Highlander's Sword

by Amanda Forester

  Yet one in the castle was not pleased when news of Aila's wedding reached him. Indulging in a moment of anger, he flung his goblet, which hit the far side of the room, whiskey splattering the wall. Taking gulps of air, he tried to silently regain his composure before anyone could note his reaction, but his body shook with the effort required to contain his fury.

  With the firm resolve of a man long acquainted with deception, he tightened his grip on his emotions, pushing them beneath the surface of the mask he wore so well. Despite his outward appearance of calm, rage seethed within him like a bottled tempest. Seeing the whiskey dripping down the wall, he moved quickly to clean it, noting as he did the container from which the spirit flowed. It was a finely crafted bottle, inlaid with red jewels around the neck. Grabbing the vessel, he walked over to his private chest from which he pulled a smaller bottle. He had intended the special contents of the small bottle for Laird Graham, but these were desperate times. He admired the small bottle in his hand. 'Tis the lovely thing about poison; it takes so little to leave a man dead.

  He liberally poured the contents of the small bottle into the larger jeweled carafe, smiling at his cleverness and MacLaren's impending demise. He paused for a moment, considering what might happen if Aila should also drink the poison, but rejected the notion with a shrug, confident Aila did not drink whiskey. Satisfied with his reasoning, he rang the bell and told the servant to deliver the gift as a wedding present later in the evening. MacLaren's marriage to the Lady Aila was going to be much shorter than anyone anticipated.

  Five

  MACLAREN RECEIVED REPORTS FROM HIS MEN, WHO had questioned the nearby crofters. No one had seen anything. Most were gone to the town of Carron for St. John's Eve, and those who had stayed behind were too frail to be outdoors. Whoever had perpetrated the brazen daytime attack had chosen the time and place carefully to minimize the risk of detection. He called for his men to mount up, and they began the journey back to Dundaff.

  Though unsuccessful in their hunt, MacLaren's men were pleased to be active again, and they rode back to the Graham stronghold in good humor. Of late, MacLaren had directed his men to plant his fallow fields, and while his men would follow any command, they were weary of playing farmer.

  MacLaren had returned from France last autumn with this band of war-weary soldiers and landless knights who had followed him in his campaigns against the English and continued to follow him now. MacLaren rode in silence, Chaumont by his side. The men behind him talked and laughed freely, engaging in the easy banter of men who knew each other well. Most had been his companions for years in France. Though many were from other clans or even other countries, they had become his friends, his family, his clan. He would do anything for them—including marriage.

  "We have cause to celebrate, lads," Chaumont said with a smile. MacLaren knew where this was going and concentrated on the dirt path ahead of him.

  "MacLaren has taken a wife." Chaumont was enjoying the moment with unabashed glee. His procla mation was greeted with stunned silence from the men. MacLaren gritted his teeth for what was to come.

  "MacLaren married?" asked one man.

  "But he declared he would ne'er wed," said another.

  "It canna be so."

  "Who did he marry?"

  "The lovely Lady Aila Graham," replied Chaumont in his smooth voice.

  More silence.

  "Heiress to all of Dundaff," Chaumont added.

  Cheers shook the leaves from the trees. Men gath ered around MacLaren, celebrating his—and to large extent their—good fortune. MacLaren accepted their felicitations with stoic resolve. It was certainly good news for his men, but MacLaren was unsure his fate was equally bonnie. Worse yet, MacLaren found there was no end of advice to be given to a man newly married. Even men who were confirmed bachelors now seemed experts in the field of matrimony. As they continued back to Dundaff, MacLaren was assailed by their enthusiastic, if not helpful, comments.

  "'Tis important ye master her early so she dinna give ye no strife," said a gangly youth MacLaren felt sure would kiss the feet of any comely lass who gave him but an ounce of notice.

  "Ho, ho! Big talk from a lad what's more afeard o' the lasses than the English," mocked Rory, a stout fighter who had been married for as long as MacLaren could remember. He gave MacLaren a knowing nod. "Treat her fair now, lad, and she'll do right by ye."

  "Nay, a woman will bring ye naught but aggrava tion." This was from Gilbert, who had left his wife and three children to join MacLaren's campaign in France, only to return several years later to find he had acquired two more bairns. He had endured much hazing from his fellow soldiers about the amazing strength of his seed, which could impregnate his wife from hundreds of miles away—twice.

  "Now, Gilby, Meg is a right fine lass," said one man.

  "Aye, we all think so," rejoined another, followed by the bawdy laughter of the group.

  "Plague take ye all!" spat Gilbert.

  When the laughter subsided, Chaumont, who had been riding quietly next to MacLaren, listening to the questionable marital counsel of the Highland warriors, decided it was time to contribute to the conversation. "You all seem to be full of advice, most of it bad, and none of it addressing what is most important in a marriage." He spoke in his rich, smooth voice, the ever-present spark of humor in his eyes.

  "What might that be?" MacLaren asked warily. He wasn't beyond tossing him in another cold loch if he felt the need arise.

  "I speak of your husbandly duties in the marital bed."

