DISCLAIMER: This is something of a Braveheart fanfiction, because it takes place after the death of William Wallace; the movie was the skeleton I used to write this. I do not own the character William Wallace or Patrick, nor do I own the series of events that I may mention from the movie. I do, however, own the main characters as well as all others mentioned.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: If you like adventure, wartorn battlefields, political intrigue, tragedy, and above all else, true love that knows no bounds, this is the story for you.
ARCHIVING: Only with the permission of the author.
Firedance
By Marina Eller
Chapter One
Larkspur Glen
A glass-handled brush glided across the broad expanse of paper, leaving smooth, wet trails of gold and silver in its wake. It danced and twirled as though on a plane of virgin snow, guided by a playful but steady hand. The hand extended neatly from a lace-shrouded arm, which belonged to a young woman with dusky skin and long, messily-gathered tresses that precisely mimicked the hue of aged red wine.
She had been told many times that painting by the dim light of the moon would ruin her eyes, but she had never been able to produce the same eerie, magical feel of her art in the harsh rays of the sun or by weak, sallow candlelight. She set aside her leatherbound paint book and her brushes, and leaned back against a large rock, feeling its hard coolness against her back in sharply pleasant contrast with the soft, damp earth beneath her palms. This cliff was her favorite place in the world. Far below her, the crashing of midnight waves echoed off the earth and limestone of the cliff face. The heady, delicious aroma of night-blooming jasmine filled her breast, and she gazed longingly at the full moon amid its glittering handmaidens, the stars.
I wish I could stay here forever…
But even as she registered the thought, she knew it to be a foolish one. She would leave, as she had always done, tomorrow in the pale morning, to return to her home of Godardshire. Things would continue as they always had, until her next chance to visit her beloved Larkspur Glen. And then the cycle would begin anew.
"Keira?"
She glanced over one shoulder in surprise, then grinned. Her great uncle, Byron Rowley, was a respectable three score and two years old, but the venerable man could still creep like a hunting cat when he wanted to. She motioned for him to sit beside her. He had always reminded her of a walking tree, with his long, strong limbs and bushy white beard. It was, of course, incredibly unfashionable to keep one's facial hair in such disarray, but Byron Rowley was a Grand Duke, and one of Her Majesty's closest friends, and so people generally left him to his own devices.
"You have good taste, little one," he remarked as he slowly eased himself into a sitting position. It was very late, but he still wore the vibrantly purple waistcoat that she knew to be his favorite. "This is my favorite place to come to think," he continued, his sparkling blue eyes drifting over the rolling sea below. Then he turned to look at her. "What brings you here at such an hour?"
Keira gestured to her art book and paints. "The moon is perfect tonight. I thought to take advantage of it."
Byron let his hand rest over the soft leather cover of the book. "May I?"
She nodded, and he carefully set the book in his lap and began to scan its pages. He had seen them all before many times, but he never seemed to tire of them. He gave each painting its due before moving on to the next, and when he reached the last one, he made a small sound of delight and grinned broadly at her, his eyes twinkling like twin sapphires in the moonlight.
"Why, this is me!"
Keira nodded sadly, gazing down at the portrait she had begun. "I was sitting here and thinking about how much I wish I could stay with you, Uncle. I love Larkspur Glen. It's so peaceful and perfect, unlike…well…." She looked up at him, uncertain of how much she ought to say.
"Speak on, child. Don't be afraid. Did I not teach you that, myself? What good are words that come from here—" he pointed to his mouth "—if they do not come from here, as well?" He spread his fingers lightly over his narrow chest.
She smiled. It was just like Byron to say that sort of thing…that was why she loved him so much. "As you wish, Uncle. I only…you know my father. You know what he is like—" she froze for a breathless moment, horrified at her words, but Byron's steady gaze held only grandfatherly kindness. "What I mean to say is, I've always thought of you as my father. You've taught me so much…much more than anything I learn in lessons. What good is knowing how to sew and dance and greet guests and host parties? I'm no good at any of it anyway. Father knows that I will never amount to anything—"
"Not true," Byron interjected, holding up a hand. "Your father thinks you will amount to nothing only because he cannot possibly fathom the greatness that lives within you, Keira."
