Seize The Dawn

By Heather Graham

Lady Eleanor of Clarin is going to marry an old family friend to save her family's fortune, but meets up with a Scotsman, Brendan Graham. While thier two counties battle, the sparks fly between the two of them, bringing romance to the raging battles. She ends up being accused of killing her husband and Graham comes to her rescue.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Heather Graham
• Release date: Aug 23, 2011

Heather Graham

New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author Heather Graham has written more than a hundred novels. She's a winner of the RWA's Lifetime Achievement Award and the Thriller Writers' Silver Bullet. She is an active member of International Thriller Writers and Mystery Writers of America. For more information, check out her website, theoriginalheathergraham.com. You can also find Heather on Facebook and on Twitter, @heathergraham.

Book preview

Seize the Dawn

By Shannon Drake

Copyright 2011 Heather Graham

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Prologue

Falkirk, Scotland July 22, 1298

There could be a strange beauty to war. The sight of the arrows was awesome.

They appeared suddenly in the radiant blue summer sky ...And they were spellbinding, an arcing rain, flying high into the sky, cresting, then falling with a strange grace back to the ground. Then the hurling, whistling whir of them suddenly took precedence. Along with the sounds that followed. Brendan could hear screams, for those Scotsmen who had taunted the expert bowmen of the English army with their backsides discovered too late that grace and beauty were as deadly as stupidity. Arrows connected with flesh, spewing blood, breaking bone. Men shouted, staggered, fell, some wounded, some killed. Horses neighed shrilly, animals died, and knights, not hit themselves, cursed as their mounts stumbled and fell, many wheezing out a death rattle. Foot soldiers scattered; cavalry began to break; commanders shouted.

Hold, you fools! And cover your backsides!'' John Graham, Brendan's kinsman, shouted from atop his tall black steed. They'd had a certain advantage. William Wallace, their leader, knew how to choose his ground for a fight. Though Edward had great numbers of foot soldiers and cavalry—perhaps twelve thousand of the latter and twenty-five hundred of the first— William had chosen to wage war from the flank of the Callander Wood. From there, a fiercely flowing burn, or stream, met with another from Glen Village, and because of this, the terrain the English must traverse was little but mire, soggy wet ground, a morass to wear down horses and men.

But today, the English had come on. Mired, they had rallied. And it was the Scots now breaking. Hold! John shouted again. Brendan saw him shake his head with disbelief, wondering what fool confidence had suggested such a show of idiocy. Indeed! What man had not seen the arrows? They had thought to defy the deadly barrage of the English—and so life was wasted. The major assault had not even begun. Along with the screams and shouts, he could hear the jingle of horses' harnesses, the trappings of some of the richer men's mounts. His own great dappled stallion, Achilles, stamped the ground with nervous impatience as a cloud of moist air streamed from his nostrils. More arrows were flying. Men were falling, dying. Edward of England was no fool, and surely no coward, and any of them who had taken him as such were doomed. The English king had ruthlessly destroyed the Welsh—and from them, he had gained his talented longbowmen. He had brought soldiers talented with the crossbow as well: Flemish, Germans, mercenaries—even some of the French he was so constantly fighting.

Even Scotsmen rode with him. Scotsmen who feared that Wallace, their protector, their guardian, could not hold against the forces of the Plantagenet king of England, self-proclaimed Hammer of the Scots.

Scotsmen who were perhaps now changing sides. Sweet Jesu, help me! English riders were following their bowmen. Scottish knights were breaking. Hand to hand battle came closer and closer. The Scots were experts with their schiltrons—barriers created by men arranged with rows of pikes—weapons that held well against the English knights. But even they were failing now. Brendan quickly dismounted, hurrying to the rugged old warrior with the arrow protruding from his thigh. He couldn't wrench out the arrow; the man would bleed to death there on the field. Break it! the man commanded. MacCaffery, I can't— You will, boy, you will. Beady blue eyes surveyed him from beneath a fine bush of snow-white brows and hair, so completely entangled, it was impossible to say where the one began, and the other gave off. MacCaffery— Haven't you strength, boy? MacCaffery was taunting him on purpose. Aye, and the taunting worked. He snapped the arrow, gritted his teeth—and removed the shaft, immediately using his linen shirt to put pressure against the wound. Fool! he accused his elder. ' 'Aye, MacCaffery said softly. The old man hadn't flinched,hadn't let out so much as a whimper. A free fool. And I'll die that way, boy."

