Highlander's Sword

by Amanda Forester

  "Take care now, lass."

  "Thank ye, I will."

  The stable master shuffled back to the stables, taking the lantern with him. He closed the secret door to the cave and plunged her into blackness. Aila was accustomed to the dark and waited for her eyes to adjust to the faint fluorescent glow of the minerals in the cave wall. She led her mount through the cave tunnel, which sloped down the mountain.

  The passage had been cut generations ago as a secret exit from the castle in times of siege. At some point, the passage was considered unnecessary and blocked by debris and large rocks. As a boy, Will had chanced to overhear their father speak of the tunnel and sought it out with his best friend, Duncan, the son of Pitcairn the Steward. They worked together to clear the rocks and reopen the passage, and the stable master turned a blind eye to the proceedings. For many years afterwards, they would sneak out in the early morn for carefree rides across the heath, relishing their freedom.

  After Duncan died in an accident at the lists, Will gave in to Aila's begging and allowed her to come with him, teaching her to ride and challenging her to keep up with his breakneck pace. Those had been the best times of her life. Though Will and Duncan were now gone, she still guarded their secret. She and the stable master were the only ones who now knew the tunnel had been opened.

  After a slow walk through the dark tunnel, Aila and Shadow reached the mouth of the cave. The entrance to the cave was concealed by a large slab of rock and thick bushes, which blended so well into the landscape, it was almost impossible to find. Aila stepped into the silver light of the moon and swung onto Shadow's back in a fluid motion. She breathed deeply, enjoying the scent of the night, the breath of freedom.

  Aila did not worry about being seen, for people rarely left the roads in these parts, and certainly no one would be out tonight. Many said the hills were haunted with the ghost of Robert the Bruce, but in all her nocturnal rides, Aila had never seen any such ghost, so she didn't give much credence to the story. Shadow stamped impatiently on the ground, and with the barest touch of Aila's heels to his flank, they were off, Aila hanging on tight for the wild ride down the slope.

  When they reached the heath, Aila gave Shadow full rein, and they flew across the plain. She reveled in the experience, moving in concert with the magnificent beast as if they were one. Riding through the night wilds, the exhilaration coursed through her veins, pure and free. It was the only time in her day, particularly after the death of her brother, that she was truly happy. Riding Shadow made her feel close to him again, as if he was racing alongside her, and she urged Shadow even faster.

  With Shadow's speed, Aila was able to cover a lot of ground in the several hours she allotted for her ride. She traveled first to the convent of St. Margaret. She stopped on a hillside, looking down over the peaceful community, the place that until yesterday would have been her home.

  St. Margaret's and the nearby monastery were relatively new communities, built to a large extent through the generosity of the Grahams. They were located on Graham land, though it had been desig nated as Aila's dower lands and would go to the Church when she took the veil. That is, it would have gone to the Church, but now the lands belonged to MacLaren. Would he continue to support the communities or demand the nuns leave? Aila sighed. More questions, and her mind was already full of them. She needed to run.

  Aila headed north toward more isolated fields and the lands of MacLaren toward the west and McNab toward the east. Pushing Shadow faster and farther, she forgot her sad marriage and put aside nagging ques tions of what she should do next. She was free, and it was enough for now.

  The pre-dawn fog was dense, and it made common noises sound odd. She reined in Shadow to listen to the strange noises. Was that mournful wail someone screaming? Tales of beasties that roamed the hills came flooding back, and she began to think, with some trepidation, this ride had been most unwise. The sound grew louder, but in the fog, she had difficulty determining from where it came.

  Without warning, two figures on horseback raced from around a large bolder and came skittering to a halt. One held a torch; the other screeched like a banshee. I'm dead, thought Aila and screamed at the ghostly apparitions. Like an avenging angel, another figure appeared out of the mist. It was a mounted warrior, his mighty claymore raised high. Aila's mouth dropped open, her scream died in her throat, and her heart stopped. It was MacLaren.

  Nine

  MACLAREN SILENTLY WATCHED FROM HIS HIDING place in the burn as the two figures ambled closer, each carrying torches.

  "Och, 'tis the ghosties," gasped one of MacLaren's men.

  "I warrant ghosties dinna carry torches," whispered MacLaren. "Watch 'em, lads; these may be the raiders we're looking for."

  The unknown riders emerged from the tendrils of mist. Though MacLaren was confident these figures were not phantoms, still a slithery feeling ran down his spine. Did faeries carry torches?