"Thank you, Uncle…but it doesn't matter, so long as he believes what he believes. He is the ruler of a powerful estate. His word is law."
The old man arched an eyebrow quizzically. "Your father, my dear, is a ninny and a fop. And a drunkard, at that. Following his word will not protect you or anyone else from his stupidity or even his punishments. You must learn to rule yourself as you will. People will respect you for that, and when he is gone, they will look to you."
Keira shook her head. "No, I'm a woman. When he is gone, they will look to whatever husband he chooses for me."
Byron's eyes glittered with mischief as he reached into his breast pocket and produced a sealed envelope. "Ah, yes, that reminds me…I've been meaning to show you this."
Keira's eyes widened as she read the parchment's inscription. She looked up at him, awestruck. "This is your last will and testament!"
"So it is." He chuckled, returning it to his pocket. His next words were solemn, a tone uncharacteristic of his normal behavior. "As you know, after the…murder of my son, Erik, your father is my last male descendant. But after seeing what he has made of himself, what he has allowed himself to become, I cannot allow him to succeed me. Keira Godard, I intend to make you the heir of all of my fortunes, my lands, and my titles."
"Uncle, you can't—"
"You would be surprised at what a man of my age can do, child. You were born belonging only to yourself and to God. I intend to insure that you remain free. All you must do is be picky about your suitors—do not marry a man unless you would trust him enough to own you and all that you hold dear. If he is worthy of such trust, he will not take this privilege, but rather be content to share himself with you, if you will do so with him. In this way, you will become a Duchess of my line, free to do as you will. It is what I have wished for you since the day you were born, and it is the only gift I can give you."
Keira let the magnitude of his words wash over her. Her father would be furious, of course, and would likely visit his rage upon her, but somehow that did not matter. None of it, not her father's violence, nor her impending coming-of-age and the duty to choose a husband, mattered. With the power that the duke was bestowing upon her, she would buy her freedom.
"Thank you…"
And it seemed, as she shamelessly embraced the twiggy old man, that her heart repeated those words, sang them over and over, echoing with the salty spray against the cliff side.
Chapter Two
The MacPhale
Mist glittered along the edges of the cold windows of the carriage. As Keira leaned against the glass, the mist spread where her lips brushed its chill surface. For a moment, she imagined herself a winter fairy, casting a delicate frost over the land as it wound out behind her. The moment the dreary iron gates that marked the end of the wild highlands and the beginning of her father's county materialized out of the fog, however, she quickly shook off this fancy. She was a noble lady now, albeit a debutante. For her own sanity, it was acceptable to allow herself to dream occasionally, but it would not do to let it show.
With a sigh of resignation, she gazed out at the little homesteads and turf houses that belonged to the Scots and poorer Englishmen—no, she thought dejectedly, they belong to my father, Just as everything else does. Just as I do. But that would not be so for very much longer. Watching the nameless faces go by, she wondered who they were, these people who were property of her father. They did not have the same promise of freedom that she had been granted, and still they found the strength to go about their daily tasks, fall in love, marry…
Perhaps, she thought, I have less freedom than they.
The carriage slowed in front of the main house. A tall, raven-haired Scottish woman stood watching from the shadows of a magnificent white oak, her eyes dark with…was it anger? No, she held herself in a calm, relaxed stance. Keira leaned against the glass again to get a better look. Until that moment, the woman's attention had been fixed on the guards. Then her eyes locked with Keira's, and Keira found that she could not look away until the carriage had passed through the main arch and out of sight.
She exhaled sharply in relief, throwing her weight back against the wooden seat. Her heart beat furiously against her breast, sending needles of ice to her fingers and toes. Something about the Scot had frightened her. She felt as though an electric burst had jarred her body, prodding and jerking her senses until at last they awakened, just in time to register the aftershock.