Die that way ...Did the old man feel it, too? A strange sense, not so much of fear, but of unease and trepidation. They should not have fought that day! Many of the commanders had said it. They should not have fought. They should have continued their northern flight. They had left the land desolate, stripped; if they had just kept ahead of the English army, they could have starved it out!

Yet almost a year ago now, at Stirling Bridge, the forces of Scotland, forces truly of Scotland—rich men, poor men, diggers of soil, purveyors of gold—had faced the might of the English, and there, they had triumphed. And since that precious time, Scotland had been free. The great baron of the north, Andrew de Moray, had died soon after the battle, mortally wounded in the fighting. But until the very last minute, the great survivor of the struggle, Sir William Wallace, had kept his name alive in official correspondence. Wallace had reigned as the guardian of the realm. He had gained so much power that he had pushed the tide of bloodshed into England, ravaged York, and given something incredibly valuable to his followers as well: pride. Pride. Pride had now turned to foolishness.

Take heed! Old MacCaffery warned. Brendan turned, just in time. An armored knight, wearing the colors of the House of York, was bearing down upon him. Brendan wielded his weapon with a desperate power, aiming deliberately for the throat. His opponent went still, hovered in time and space, clutched his neck. Red seeped through his fingers, and he fell into the mire. But another knight was coming on, riding hard despite the mire, and Brendan braced to meet him.

He had first learned the hatred of the enemy at Hawk's Cairn where he'd fought with no talent and no experience, and had survived because he'd been left for dead. That now seemed a lifetime ago. He'd learned. Time had given him strength and judgment—and a well-trained sword arm. He'd learned victory ...And suddenly, he knew. Here, he was about to learn defeat.

But he would never accept it. Just as old MacCaffery, who had risen to his feet despite his wound, and, though the blood drained from him, fought on. Raising his great sword, letting it fall, raising it ... Again and again. And the mire beneath their feet turned red. Brendan heard a shout and turned. His kinsman was down. John Graham was unhorsed, on the ground. His men flocked around him, tried to wrest him from the onslaught of men now decimating the Scots, riding them down.

Go to him, lad! I'll cover your back! MacCaffery shouted. Aye, he was a fierce old man, and half dead or nay, there was no man better to cover him. So Brendan ran, and fell to his knees where they were lifting John, and he saw the wound at his kinsman's throat, and heard the rattle of death in his lungs.

John, for the love of God. He reached for him, would have carried him, but John placed a bloody hand on his chest. Brendan, run, run with these fellows! They've just gotten Wallace out. Go after him— I'll not leave you! he insisted. I'll take you from the mire to the wood— Brendan! I'm a dead man, and you haven't the time to save a corpse. John— For the love of Scotland, Brendan! Go! This battle is lost, much is lost! But hope is alive and freedom lives in your heart! Go! John gripped his hand tightly. The grip failed. Brendan rose slowly, clenching his teeth. He looked around. He stood in a field of dead men. Even as he watched, old MacCaffery wavered and fell at last. He had died a free man, defiant to the end.

The English were still coming. Hundreds of horsemen. More and more. Yet their horses stumbled over mud and corpses and blood. A knight dismounted, and came at him. Brendan let out a roar, the battle roar of the Scotsmen, a cry that sounded to heaven and earth and gave even armored and battle-hardened Englishmen pause. Then he stepped forward, slicing, slashing, piercing, wielding his sword with the strength of madness and rage. Men dropped before him, often felled with a single blow. He walked slowly, with purpose, rage and strength growing. John was dead, old MacCaffery was dead, by God, the dead were everywhere and the hated English were coming and coming ... Too many of them. Yet, he realized, he wasn't fighting alone. He glanced to the side, saw the colors and emblem of his own family, and realized his cousin Arryn had ridden in. Together they walked through the shadow of death, steel glistening in the sun, running red ...

Blood and haze. There was so much on the field it was hart to tell who was who anymore. Hard to read the crests on tunics that covered mail, and harder still to tell the woven colors o the wool on the men who fought kilted, without armor. There was a break, suddenly. The English before them ha( fallen. More came ... Yet at a distance. And like the arrows, they were spellbinding, horses and men in their armor and livery beneath the sun and sky, colors flying, great muscles moving ... Beautiful. Awesome. Deadly. To horse! Arryn shouted. Some of the man who had fought with them ran.

