Seize The Dawn (7 page)

"Out with it, Brendan!" William said to him. "It is merely something I think—now and then." "Aye, let me hear it!" He glanced at the man he followed. "All right. You have never faltered. You have fought for Scotland. Not for gain. Edward has tried to bribe you. King Haakon of Norway would gladly welcome you and give you lands—and a title. Philip is aware of your journey to France now, and in his travels our good friend the Archbishop of Lamberton has spoken highly of you at every opportunity. We've been to France before; feted at the French court. We've been to Italy, to Rome and back, and we seek to keep Philip now from a pact with England that can only hurt Scotland. No matter what, though, you'd be welcome in France. Philip is always eager to welcome you to his country, give you command of troops, and reward you handsomely. But you, sir—you stubborn ass, if you'll give pardon—you will continue to fight. Our nobles—bless their blackened souls—backed away when we were winning victories! They cry for Scotland, then squabble among one another. Who will be king? I won't fight if I won't be king. Sorry. But I admit, by God, I do wonder at times—just what we are doing, how can we ever fight Edward when we so endlessly fight ourselves?"

Brendan wondered if he had evoked Wallace's anger, but the man was grinning. Then he started to laugh, and gave Brendan a huge clap on the back. "An ass, am I, sir?" "Only at times—sir." "Aye, well there it is. If Robert Bruce rides with me, he loses everything. He holds too much that lies in the king's power. He wishes to marry an English heiress, and word had it that he was in love, deeply infatuated with the beauty, and there, ah, yes, there, many a man has lost himself, his soul, or even his country, for love." He was quiet a moment, and Brendan did not urge him on. The woman Wallace had once loved had been murdered by the English under bitter circumstances, and many said that her death was one of the reasons he fought with such vengeance.

Wallace lifted a hand in the air. "Robert Bruce is still a Mend to Scotland; you mark my words. Aye, he seeks a crown. That has been the single-minded obsession of his family for decades. God knows, maybe he is the right man to wear the crown. But just the same, John Comyn hopes to be king. They are both powerful men. I don't believe that John Comyn deserted us with intent at Falkirk; it is my belief that the horses broke and ran, and there was no rallying he could force." "You are looking at the man with a kindly eye. Some say he was eager for you to lose at Falkirk, that he doesn't want Balliol restored to the crown, though they are close kin, since, of course, he, too, wants the crown for himself."

"Those in line for the crown do want it. Therein does he the problem!" Wallace murmured. "Their weaknesses, and my strength. I don't want the crown. I want freedom." "But the army is broken." "Aye, that it is. And without the nobles, I can sway common men, but not enough to follow me in suicide against Edward again—not for now. Now, we must look to diplomacy, and whatever aid we can gain from foreigners." Brendan stared broodingly out on the water. "And what now, young friend?" Brendan shook his head with rueful disgust. "When you resigned as guardian, and the barons met at Peebles, it was a member of my kin to suggest that your lands be taken as forfeit for you leaving the country without permission of the assembly? Sir David Graham!"

Again, William seemed amused. "My brother Malcolm was there to stop any such foolishness.""But that he should—" "Grahams have covered the countryside, Brendan. I do not hold you responsible for all who bear the name. And I know, as well, that David Graham has his own allegiances. He is loyal to Comyn, and is not to be blamed for that. My brother is a supporter of Robert Bruce; he cast his loyalty to the Bruce long ago. He tells me that we might forget our King Toom Tabard, and look to Bruce. He is the one who must one day save Scotland from the English, and then rule her. Ah, Brendan! It is difficult to see, in the midst of the blood that we have shed. Brace and Comyn both sit back at times, praying for King Edward's death! He is aging, and his son prefers games, pastimes and the friendship of his favorites over battle. Perhaps waiting is the greatest weapon against Edward. He cannot live forever." "Excuse me, but it appears he is living far too long."

"Well, we are on our way to see another king, a French king. One, who, as you say, will welcome us and be pleased with the penitent pirate we bring him." He was silent for a moment, studying Brendan. "A pirate ... and an heiress. Interesting collections for the journey, eh? Though I have heard that the Lady Eleanor is still very ill." Brendan let out a sound of irritation. "She is much better. Margot says she will live, and Margot is seldom wrong. If Lady Eleanor is ill, it is her own fault. She insisted on a swim."

