the wooden ship's railing, looked to the sea. And dived.

Chapter 2

Brendan gave pause for one moment, incredulous. She had plunged into the Irish Sea. In the middle of winter. It was freezing, the water was churning. As could all too easily happen, the weather was changing. A beautiful day was turning into a stormy night.
The English .. . idiot!
Let her drown! For a moment, the bitter thought flashed through his mind. He had given her mercy once, and nearly died for it. He had spent years swearing that he would find her—and avenge himself. And now, suddenly, here she was. Time had gone by, and they had both changed, and it had taken him long moments to recognize her, though why, he could not now understand. Her blue-gray eyes were unique, as tempestuous as the threat of the storm now rising. Yet why not? He had etched her features into his memory. And still, he had never really expected to see her again. He had fought on, because the concept of surrender was not an option. She was English, lived on land fully controlled by the English king, far beyond his reach.