Seize The Dawn (35 page)

"No," Corbin said. "I have met him before, serving on the field, and in London. He never came to Clarin. A messenger arrived shortly before the funeral, telling us that word had reached York regarding the death of the new French count of Clarin, and that the duke's representative would be arriving to question the circumstances."

"I don't inherit. My brother, good and trustworthy and hardworking, gains the property ... if Eleanor does not leave a male heir. My death leaves nothing to anyone."

"I'm afraid you were just in the way. Indeed, I tried to dissuade you from riding last night; I was afraid of your reaction, while still assuming I rode with honest English soldiers, when we parted company."

"I would have fought you, naturally."

"And I would have tried hard not to kill you," Brendan said softly.

Eleanor, standing still and silent, watching them, seemed to pale. She was more than pale. She appeared drawn, he realized, almost fragile. Somewhere in the ride, she had lost the simple headdress. Even in the dim light of the few torches they had lit, her hair seemed to burn deeper than gold. It trailed down her back. She looked like a waif, delicately beautiful, ethereal.

Brendan helped himself to a portion of bread and cheese, walking on, found a place by the wall, and sank down against it. He studied Corbin while wolfing down a bite of the bread. "We desire your company, sir, until we reach a stronghold," he said at last. "But if I were you, I'd take extreme care going back to England."

"And why is that?" Corbin asked, frowning.

"Well, we didn't kill Fitzgerald and his men, so they'll surely stand against you. You heard his conversation; you know that he tried to part from us when he still believed us to be his own countrymen. You might accuse him of attempting murder, or, at the least, tampering with the king's justice. Naturally, he'll be prepared for such a lie, assuring any who offer such an accusation that you, like your deadly cousin, were in league with the Scots."

"But it's not true!"

"Nor are the accusations against Eleanor, as we both know. But that wouldn't have saved her from the headsman's axe— of Fitzgerald's sword." He finished with the bread and cheese, crossed his arms, and leaned back against the wall.

"This is all preposterous. I must return to England; Alfred will know that I am no turncoat, or traitor to my king."

"After we are secure, sir, you may do as you choose," Brendan told him. "I'll not hold you against your will." He closed his eyes, making it plain he wanted to rest.

"We must both return," Eleanor said suddenly. "The truth must be discovered—"

Brendan's eyes flew open. "You, madam, will not be returning anywhere."

"But there is law in England," she began to protest again. "And something is very wrong. Fitzgerald claimed to have authority all along; perhaps he did not. Perhaps there was a reason, and he was even responsible himself somehow for Alain's death. If we return, we will speak together. It will not be one voice against Fitzgerald, but both voices—"

"I'll speak with
you
tomorrow, my lady."

"My lady!" he flared angrily.
"Both
voices. What good will your voice be? Your husband is dead. Poisoned. At the threat of removal to London, trial, and possible execution, you were saved by your—you were saved by the Scots. I don't think your word will mean much in support of your cousin's, madam."

He knew that she stood there, staring at him. He knew, as well, when at last she walked away, surely longing to wake him with the bash of a wine skin over his head.

There was a lot he wanted to talk about.

But not surrounded by others.

Perhaps he should have cared more for her comfort that night; he was too angry. As yet, a 'thank you' hadn't slipped from her tongue. Nay, she was ready to gallop off again to a land where they were set to hang her, guilty or innocent.

Eric came to wake him in the middle of the night. Gregory and Collum were aroused to join him. They kept vigil at the walls until the dawn broke. Then they woke the others, and started riding again.

He rode beside Corbin for part of the day. The man seemed immersed in thought, and when he saw Brendan studying him, he explained, "I still can't fathom it. Fitzgerald suddenly decides that Eleanor, renowned to the point of being called
Santa Lenora,
should die rather than stand trial, and that I am expendable, to die with her. Alain was poisoned."

"Is Alfred concerned for the inheritance?" Brendan asked.

"My brother? Good God, no. He is responsible and pious to a fault; he believes deeply in God, and that God sees all, and that man will suffer for his sins on earth. I, on the other hand, believe a certain amount of sin on earth only makes a man more fit for the rewards beyond death."

"Ah. So did
you
murder the count?"

"What on earth for? No. As I've said, I'm sure I'm guilty of many sins. But murder is not among them. And even if the motive is sheer pleasure alone, there is motive for all my sins. There is nothing I gain by Alain's death."

"What about your wife?"

"Isobel?" he queried. "Isobel, God knows, is capable of much, but she wouldn't have wanted Alain dead. She had a sudden desire to reproduce after our many years of childless marriage. Eleanor's father has not been gone so long ... and with Eleanor married to an old man, and Alfred keeping his romantic affairs to a shepherdess or milkmaid here or there, it did seem that a child of ours would inherit. That's just as well; without me, she'll not have that child, and not inherit the property."

"What if she is already with child?"

"Isobel? If so, she would have announced it from the highest tower in the land. For other women it would be a natural occurrence; for Isobel, a personal achievement worthy of the world's acclaim."

By dusk, they had reached the fortification.