Wallace laughed and slapped his knee. "Against all odds! Ah, well, a woman of my own heart." I don't think so. She sees you as we see Edward. I believe, in fact, that she thinks you have a tail and horns upon your head, and were spewed from the earth by the devil himself.""Many an Englishman does. I am supposed to have ridden into battle wearing the skin of my enemies. I paint myself like a heathen. Well, I am guilty of many things, but not until such crimes were perpetrated on me, or on Scotland, did I retaliate in kind. I know about this woman. She led troops at Falkirk. Because men, claiming to be under my leadership, burned a village. So be it. I have burned many an English village. I have plundered and raped the English countryside where I could. I did not, however, murder innocents, but fighting men. Tell her to remember Berwick, where the king's men cut down even pregnant woman as they ran in the streets." "Tell her?" Brendan queried. "We are in a precarious diplomatic position. She is a good pawn to hold in our hands. I had thought that you—"

"You fished her from the sea. She is your concern." "We are on a most important mission. Perhaps you should
not
trust her to me." Wallace stared at him curiously. "And why is that?" Brendan lifted his drinking horn. "We have met before." "Aye?" "At Falkirk." "Oh?" "She very nearly killed me." Wallace stared at Brendan a long time, then laughed, slamming him on the back once again with his big hand. "You? I've seen few men more proficient with a sword, nor more determined to use one." "We are all vulnerable." ' 'But you? Ah, yes, of course. She cast off her armor, and found your Achilles' heel. Well, they do say, revenge is sweet, and before God, I must admit, there have been times when I have killed men and the pleasure in seeing them die has been great!" His face darkened. "So much pleasure, indeed, that I fear I myself will rot in hell for a hatred that deep." He sighed, looking back, and Brendan wondered whether he thought of killing the men who had murdered his father, or the woman he had loved. Or both. If vengeance didn't just become a part of life.

"Ay, yes, revenge can be sweet!" He stared at Brendan again. The anger left his voice, replaced again by a touch of amusement. "I wasn't, however, suggesting that you should kill the lass. All men must draw a line, you know." "I wasn't intending on an execution." "Aye, then. 'Tis up to you." "She was traveling to a French fiancé" "Then remember her value. And that we are always in need of funds. And greater diplomacy. And that many in the world see us as beasts." "Are you saying that I must treat her as a valued guest?" "The choice is yours, my friend. And bear in mind—I didn't say that it was at all a bad thing that the world sees us as beasts!" He rose, stretching his great length. "I'm for sleep. Eric stays awake by darkness; his woman is with him. I've been offered the comfort of his bed. I accepted—before I had heard you were displaced."

"The men sleep below in close quarters as they have on many a battlefield; I can curl up anywhere and rest. Last night, I slept in a chair. I can do the same again. I have been taught well," he said with a grin. "Still—" "Sir, you've not had near enough peace in your life. You are welcome to the cabin," Brendan assured him. Wallace paused a minute. "Don't be downhearted, and certainly not for me, Brendan. Don't you remember Stirling?" He clenched a fist. "The feel of freedom, the taste of it! We lost at Falkirk, but not so greatly as you might imagine. Aye, we lost good men. But the whole of the country tasted that freedom. They saw the possibilities of what could be. That's why I fight. Even if I die, our people have the taste in their mouths, and that is something that Edward will never be able to take away. It is for Scotland. All for Scotland." "Aye, for Scotland!" Brendan said, and he remembered his own battlefield vows. For Scotland, and for freedom. Goals worth fighting for, in whatever form the battle might take. Goals worth dying for. With a nod, William left him.

She had dozed on and off, but she woke with a strange, uncanny fear. She bolted up, then realized the source of her unease. He was back. A candle burned on the desk. It was a dim light, but bright enough to show the man who stood just inside the doorway, watching her. She had no concept of how long he had stood there, just an acute unease. "So you're alive," he said softly. The words seemed to carry no emotion, as if it made no difference to him whether she survived or perished.

She didn't reply; the answer was evident. She watched him, and he waited for a moment, then ignored her, unwinding the woolen tartan from his shoulders, and hanging it upon a hook by the door. He walked to the desk, picked up the candle, then came toward her. Despite herself, she edged back against the bunk, gritting her teeth. The candle was all but in her face. "What are you doing?" she asked sharply at last, completely unnerved. The fever had left her, like the storm, it had raged and gone. But she still felt weak. Like a kitten with no strength. "They say you are worth a great deal. I'm just trying to see why."