  This got the attention of the men, and they rode in silence, listening to what the Frenchman might say on the topic. "You know it is your responsibility to give her pleasure so she can give you children." The Highlanders nodded. It was well known only a woman well pleased in the bedroom could conceive a child. Those who had never heard of this particular axiom also nodded wisely, believing the Frenchman to be an expert on all such matters.

  Yet MacLaren remained a skeptic, both of the state ment's truth and Chaumont's humor. "Do ye really ken that be true, or is it an old wives' tale?"

  Chaumont smiled broadly. "I am sure it is a tale told by many wives." More laughter rang forth from the men. What followed was more advice from the men on the subject of happily bedding a wife, which ranged from the crude to the poetic.

  After a while, one man turned to Rory, saying, "Do ye no' have a dozen bairns? Ye must know how to keep a wife well pleased."

  "That I do, laddie, that I do." He lowered his voice as if sharing a great secret. "I'll tell ye how to give the greatest pleasure a lass has ever known."

  The men leaned in their saddles, straining to hear the old man's words.

  "Take a bath."

  Aila was overwhelmed and touched by the expres sions of joy and celebration from those in the castle. All sorts of people, including many her mother would have found unacceptable, came to offer their congratulations. Their joy was contagious, and she soon shared their excitement about the union. Perhaps she had done the right thing after all. Soon the maids came swarming back, insisting Aila return to the tower to be properly bathed and dressed for the return of her master.

  Her maids prepared her bath and worked to modify a silver gown to be more in keeping with the current court fashion. The reality of her union to MacLaren began to sink in. After the bath, the maids attempted to tame Aila's wet, curly tangles into long ringlets.

  "Och, m'lady," said Maggie, one of the maids, "ye ne'er told us ye were to be wed."

  Nobody told me either.

  "And such a man," said another maid.

  "'Tis verra braw," said a third.

  "Aye, verra." The maids all made happy humming noises.

  "Too bad about his face. What an ugly scar."

  "Gained fighting against the English," Aila reminded them, though in truth she did not know how he had received the scar and was unsure why she needed to defend him.

  "Aye, m'lady," the maids acknowledged. They finished without further discussion and
sent her up to dry her hair in the sun.

  Alone with her thoughts, Aila stood on the turret with her face to the sun. Pushing aside the doubts and worries, she considered what it might be like to be married to such a man as MacLaren, who had risked his life to bring back the body of her dear brother. To MacLaren, who was knighted in France for fighting valiantly against the English invaders. To MacLaren, who had been her brother's friend and whom she had secretly idolized in her younger years. She smiled, remembering her childish fancy. She had secretly watched the young MacLaren, thinking he was the most handsome lad she had ever seen. She had planned to marry him at the age of five, until she realized "nun" meant "no man."

  Aila's smile broadened. MacLaren's growth to manhood had done nothing to diminish his appeal. She wondered if his choice in brides had been motivated solely by the size of her inheritance, or if he felt any particular regard for her. The thought of MacLaren wanting her gave her a sudden flush. He had looked into her eyes with such intensity, as if he was the first person to truly see her. Her smile waned as she remembered how he had acted after they had wed. What would it be like to be married to him? Would he be kind or harsh? Questions tumbled in her head.

  Si qua ergo in Christo nova creatura vetera transierunt ecce facta sunt nova.

  The scripture came unbidden to mind. If anyone is in Christ he is a new creation, the old has gone, the new has come. A new beginning? That would be nice. She breathed deeply of the promise in the air. Closing her eyes, she enjoyed the warmth of the sun. It was St. John's Eve.

  Anything was possible. Returning to the castle, a multitude of questionable pieces of advice ringing in his ears, MacLaren decided it was time to meet his wife. Chaumont intercepted him and refused to allow MacLaren to seek her until he was washed and dressed "properly."

  "I dinna come to court her. I've already married her," MacLaren said, arguing he did not bring the garments Chaumont deemed necessary.

  "I've yer clothes here," chimed in Braden, his squire. MacLaren glared at Chaumont with suspicion.

  Chaumont shrugged. "I may have given him a few packing suggestions."

  After MacLaren was dressed to Chaumont's satisfaction, MacLaren was directed to Lady Aila's tower, being warned several times to go to the third floor—not the second, but the third. Lady Graham, it was whispered, resided on the second floor. He wondered at the emphasis but dutifully passed the second floor and continued on to the third. He stood on a small landing before a heavy oak door, wondering what he was supposed to say to his bride. The opportunity had emerged so quickly, he barely had time to think about it, except that it presented a resolution to a problem.

  Graham's proposition for MacLaren to marry his daughter provided MacLaren with much-needed land and fortune from her dowry. And if Graham was to sire no more children, MacLaren would inherit more than he had ever dreamed of owning. The marriage fulfilled his responsibilities by providing support to his clan and land for the knights who followed him. It was the right thing to do, but as he had made his quick decision yesterday, he had considered only Aila's land and Aila's money, not actually Aila herself. Prior to Marguerite, he had taken his knightly vow of purity seriously and so had little experience with women.