Brendan shook his head, eyes narrowed. There are more of them! John is dead, MacCaffery is dead—they're all ... dead, he said, looking at the field. For them, freedom—or death! There will be no freedom if we don't keep the fight alive! Arryn told him. Damn you, Brendan, to your horse! At sixteen, he had known the sweet taste of victory at Stirling Bridge. Now, at seventeen, he knew that he must swallow the bitterness of the defeat at Falkirk. Arryn mounted his horse. Achilles loped behind him. Brendan hesitated but a second more. He mounted his horse and followed. By John's body he paused. Aye, cousin! For the love of Scotland, I'll ride. And I swear to you, John, I will ride until Scotland is free forever. By God's blood, so help me, I so swear! I will never surrender—myself, or my country.

The English were almost upon him. He waited. And with a fierce and fiery fury he turned one last time, bringing down the first knight to attack him, and the man behind him. It seemed again that there were men all around him. They had come near the wood, near the edge of the trees. As he engaged then, still mounted, striking with his sword, he found himself fighting into the cover of the trees. He was nearly unhorsed; he dismounted of his own volition, turning to fight on foot. One man assaulted him, and he pressed back hard until his attacker was at a tree, and there he killed him. Then he turned, covered in shadow and darkness. Someone stood in the copse, wearing a dark cape over chain mail. Friend or foe? He started forward. For a moment, the figure attacked with strength and aggression, but Brendan returned each strike of the sword. The enemy fell back and cried out, Wait! It was a young voice, a female voice. The cape fell from her; she tore the mail helm from her head. Stunned, he stared at her. She was very young—his own age, perhaps? Younger still. In the shadowed light of the forest, her hair gleamed with a golden fire. Her features were as perfect as carved marble, her eyes as bright as stars, as innocent... He made no move against her. He just stared. And it was then that he heard the figure behind him. The enemy at his back. He whirled with a split second to spare. Before the man could slice off his head, Brendan skewered him through the gullet.

Something from the rear hit his head. He fell to his knees, pain shooting through his temples, blinding him. The girl. The girl had struck him down, he thought, as the world began to fade. Brendan! His cousin's voice brought him struggling back. Arryn had reached him. Dismounting, he drew Brendan to his feet. Come on, we've got to ride harder, further, deeper, into the wood! Gritting his teeth, Brendan grasped his horse's saddle, and managed to pull himself up. The pain he felt was horrible; the self-anger was worse. No enemy was ever to be trusted! Brendan! Hold boy, ride!" His vision wavered. Then he saw the host coming hard behind them, slipping into the trees. He nudged Achilles and rode hard. Thankfully, his horse followed his kinsman's. And as they rode, and the English fell behind, he damned himself in an impotent rage and desolation. They had lost. They had fought so long, and so hard ... And he had been downed by a girl. But he had survived. He had been ready to fight to the death, but they had been right—death now would avail him nothing, nor would it serve his country. He would fight again. Never surrender. Never forget, never forgive.

His head pounded ferociously and he nearly fell from his mount, but he held on and stayed alive through will power alone. He must survive now. Nor the love of Scotland! And for vengeance. One day, by God, aye! One day he would find out who she was! Vengeance, anger, they were strong emotions for life! Sanctuary ... at last they reached sanctuary in the woods. Safety, lad, we've reached safety! He heard Arryn's rough voice, then fell into his kinsman's arms, and as he did so, he knew he would not stay conscious long. Darkness was encroaching all around him. A deep crimson darkness, like the shadow of blood and death ... He would live. For vengeance, and for Scotland.

Aye, to find her!—and for the love of his country. He would not die. Nay ... He would avenge the evil done today. And he and his country would both live—at peace, triumphant. And free.