  "I canna believe we got talked into this. Set some thing ablaze, and let's be done wi' it," said one of the figures. "This night gives me the creeps."

  Not faeries. MacLaren's confidence rose. Human meddlers he could handle. He stepped onto the road and drew his claymore. The ringing of steel on steel sliced through the night.

  "Stand down and drop yer weapons," MacLaren commanded.

  One of the ghostly figures shrieked and dropped his torch. Both riders spun round and raced away.

  "To me, to me," hollered MacLaren, and his men emerged from hiding to run to his aid. MacLaren commanded some to put out the small fire that had started where the torch had landed and the others to follow the raiders into the mist. Rory brought the horses, and MacLaren mounted quickly to lead the chase. MacLaren rode after them blindly into the dense fog. Fortunately, one of the raiders continued his unmanly screeching, and MacLaren followed the sound as best he could until he spotted the faint light of the remaining torch.

  MacLaren was closing in on the raiders when he rounded a large rock and found his quarry stopped before him. He raised his sword to end the chase and was startled by the eerie sight of a third apparition that had appeared in front of the two men. The ghostly figure rode a pale horse and wore a grey tattered cloak and cowl, its face concealed. Unlike the first two raiders, this one carried no torch.

  MacLaren stared at the figure, wondering if the stories of the ghost of Bruce had been true. At least he was man enough not to scream like the two raiders, who were making quite a din with all their yelling. Heedless to the danger MacLaren might pose, the two men turned and rode back past him into the night. Cursing this new ghostly figure that had caused him a moment of inaction, he yelled at some men to follow the raiders while he and Chaumont chased this new apparition. The figure spun its horse and took off at a gallop.

  Fighting fear, he spurred after the strange creature, determined to discover its identity, whether of this world or the next. The fleeing figure was fast, very fast. Indeed, he had rarely seen the like and struggled to maintain pace. Once free of the trees, they reached the marshes, where horse and rider broke into full speed through the treacherous bog, forcing MacLaren to conclude the man was either very sure of his path or an utter fool. Speeding faster despite the risk, MacLaren suddenly pulled up on the reins, stopping short. That horse—he had seen it before. He was sure it had been William Graham's mount. He had seen it last wandering the field of battle, searching for its fallen master. MacLaren swallowed hard, his heart beating with exertion, and watched the rider race in the direction of the Graham fortress, disappearing into the mist.

  "What was that?" Chaumont caught up, breathing hard. MacLaren stared into the eerie gloom where the ghostly figure had disappeared.

  "I dinna ken."

  MacLaren returned to his men and discovered the two culprits had gotten away. He was a fair tracker, so he decided to wait the short time until dawn to continue the pursuit. He also decided, with strong encouragement from his men, to light a large fire so as to ward off any other wandering spirits. Even Chaumont did
not mock the plan or laugh at the superstitious Scots. Instead, he lent an able hand to collect firewood. Not until the sentries were in place and the fire's warmth was familiar and comforting did MacLaren start to feel more himself.

  "What was that thing?" asked Chaumont.

  MacLaren shrugged.

  "Were we chasing a ghost?"

  MacLaren stared into the flames. He had no answer to Chaumont's questions. "I think next year I'll keep by the fire on St. John's Eve."

  Chaumont and his men readily agreed.

  Shaken by the chase, Aila returned to Dundaff by way of the tunnel. She was still trembling when she unlocked the iron gate and walked Shadow into the cave. She wondered if her heart would ever slow down. Her face was stung by branches that had whipped by; her whole body ached. Never had she been more terrified. MacLaren had looked like a demon spawn.

  She relocked the gate and entered the stables, surprised to find no lit lantern hanging on the stable wall as was Fergus's custom. She also wondered why the old man did not come shuffling to meet her. Perhaps he had gone back to sleep, since it was still early. She stabled Shadow in the gray light of the early hour, not wanting to wake the old man. She shud dered, as if icy fingers trailed down the back of her neck, and she struggled to regain her composure. She worked quickly with a growing desire to be gone.

  Completing her task with speed, she walked down the long stable corridor and around the corner to the side entrance, where a strange sight stopped her cold. A crumpled figure lay on the hard-packed dirt floor in front of Fergus's room. She held her breath and edged closer. It was Fergus, a gash to the back of his head. He lay motionless on the ground, and blood pooled around the open wound. She gasped and ran to him, kneeling beside him, but he lay still, his eyes closed, his cheek cool to the touch. Her stomach lurched and sank like stone. She froze, unable to move, unable to scream.