"Milady." Someone shoved an imperious hand under her nose. Leaning back in surprise, she took it gingerly and stepped out of the carriage. As her slippered feet hit the cold flagstones, her heart sank. Home again.
"Thank you," she murmured, brushing an errant strand of dark red hair out of her eyes. Godard House loomed before her in the gloom, dark and forbidding as ever. Beside her, the head serving maid, a broad-shouldered Scandinavian named Freya, frowned and cupped Keira's chin as Henrick, the door man, released her.
"It is good to have you home again, Mistress. You look a fright! I can only imagine what horrors the sun has inflicted upon your skin—you have not been taking proper care of yourself at all, as seems to be your custom!" Freya turned Keira's head from side to side, clicking her tongue disdainfully at the tiny freckles that dotted her sunkissed cheeks. "This won't do. You must look presentable for His Lordship. Come along."
Without waiting for Keira to obey her command, Freya's strong, bony hand closed over the younger woman's wrist, and she made for the doors, dragging her along in her wake. Once more, Keira felt helpless. From the moment she set foot in Godardshire until she left it each year for Larkspur Glen to visit her Great Uncle, she was scarcely permitted so much as to walk by herself. Everything must be presentable, here. Everything was for show. But who was the audience in this world of actors?
Let them put on their plays, she thought. I will watch, I will patronize them…but I will never memorize my lines.
Freya led her to her expansive bed chamber. Though it had been vacant for over two months, it had not been neglected by the housekeepers. Not a single speck of dust had been allowed to find purchase on the heavy, overly-ornate furniture. The bed was made with different blankets than the ones she had last slept on, and the windows were tightly sealed, despite Keira's preference of keeping them open.
Home again.
"Arms up," Freya barked.
Keira frowned. "Thank you, Freya, but I can dress myself."
But Freya would have none of it. The large blonde woman took her by the hands and forcibly raised her arms above her head. "You will keep your arms raised. You must be presentable to His Lordship, and quickly. He has important business to attend to."
Keira submitted to the nursemaid's tugging and prodding for over half an hour before she was deemed satisfactory. Evidently, however, 'satisfactory' was a hair's breadth from 'suffocated.'
"Now, about that face…" Freya began disapprovingly.
"Yes, I imagine it's—quite blue," Keira gasped, clutching at the strings of her bodice as though she might somehow magically extend them.
"It can only improve your looks," Freya remarked, her steel-grey eyes frosty with annoyance. "If you ask me, I think you spend far too much time running about the country. You are always so ill-mannered and saucy when you return!"
Keira almost smiled. Freya was right—something about the Glen let loose the child in her, and this child was loathe to return to captivity. It was more difficult with each passing year to suppress her.
"There," the older woman said at last. "You look as good as you're ever going to. You will find your father in his chambers. He is waiting to inspect you."
Keira did as she was bid, but her father was nowhere to be found. The lonely stone halls of Godard House always seemed so enormous and empty after the cheerful bustle of the Rowley Estate. She did not meet a soul on her way from her father's vacant chambers.
She let a hand trail along the wall as she went, knocking tapestries askew here and there and not truly knowing why she did it. The wilds of the Glen had not yet left her, and the order of Godard House made her uncomfortable. Then she realized that the servants would have to fix the tapestries, and quickly righted them all.
As she straightened a particularly morbid depiction of the brutal execution of the famous Scottish rebel, William Wallace, the muffled cacophony of raised voice drifted out to her. Frowning, she realized that the sounds emanated from directly in front of her. The tapestry itself was quite new, given that it portrayed a fairly recent event—Keira had been born just three days before the execution.
Gingerly, she slid it to one side, revealing, just as she had suspected, an enormously poorly-hidden passage. Keira was alone in an out of the way corridor, with little chance of discovery. Naturally, she made her way into the passge.
It was dark, but obviously a new excavation. No cobwebs had found their way into the corners, and small chunks of stone still littered the floor. She wondered vaguely why her father had had it built, but was content in the knowledge that she would soon find out.