Chapter 1

The Eve of the New Century 1301-1302

She's an outlaw! Captain Abram cried. A pirate ship. Full sail! Hard with the wind! We must outrun these bloody bastards! The white-bearded, leathered old sea captain was tense as he shouted the command. Lady Eleanor of Clarin, Yorkshire, England, had been standing at the bow, feeling the salt spray tease her flesh and the wind whip her hair and clothing about her. She frowned at the captain's shout, not at all certain of his deduction. Respite the lookout in the crow's nest she had been the first o see the oncoming vessel, the first to bring the ship to the captain's attention. It was a very fast ship—she now watched in amazement as it bore down on them, seeming to fly over the Irish Sea. A pirate ship, she repeated. She wasn't sure she believed him. She'd heard of a few exploits, certain seamen ready to risk all to improve their fortunes, but they were few and far between. The days when the Vikings ruled the seas with their own brand of piracy had now faded, and though many a man living in Britain, Eire, and, aye, maybe even all of Europe, carried Viking blood, there were dire consequences for men captured in such acts. King Edward was merciless to pirates— they stole from his ships, his coffers, and he needed his money for the wars he was constantly waging.

Pirates! Captain Abram repeated, aggravated, his attention suddenly on her. ' 'And you, my lady, are to get below, to my cabin. Captain Abram, if pirates seize this vessel, I will be no safer in your office than elsewhere, she told him. Lady Eleanor, I intend to hold my ship! Captain, many men have intended many things. I will fight— he began, outraged. I have no doubt! He sighed, studying her, aware he was talking to a young woman who had seen too much. Lady, you could be slain in the boarding of such outrageous fellows. Those who dare the seas know little of the conventions of the civilized world!" The civilized world. If she lived within a civil world whatsoever, she had yet to see it in effect. The civil had sent her on this trip, and the civility of her concerned male relations.

Perhaps it is not pirates at all, but one of my cousins, she murmured. Lady, I know the ship! Abram insisted. She belongs to the French rogue pirate Thomas de Longueville! My lady, would not have you die!No, he would not, she thought sadly, though she wondered if the possibility of her death hadn't been a driving factor toward her presence now on the Irish Sea, heading for France She kept such counsel to herself, however, and reminded him, Captain, I was present at my family home north of York when the savage Scotsman, Wallace, set fire to a barn imprisoning thirty men. I was the one, sir, to defy the remnants of the butcher's army, and open the doors.

Abram didn't look pleased. Aye, the people think you a saint, touched by God, and men of York followed you into battle at Falkirk, lady, but we are asea here! My good young woman, you could die by the accidental touch of a grappling hook! By the fall of a mast. Call your maidservant, lady. Get below. Captain, with all respect— Girl! Is there no one to whom you will listen! he cried. The sound of his voice gave her the first real sense of alarm she had felt. She turned around. The ship was nearly upon them. The vessel she rode seemed a poor, creaking, groaning beast of burden now, hard put to come up with any speed. Sailors rushed about, commanded now by the captain's mate, and what she saw in their eyes was surely good warning.

She looked back to the ship coming upon them. Small, smooth, sleek, with excellent sails proudly riding the masts, she cut the water with the accuracy and precision of a knife. Eleanor! At the call of her name, she turned. Are ye daft, child? Pirates are upon us! Bridie, her maid, was standing at the top of the few steps that led to the captain's cabin, crossing herself over and over again. Despite the situation, Eleanor arched a delicate brow—Bridie never spoke to her in such a tone. Surely, she must believe that they were facing imminent death. Bridie— she began, but Bridie came flying across the deck, dodging seamen in their desperate attempts to build speed. Tall, slender, just three years older than Eleanor, she was a good and stalwart companion. Now, as she had been before. She threw her arms around Eleanor. "I was there! I was there as well that day, I know that you hated what you did, I know that they dragged you to the field of battle, I know! So don't go pretending you are as steely as any man, by the blood of the Virgin Mary, come with me, lady; come below. Would you view any more blood?"

Her courage, or determination, falted at Bridie's words. God, yes! She had hated the bloodshed, hated the fear, hated the fighting, the watching as men died ... Bridie was right. It had not been courage that had made her act as she had at Castle Clarin. It had been pure madness. Still, she had learned. Much about battle, and much about men. Please! Bridie whispered. All right, we'll go below.