  Now, as he stood outside the door, he felt… what exactly? Intimidated? Nervous? He shook his head to bolster his courage and his pride. Such nonsense. You've bedded a countess; you can bed her. People get married every day. This is nothing more than a common business transaction, like buying an apple at the market. With that romantic thought, he knocked on the door and, without waiting for a reply, opened it.

  The room was clean and, apart from a great curtained bed, rather simply adorned. A brush and copper mirror lay on a small table beside the bed. A chest sat at the foot of the bed, and a washing tub, still filled with water, had been placed by the window alcove. It appeared he may have interrupted her in the middle of her bath, yet the room was neat and orderly. And nothing in the room resembled the frightened looking lass he married that morn. He was unsure of what to do next. There were no tapestries on the walls and nothing of a personal nature to provide him clues to her disposition. Feeling an odd mixture of relief and disappointment but seeing no point in standing in an empty room, he went back to the staircase. Noting the stairs went farther up to what he guessed was the turret, he decided to take a look and orient himself to the terrain that may soon be host to his next battle.

  He bounded up the stairs, thinking of strategy, and reached the top of the turret before he realized he was not alone. He froze at the unexpected sight. A woman, dressed in nothing more than a linen chemise and a plaid wrap that hung loosely about her arms, was standing in profile, gazing at the valley below. Her figure, which he strained to see in the sunlight through the thin chemise, was perfect. The wind swirled around in teasing gusts, pressing the fabric to her skin, revealing her curves and then billowing out the material once more. In the late afternoon sun, her hair seemed to reflect the sun's rays with no lesser brilliance, shining like red-hot embers, as if her long ringlets were emanating a light of their own. The wind played with her hair, swirling it around her. She closed her eyes and arched her back into the sun.

  MacLaren's mouth fell open. He was reminded of the sirens who led men to their deaths. This one could certainly lead a man to destruction. Since he was a man newly married and she had not yet seen him, he endeavored to leave before notice. His boot scuffed the floor. She turned at the sound and made a small gasp, covering her mouth with one hand, her chest with the other. MacLaren also gasped. The beauty before him was none other than his wife.

  Six

  SAINTS ABOVE, BUT SHE WAS BEAUTIFUL. MACLAREN stared at his wife, and she stared right back at him. He tried to think of something to say, but his mind grew ever more blank as the awkward silence continued. He was seized by the compulsion to kiss her, rejected the idea, but then remembered that with this lass, he had the right. He walked slowly toward her, the desire to thread his fingers through her hair and press his lips on hers growing with every step.

  "Sorry, sir, ye startled me. I dinna ken you were there," Aila finally said. She chewed on her bottom lip, her eyes growing larger with MacLaren's approach.

  "Hmmm," said MacLaren, because it was all he could think of to say.

  "I have been remiss in not stating this earlier," Aila's words tumbled on top of each other, her voice a little high. MacLaren drew nearer and reached out to touch her. Nothing could stop him now. "Please let me express my deepest gratitude for the return o' my beloved brother."

  Nothing but that.

  Painful memories came flooding back, and MacLaren's arm dropped along with his desire. He remembered the night he returned to the battle ground of Neville's Cross. There had been so many dead. It had taken hours, crawling body by body to evade capture, before he found the remains of William Graham. Will had been a good friend, quick with a sword, faster on a horse. It should not have ended this way. If only MacLaren had arrived in Scotland sooner.

  When MacLaren heard of King David's advance into England, he followed his path, intending to join his forces. He met the Scots when they were in full retreat. All he could do was to protect their retreating flanks and avoid a rout as they crossed back into Scotland. He had been a day too late. One day earlier, and he could have helped to turn the tide. Or maybe he would have joined his friend in the sleep of death.

  He nodded to Aila, accepting her words, and turned his focus to the waning sun casting its long shadows across the landscape. The vista from the tower was impressive, providing a view of some of Graham's extensive lands. Awkward silence threatened to engulf them again, and MacLaren recognized it was his turn to say something.

  "'Tis a highly defensible position," he stated, showing his appreciation for the castle's design.

  "Pardon?"

  "Dundaff. 'Tis well built. Good visibility. Ye winna be able to take her by surprise."

  "Oh… aye," said Aila, looking a bit confused.

  "So…
" He voiced the first question that came to mind. "Ye were meant for the Church?"

  "I was destined for the Church from an early age. My mother's dream was for me to be an abbess. But wi' her poor health, I was needed here. I was waiting until my brother took a wife who would act as chat elaine of Dundaff in my stead, but then…" She turned toward the waning sun now setting to her left. "But then ye came." She turned to him with a tentative smile, looked down the length of him, blushed, and turned back to the battlements.

  MacLaren noted her appraisal of his person with some interest and wondered if he had passed inspec tion. Uncommonly conscious of his appearance, he was glad to be clean shaven and freshly bathed. At Chaumont's insistence, he had abandoned his Highlander's garb in favor of the attire he was accustomed to wearing while in France. Instead of his kilt, he wore snug-fitting russet-colored breeches tucked into black leather boots. Over a linen tunic, he wore a formfitting surcoat of dark green that hung to mid-thigh.