The shouts grew louder, and a faint breeze thick with pipesmoke drifted through the narrow passage. Keira lifted her skirts cautiously as she went, careful to stir none of the rocks. The corridor opened out into a small square room, which, though currently empty, showed signs of recent use. An empty decanter stood on the floor beside a pewter goblet filled with an amber liquid, and a shuffle of papers littered the floor.
When she noticed two tiny holes side by side in the wall, she almost laughed. No doubt they were peep-holes in the eyes of one portrait or another on the other side of the wall. Although it was an old trick, it was unquestionably effective. She knew that anyone who might notice that the eyes of the portrait moved would attribute it to a trick of their own eyes. People did not see what they did not want to see.
Meanwhile, the shouts had quieted. Stepping over the papers, Keira gazed through the holes and found herself watching a trial in the court room. There was her father, sitting as Judge—this must be serious indeed for him to be presiding over the trial personally—and many noble Englishmen were seated nearby, smoking long pipes or drinking from gilded cups. They did not appear on the whole interested in the proceedings.
To Lord Godard's left sat an overstuffed merchant whom Keira recognized as a Mr. Harold Farthingworth. She made a small noise of disgust. He was an evil man to be sure, a man who made his fortune on the sweat of others. Standing before the court, bound in chains, was a young man, a Scot by the plaids he wore. His hair was black as night, and he wore the bold colors of an infamous clan, the MacPhales.
For the second time that day, she felt her heart sink. Clan MacPhale was known to be rebellious and wild, never truly accepting the rule of those who had taken their land. And Godardshire was situated in the very heart of the MacPhale territory. If this man stood trial by her father, his sentence would be grim, indeed.
The scraping of chairs and desks announced the end of the trial. The men began to file out of the room, grunting or talking animatedly to one another. The MacPhale was dragged roughly into a side chamber, followed by her father. Bending quickly, Keira took a moment to examine the papers scattered on the floor. They appeared to be notes about the trial…. But there was no time to read through them, now. Rolling them into a tight scroll, she stuffed them down the front of her bodice. Later, she thought.
Her father was waiting for her when she returned to her chambers. She froze with her hand still gripping the door's latch. His pale eyes were blazing, but when he spoke, his voice was deadly calm. "Where have you been?"
"I was…" Bathing, visiting the stables, sitting in the garden, in the library. "Looking for you."
Wrong, wrong, wrong!
Her father's resounding slap left tiny flecks of blood where his nails hit her cheek. She was careful to keep her eyes lowered so that he could not see that she had become numb to such attacks long ago. She didn't even reach up to wipe away the blood, but rather let it run down her face in place of the tears that would never come.
"You were told to wait for me. You disobeyed. What's more, you look atrocious." He began to pace slow circles around her. She kept her eyes on the floor, tracing the cracks as far as she could without moving her head. "Still as scrawny as a 12-year-old boy, and I see that the sun has not lightened your hair at all, despite the ruin it has inflicted on your skin."
"I am sorry, Father," she whispered. Why did he hate her so?
"You will not speak until I instruct you to do so!" he barked. "Now. You have been away for quite some time, and no doubt free to run amok as you please, if I know that bastard uncle of mine. I have brought with me a doctor, and you will be inspected thoroughly. I have no intention of attempting to sell you to a decent husband if you are spoiled already. Undress."
Her heart froze. She made the mistake of looking up at him. "Undress?"
His answering strike sent silver spots dancing in front of her eyes. Through the ringing in her ears, she heard him say, "It is not your place to question. Only to obey. What I am teaching you will serve you well in the future, should you ever manage a house of your own. You have heard my command. You would do well to heed it."
Keira was mortified. A thick, sluggish wave of nausea rolled over her stomach. She hesitated.
Lord Godard's response was to grab a fistful of her dress and jerk, hard, downward. The expensive cloth tore, nearly bringing her down with it. She cried out, and he back-handed her again, this time hard enough to knock her to the floor. Her head struck the cold, hard stone, and all gave way to blackness….