Eleanor followed Bridie, feeling the pitch of the ship but balancing to it. She wasn't afraid of the wind or the water. A sure knowledge of their character gave an intelligent respect for the wrath of the pirates. But nothing, nothing in the world frightened her as much as the prospect of being locked in. Before they reached the door, a violent shuddering sent them both flying. It was as if the whole of the vessel let out a cry. Wounded, aye, she was wounded, rammed, run down. Sailors were abandoning their positions to draw their arms. The pirate ship had come upon them, skimmed them, taken them. Grappling hooks flew into the air like silver birds, then fell to the ship's planking like winged teeth of steel.

My lady! Bridie called. She catapulted into Eleanor; they both went sprawling. By then, sailors from the assaulting ship were dropping on them like flies upon meat. Men hung from the rigging, then slid to the deck, their swords bared. Fierce battle was engaged. Flat upon the deck, Eleanor stared into the eyes of a dying seaman, watching as they glazed over. His blood spilled upon the deck, and trickled toward them both. Up! she shrieked to Bridie, and they were both on their feet. Two men, their weapons lost, went crashing behind them, plowing into the cabin. It was one of the attackers who had their first mate by the throat. Eleanor charged after them, capturing the heavy, very costiy Bible from the captain's desk, and dashing it upon the head of the attacker. Dazed, he stumbled away. The grizzled first mate stared at Eleanor.

Bridie went for the Bible. She lifted it high. The Lord is with us! Is he, now? They both spun around. A tall man stood at the entry to the cabin, his hand upon the door frame as he looked in. Alas, mademoiselle, I think not. He stepped down into the cabin, sweeping his hat from his head.' 'Allow me to introduce myself. Thomas de Longueville. And God is with me, and against you, for the moment. He wasn't an old man, but somewhat weathered bronze by his days at sea. His breeches were a dyed dark linen, his shirt, white, his doublet, a cranberry color, his boots tall, and his eyes, sharp, narrowed, and all-assessing. A small smile curled his lips. Ah ... so it's true. Lady Eleanor of Castle Clarin, I do believe. You sail to France—to meet a rich man. To bring new money to coffers destroyed by the Scots—God bless their savage souls! Well, we shall see what this man is willing to pay to have you at his side."

The first mate, backed to the cabin wall, suddenly came to life, springing forward. You brigand! You'll not touch the lady— As he surged forward, the pirate drew a knife. Eleanor quickly stepped between the two men. The impetus of the mate sent her crashing into the pirate. An unnerving little fire took flight within his eyes. She pushed away from him, still between him and the mate. There's been enough death! she said firmly. Thomas de Longueville arched a brow, amused. You will tell me when there has been enough death? Do you kill for the pleasure of it? she demanded. You have taken the ship. There is no reason to kill this man. Aye, that's true. I have the ship. And as to this man ... Silently, he thought a moment. Jean! he called, and quickly a second man came running to the cabin doorway. Throw this fellow overboard. Don't kill him, though. Whatever you do, make him hit that water alive and well!

Whatever you do, make sure you set him in a small boat! Eleanor exploded, as another pirate arrived, and her would-be defender was dragged out. "Nervy little wench, eh? But then, you are the defender of Castle Clarin. Santa Lenora, eh? She is a lady, born and bred, a gentle maiden, mild- mannered and well-behaved! Bridie lied, coming to put an arm around her. And if you ... and if you ... Her words faltered. Her cheeks flushed. She's trying to say that if you harm me in any way, I'll not be worth nearly so much to my prospective bridegroom, Eleanor said flatly. She wondered if any of it mattered. She had been born to a battered land, and from the day her father had died, her life had become a gamble, a charade, a travesty. Ah, but what if it doesn't matter to me, just what kind of riches I make off you?" he inquired, eyes still alight with humor.

What if nothing matters to me, and I throw myself into the sea? she cross-queried. Anger, a flash of annoyance, touched his face, and he started to retort, but suddenly the man named Jean was back. A ship! he said tensely. A ship? Aye, and flying at us! Jean said. Thomas de Longueville took the time to bow to the women. You will forgive me, I beg you. Adieu, for the time. Lady Eleanor, a pity, we were just beginning to know one another. I will finish off this new enemy as quickly as I might, and be back with you. I would not want you to miss your engagement with the sea!

The door slammed upon them. Eleanor let out a shriek of terror, flying toward the cabin door. It was bolted tight. My lady— Bridie cried, coming to her. She could not be locked in. Confined.