In little time, it had changed greatly. Walls had been finished, heightened, strengthened. The outer wall had been repaired; masons had piled stones to build more towers. They were seen at a distance, and a cry had gone out; the gates opened as they arrived. Wallace came striding from the castle to the courtyard, even as they rode in. Dismounting, Brendan greeted him, and was greeted warmly in return. Men, warriors turned builders, left their work to hover around. Questions were raised; Hagar wound a story of their accomplishment. Wallace watched gravely, saying nothing, while the others joked, and made much of the deed of saving an English heiress—intended for an English blade.

Corbin, too, had remained silent during the melee of their entry; then, he was noted by the others.

"And we've an English prisoner!" said Rune MacDuff. "Did you think the man would wound the maid?" he demanded, walking forward to study Corbin.

Corbin of Clarin was no laggard. He faced the brawny Rune down. "Never, sir, would I bring harm to any maid, least one who is my kin."

"Cotbin, Lady Eleanor's cousin," Brendan explained briefly.

Wallace and the others studied Corbin. Corbin studied them in return. He shrugged at last. ' 'Not a tail or horns among you. That must be rumor then."

Rune MacDuff let out a loud laugh. He was soon joined by the others.

"He's not a prisoner then?" Jem Maclver, another of the men, demanded. "No ransom?"

"I don't believe I'm worth the shirt on my back at the moment. And I'm not a prisoner. Sir Brendan has given me leave to go. Once he reaches your fortifications ... oh, your pardon. This pile of stone is your fortification."

Again, the Scots laughed. "Stay with us a spell, Englishman!" someone shouted. It was Lars, who had sailed upon Wallace's ship, and been with them in France. "There's no horn or tail upon him either, can ye fathom!" Lars stepped forward; he had been in the rear of the taller men, and had not seen all who had arrived.

He saw Eleanor, quiedy seated on her horse, and he walked to her, bowing. "Welcome to our home, m'lady, though it is not where ye'd yearn to be."

"Well, you'll not be going back this night," Wallace said. He looked at the new arrivals. "Margot said ye'd be back by tonight. There are rooms prepared, poor as they may be as yet, but then, I'm afraid, my lady, we're not known for the elegance of Paris."

"I am thankful for the hospitality of Scottish earth, which seems most elegant, since I fled for my life, sir,'' Eleanor told Wallace.

Brendan stared at her, still seated atop her horse, her voice, her manner, entirely gracious, her thanks to others sincere. And the men—dozens of them, burly fellows, stalwart, war weary, honed like the sharpest knives, stood in thrall of her. He didn't know why; he was tempted to take her from the horse and shake her.

At that moment, Bridie, who had ridden close behind Eleanor, let out something of a sigh. As all eyes turned to her, she started to slip from her horse in a swoon.

"Sweet Jesu!"

Despite the fact that she had been mounted and the men had not, Eleanor was the first to reach her maid, catching the woman before she could collapse flat upon the earth.

But Lars had been close. He lifted her into his arms. "We'll get her inside, get her water," he said. "By God, though, what ails the maid?"

Eleanor spoke sharply then. "You, sir, should know!"

A sound of laughter rose again from the crowd. Lars, a blond man with a fair complexion and freckled cheeks, blushed. "My lady—"

"Bring her in. She needs water."

Lars started for the inner keep, then up the steps leading to the central stone edifice. Eleanor followed, as did Wallace, Corbin, and several of the others.

Brendan did not. Eric had remained with him. He clapped his horse on the neck. "The horses need feeding, the arms and equipment need unpacking. Shall we leave it to others?"

"No. I'll tend to it. You, cousin, should go see Margot. She surely realizes you've come by now."

Eric smiled. "Aye, then."

, Brendan watched him go. His cousin loved the woman, he thought. She was loyal, true, silent through any hardship, and beautiful. He shook his head. Eric was a fool. They had chosen lives as rebels, outlaws. He should marry the woman.

Yet he wondered if his cousin paused not because of Margot's birth—but because of his own acceptance that death could come any time.

He started leading the horses to the stables, joined by some of the younger men, raw youths from lands run over by foreign powers, ready to learn to fight for their land. ' 'So you donned a priest's cowl, and walked straight into an English caste?" a lad demanded.

"It seemed the proper thing to do at the time," he said with a shrug. ' 'Come along, if you lads would give me a hand, do it then, and let's hurry along."

At length, when he came into the great hall, it was to find a fire burning in the central hearth, a dozen hounds scurrying for scraps, and a great haunch of venison roasting. There were women as well as men, wives, mothers, sisters, laundresses earning what meager wages the men could pay, and a few women, of course, who simply followed soldiers, and earned what wages they could at entertainment.

By the time he arrived in the hall, their English "guests" had been shown to their quarters; a quantity of ale had flowed, and news had spread. Hagar could weave an incredible tale in his native Gaelic, and he did so then, describing their antics with the English. Sir Miles Fitzgerald, he told them, had horns and a tail, and his English soldiers had been just starting to sprout such appendages. There was a great roar of laughter, and for Brendan, tremendous applause.

The ale flowed freely. In the company of these men, with no need of the tension brought by being on constant guard, he let himself relax. He drank, ate, and laughed when one of the camp followers fell into his lap while filling his cup. She rolled against his chest, laughing as well, and touched his cheek.

"A handsome hero, eh?" she said.

He grinned, amused, but when he looked up, he saw that Eleanor had come down; she stood at the foot of the winding stairs, her hand upon the iron rail. Her eyes met his. He thought that she would turn, and walk away, but she did not.