Chapter Three
Saoirse
Keira did not need to open her eyes to know that she was not alone. In fact, there seemed to be quite a few people in her room. Angry masculine shouts, mingled with more of the female variety, seared her pounding head, and something shattered noisily against the wall, followed by a string of curses from both parties.
Cautiously, she opened one eye. She was lying in her own bed in a soft dressing gown, and directly in front of her, a tall woman with long, black curls was bashing one of Lord Godard's soldiers over the head with an antique urn. He crumpled with an appreciative groan, and one of his two fellows brandished his sword with a roar.
"No, Bailey!" the third soldier, whom Keira recognized as her burly door guard, Harding, cried. He easily muscled his comrade away from the woman. "We're not to cut her! Milord's orders!"
"To hell with Lord Godard's orders!" Bailey spat. "I'm gonna kill the bitch!"
"That's right, y'bloody cowards," the woman jeered in a surprisingly light Scottish brogue. "If it takes three of you to subdue one woman, it should've occurred to yeh by now that nothin' short of killin' me'll keep me from my brother!"
Bailey's lip curled in a wicked sneer. "Oh, but that is precisely why you will be subdued, little miss. We have your brother."
"Well that's why I'm here, isn't it, you git?"
"Oh yes," Bailey replied. "And it is also why you will remain here. You see, if you do not comply with my Lord's wishes, it's your brother's head to pay."
The Scottish woman's eyes blazed. "Tristan's fate was death long before I came."
This time the other soldier, Harding, spoke, glancing nervously at the urn clutched tightly in the woman's white-knuckled hands. "That's true, but Milord has decided that it could be put to better use—keeping you in line, in particular."
"So you see," Bailey continued, leering greedily at her, "if you would rather not see your precious brother get the chop, you will do as we say. Quite a price to pay for your…" he let his watery blue eyes travel down her body.
Keira had heard enough. "Bailey!" she snapped, sitting up far too quickly for her aching head and fighting to keep a wince locked tightly behind her teeth. Both soldiers turned to stare at her in shock. Even the Scot glanced her way. The glance was not a friendly one.
"That is quite enough," Keira commanded in the most regal tone she could muster. "You will leave my chambers immediately—and!" she added quickly as the guards made for the Scot once more, "you will leave her with me."
Harding scratched his balding head uncomfortably. "I'm afraid we can't do that, Milady. She belongs to your father, and is to be held in the dungeons at his pleasure."
"I will answer to him," she said grimly. "Get out of my room. Lord Godard does not tolerate my being in the presence of men, and it would be a sorry state of affairs if he should find out that you, his loyal guardians, attempted to rape me."
At this, the soldiers stared at one another in disbelief. Bailey shook his head and assumed what he must have considered to be an amicable tone. "Now, now, Milady, there's no need to go to such extreme measures. Remember, too, that if my Lord catches the prisoner here with you, he will have her punished most vigorously. And I hope you will permit me to say that you will not likely be far behind."
Keira's feet hit the floor. She glared into Bailey's eyes with such ferocity that he blinked several times before swallowing, his Adam's apple bobbing nervously. The man was a spineless coward. He knew she was right. "My honor is worth more than you will see in a lifetime. Are you really so certain that my father would not tear you limb from limb simply for being in my private chambers? Because if so, then by all means—" she grabbed a fistful of her dressing gown and tore it viciously down the shoulder. "Do continue to deflower me."
"But...we didn't…the prisoner tried to seek a place to hide…we followed her into your—"
"Stay away from me," Keira warned, letting her voice rise to a frantic pitch. "I told you to leave me alone! Stop!"
"All bloody right!" Bailey hissed, looking wildly around in case someone had heard her. "Just…be quiet! Come on now, Harding, let's be off!"