Yet, suddenly, she flew back, slamming against the captain's desk. The ship let out a long, terrible shudder. Wood. Groaning, cracking ... giving. And then ... The scent of fire. Fire! she turned on Bridie.We were told to stay here; the fire is beyond us— We'll not burn, I'd rather a swift sword through the heart! Eleanor— I refuse! I won't do it, I won't! Eleanor cried, and she recklessly began searching through the cabin for a weapon, any weapon, to use against the door. At last, behind the tapestry that protected the captain's bed, she found an axe. An old battle- axe, perhaps a weapon of war, or maybe just a necessary tool. She didn't know which. She didn't care. She gripped the axe with determination.

Eleanor, you mustn't, Bridie told her. Listen. Pay heed to me! The captain said that we must stay here. We could be killed by accident. Eleanor stopped dead still and stared at her maid. No, Bridie, pay attention to me. Don't you smell the fire? Shall we die like trapped rats? But, my lady—

"I don't care how I die, Bridie, as long as it is not by flame. Bridie, listen—breathe! Fire, there is fire aboard!" Bridie took in a deep breath. Indeed, there was fire. How serious, Eleanor did not know.

But she would not be trapped. Fire, Bridie, fire! Bridie took in a breath again and seemed to come to life. Fire! she gripped Eleanor's shoulders, staring at her wildly. Fire, Eleanor! Let me help you. What can I do? Stand back, Bridie. I wield such instruments well. To prove her point, she took several steps back, then hacked away with vigor and efficiency at the door.

Can we take her? Brendan demanded, looking through the captain's glass. Aye, if you're willing! Eric Graham, a kinsman, commanding the Wasp, told Brendan. Oh, I am willing! Brendan murmured. It was a strange sight at sea. The pirate ship had rammed an English vessel flying the colors of Edward I; they had come upon a battle scarcely completed.

Both ships had suffered damage in the scuffle. Both had surely lost men as well. The Wasp was of Norse design, built in the North Islands still under Norse rule. She was smooth and sleek and carried a handful of seamen with the blood of Vikings strong in their veins—and Scotsmen, too often defeated, and too honed to battle. You know the pirate ship? Eric inquired. He was a large man, Brendan's own height, but where Brendan's hair was dark as night, his kinsman sported a pate and beard the color of copper, and his eyes were a paler Nordic blue than the almost cobalt coloring of Brendan's own. They lit upon Brendan then with good humor. Tell me, you do recognize the colors flying!

Cousin, I've spent most of my life fighting upon land, Brendan reminded him. Aye, he'd come to adulthood fighting. He barely remembered the time now when he had been a youth of good family, naturally learning the instruments of war, but spending nights with books as well, with language, mathematics, history, and music. It's only of late that I've had these— opportunities?—to come to the sea. And his mind had been otherwise occupied when he had been asea, so he knew little about the flags being flown by different men.

He turned to Eric. Eric, are you intending to share the information? The ship belongs to Thomas de Longueville. Even he knew the name. The infamous Frenchman? Brendan inquired.

Aye, an intriguing fellow. Knows how to bargain when the time is right. And he has taken an English ship? Let's have at them then! Will Wallace agree? We are on a matter of national diplomacy, Eric reminded him. To taking a French pirate on our way to France—and capturing a vessel flying Edward's flag? Aye, he'll agree. He turned, training the glass aft of their ship. Wallace's vessel rode somewhat behind theirs. Before they had come upon the curious sight before them, they had been prepared for battle at sea.

They always sailed prepared for battle. Though Falkirk had been lost, William Wallace, the great defender of Scotland, had lived. And there were few men King Edward I wanted dead with a greater vengeance. Since Falkirk, Wallace had never faltered from his dream of freedom, or his ideals for Scotland. But he was an intelligent man; his only real power as a leader had lain with his success, simply because of the feudal structure of their society. Wallace wasn't a great lord or nobleman with hereditary rights over men. He did not have scores of tenants sworn to serve him in times of war. Since the Scottish loss at Falkirk, he had continued to tirelessly defend Scotland, harrying the English troops who had kept a foothold in southern Scotland, seizing supplies, fighting where speed and strategy could outweigh the forces of might and resources against him. He had traveled as well, to Norway, the Shetlands, and most important, perhaps, to France and Italy.

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,