Impatiently, she reached out, thrusting away his hand with which he held the candle. Then she was afraid of her own action; she might have knocked the candle from his hand and caused a fire. But she didn't knock the candle aside, and he didn't seem angered or bothered by her action. He returned to the desk, setting the candle down. Then he took the chair at the desk, leaned back, and stared at her. "What are you doing, and why are you here?" "This is my place aboard this ship." "Indeed. Then why am I here?" "It's a large and excellently crafted ship, but even aboard the
Wasp,
Lady, there are only so many places where ... a guest might be kept. Especially an unwilling one who might enjoy a cold swim in the middle of the night." "Guest? I am a prisoner." "Prisoner—guest. Sometimes there is little difference." "Pirates, murderers—Scotsmen. Sometimes there is little difference."

She couldn't see him well in the candlelight, but she was sure his features tightened. He shrugged. ' 'The same, and far worse, could be said of the English." The depth of his tone assured her she wanted to go no further in that direction, and yet it seemed she had no choice but to meet his gaze, and converse with him. She shook her head, still weary, and angry that she should feel so weak when she wanted so badly to have all her wits about her to fight. "Have you come just to torment me?" she demanded. He arched his brows. "Am I tormenting you?" She didn't reply. She wished that she had. He stood and walked to her side, sitting on the bunk next to her, his eyes very intent. "Am I tormenting you?" he repeated. "Aye, that you are!" "Well, good. I didn't think it would be so easy." "You're very cruel—" "You nearly killed me. When I had given you mercy." "We were on a battlefield." "And I might have been buried there." "That is long ago now—"

"And you are the lady to the manor born, flying across the seas into the arms of the rich and noble lord who would be her husband!" "Yes." "Alas! There's a small fly in the ointment. Hies. Pirates, murderers—and Scotsmen." "Would you please—" "Aye?" "Leave me be." "Ah. Show you mercy?" "Yes, if—" "I showed you mercy once before." "Indeed!" she flared suddenly. "So take care—I am crafty and cunning and enormously talented with a sword, and you can easily be buried at sea!" A slow, rueful smile was curling his lips. He leaned toward her. "You don't look so dangerous now!" he said softly. "You are a wretched creature, even for a Scot!" she told him. "I've been ill ..." "Very ill," he agreed. "Go away." "Nay, I think not." She lay back, closing her eyes. "What is it, then? My value does not appear so great. I have been very ill, burning with fever. I must be pathetic, hardly appealing—" "Not in the least," he assured her pleasantly. Her eyes flew open again. He was still wearing a small, subtle smile. His eyes widened and his face lowered toward hers. "Maybe I feel that tormenting you ... in any way ... is my sacred duty!" His face was close, very close. She should be longing to strike him. And she did, naturally. But she also held her breath, closing her eyes again, strange rivulets of fire tearing through her while she rued the wild tangles in her hair, the certain pallor of her cheeks.

She opened her eyes. He was still there. Unnerved, she cried out in anger, attempting to strike him. "Leave me—" "Nay, lady, nay!" He caught her flying hand. His eyes never left hers. She trembled, gritting her teeth despite herself. "It's my place aboard this vessel. I intend to sleep here." She sucked in her breath. "But—" "I slept here last night as well." "What? Oh, you are wretched. So it's your duty to torment me? Then go ahead. Be aware, of course, that a tarnished heiress is not worth nearly so much as a pure piece of property, that you risk the anger of the French king—" "The anger of the French king? Are you that valuable?" he marveled, and she knew that he was mocking her. "Aye," she informed him icily. "Imagine that, lass!" His eyes skimmed down her length. "Who would have thought ..." His tone was light, but then his blue shadowed gaze met hers once again. "And what of the English king, m'lady. Do we risk his anger?"

"That goes without saying," she informed him, fighting for calm and control. "Good," he said, dropping her hand, rising. "I may be forced to greater lengths than I had thought." She lay silent, wishing she had a sword at the moment— and two strong English soldiers to hold him down while she cut him up, since she wasn't quite so confident in her own abilities. He walked to the desk, found the carafe upon it, and poured himself water. He drank it reflectively, then took the chair once again, propping his feet up on the wood and leaning back. "I'm sure you'll improve as the illness passes," he mused. She wanted to throw something at him. She realized that she had just been told she wasn't appealing enough to be ravaged. Thank God, you idiot! Shut up and keep it that way!
she implored herself.