Together they dragged their unconscious comrade unceremoniously out the door, slamming it closed behind them. Relieved and a little surprised at herself, Keira fell back onto her bed with a sigh, one hand to her aching head. She would pay for her interference, she knew, but somehow she did not care. Perhaps it was Byron's promise of freedom that had emboldened her. Perhaps it was the thought of another under her father's rule. Or perhaps her head injury was more severe than she had thought.
"You have an interesting way of doin' things," came a quiet voice.
Keira looked up to gaze over at the very Scotswoman she had seen that morning outside the gates of her home. Long raven waves framed a face of such unearthly beauty that it could have belonged to an angel—albeit a fierce one—and spilled over strong shoulders to caress an ample bosom. She was all hard muscle and soft curves…in short, everything that Keira was not.
Keira lowered her eyes. "One learns to utilize the few powers one possesses."
"Why?" The woman had not moved from her place at the foot of the bed, but, Keira noticed with an inward smile, she had put the urn down.
She shrugged haplessly. "They were wrong. My father is wrong. Is there any better reason than that? That's why I…" she suddenly remembered the papers she had stolen from the secret passage by the court room. They had been in her bodice. Patting her chest frantically, she wondered whether whoever had dressed her would have thought to give them to her father.
"Dinna worry, lass, they're still there, and probably not goin' anywhere soon."
Keira wrinkled her brow in confusion, then looked down at her hands, which still clutched at her chest, then across the room at the Scot, who wore a lazy expression of amusement. Her cheeks burning, she quickly let her hands rest somewhere more appropriate.
"No, I found some papers…your brother's trial…there!"
Miraculously, they were neatly rolled up beside the candle on her bedstand. Almost hungrily, she unfurled them. Perhaps they held clues that could lead to the release of the young MacPhale—this woman's brother.
Her blood ran cold. There, in large, sharp script was her father's handwriting.
Do not interfere in that which is not your concern, Keira. I am sure you understand the gravity of this breach of my trust. I will deal with you later.
Ashen-faced, she let the paper fall to the ground. She knew that this icy calm message was far more dangerous than anything her father could have said aloud. It meant that he would have time to let the matter stew, turning it over in his mind until he could decide on a suitably ghastly punishment. And now she had one of his prisoners in her room, as well.
She suddenly felt a cool hand brush her forehead. The Scot had crossed the room to read the papers Keira had dropped, and now stood before her, regarding her with a solemn gaze.
"What's your name, bonny lass?" she asked softly.
"Keira Godard."
"Ah, my sympathy for havin' such an ogre for a father. This his handiwork?" She gestured to Keira's face, which, she imagined, must be swollen and bruised.
Keira nodded numbly.
"I'm Saoirse MacPhale. Tristan's me twin brother. Listen to me, Keira Godard," she moved closer, as though imparting a great secret. "I know that you're in trouble, and there'll be more if I'm discovered here. How can I get to the dungeons where me brother is?"
"Only as a prisoner," Keira replied miserably. She paused for a moment, then added, "Perhaps if you give yourself up willingly, the guards—and my father—will be more inclined to loosen their security."
Saoirse's brilliantly blue eyes widened in horror. "Give up? Only a bleedin' fool would surrender to these pigs! D'ya know what they'd do to me?"
"I do. But if it brought you closer to Tristan, would it not be worth it?"
The raven-haired Scot pondered this for a moment. Then she looked back down at Keira. "There must be another way. There'd be no way out of the dungeon once I did find Tristan."
"That's where I might be able to help you," Keira countered, her excitement mounting. What better way to spend her last years of confinement than by using everything she knew about her father and his rule to help those he oppressed? She knew Byron would approve. "But you should go now, before you are discovered here. My…my father will likely request an audience with me soon."
Saoirse had an odd look in her eyes that Keira could not readily identify, but she nodded slowly. "Aye, I'll go. You're a good lass, Keira. Try not to end up like the rest of your kind."
With that, she blew out of the room like a gale, leaving only the faint scent of jasmine in her wake.
Keira did not realize until some minutes later that the ceremonial dagger that usually hung directly beside the pedestal of the antique-urn-turned-bludgeon was also gone.
To Be Continued