  From around the corner came the creaking of the main door of the stables. She stood to call for help but noticed an iron bar lying beside the old man. One end was bloodied.

  Aila's heart pounded and her mind whirled. She had never known anyone besides Fergus to be in the stables at this time. The sound of spurs drew louder, and the orange glow of a lantern grew brighter. What had happened to the stable master? Was it an acci dent, or had he been…? She could not draw breath; her vision narrowed. Was the approaching person a friend… or a killer? The clinking footsteps drew closer to the side passage where she stood. She was frozen in place.

  Turris fortissima nomen Domini ad ipsum currit iustus et exaltabitur.

  The name of the Lord is a strong tower; the righteous run to it and are safe. The verse from Proverbs ripped through her mind in a flash, with an emphasis on the word "run." Whether or not her mind understood the command, her feet got the message, and she bolted to the side door. When she closed the door behind her, it squeaked loudly. Unsure whether the unknown person had heard the noise, she ran to the tower staircase that led back to the upper bailey. Inside the tower, she was once again in total darkness, and she flew up the spiral staircase.

  Halfway up the tower, she paused to take a breath, wondering how long she had held it. Her lungs burned, and she panted, gulping for air. Below her, the ominous sound of spurs clinking up the circular stairs grew louder and a faint orange glow was visible. Panic clutched at her gut like talons, and she stumbled up the stairs in a frenzy.

  Reaching the top, she broke into a sprint across the courtyard to her own tower and raced up the stairs, not stopping until she reached her room. She bolted her door and ran to the window. Below, a cloaked figure shined a lantern first one way then another. The figure looked up at her tower, and Aila fell to the floor to avoid being seen. When she finally had the courage to look again, the cloaked figure was gone.

  Ten

  AILA WAS STARTLED BY THE SOUND OF SOMEONE TRYING to open her door, the bolt clanking. Aila cowered on the floor, frozen in place. How long she had been there? Had it been minutes or hours? She wanted to raise some alarm but feared leaving the safety of her room. Had the strange man gone back down to the lower bailey, or had he come into her tower? Was he even now standing outside her door? Had he killed Fergus and was waiting for her to answer the door, so he could do the same to her?

  "Ye there, m'lady?" came the familiar sound of the maid.

  "Och, aye," breathed Aila, much relieved; yet as she stood, she found she still wore the shirt and breeches. That would be difficult to explain, so she stripped off her clothing, stuffing it in her trunk, and slipped on her chemise. Aila opened the door to Maggie and Senga.

  "Are ye… available, m'lady?" asked Maggie in a whisper.

  "Aye," returned Aila, a bit confused.

  "Is the MacLaren still sleeping?"

  Now Aila understood. They naturally thought her husband would have eventually come for her. "Nay, he is no' here."

  "Verra good," said Maggie, bustling into the room. "We've come for the sheets."

  Sheets? Was it washing day already? Aila had too many other concerns to figure it out. Maggie and Senga stripped back the blanket on the bed and stopped, looking down at the sheets.

  "Oh," said Senga.

  "Oh my," said Maggie.

  What could be the matter? Aila stood beside them and looked down at the plain white sheets. She could see nothing amiss. What was wrong here?

  "Um, m'lady," stammered Maggie, blushing pink, "did ye sleep elsewhere last night?"

  "On the bench," Aila admitted, wondering why they would ask that.

  "The bench?" Maggie sounded incredulous.

  "Aye."

  Both maids stared at her then walked over to the window and to examine the bench. This was getting odd.

  "Ye and MacLaren on the bench?" asked Senga.

  "MacLaren was no' here last night."

  "Oh!" Maggie said brightly with a big smile. She paused, and her smiled faded into a frown. "Oh."

  Grim-faced, Maggie and Senga helped Aila dress in her normal attire, working efficiently and avoiding her eye. Senga lapsed into silence, but Maggie nervously chattered about nothing in particular. Occasionally, she would give her mistress a look of sympathy. Aila was lost in her own thoughts until Maggie stumbled upon something that caught her attention.

  "What did ye say?" asked Aila, unsure of what she had heard.

  "I said the stable master ha' gone and fell and broke his head."

  "Fell?"

  "Aye, they found him in the stables. I probably ought no' tell ye, but my brother is a stable lad, and he says po' auld Fergus must ha' been reaching for a bridle, and that's why he got up on the chair."

  "Chair?" asked Aila weakly. There had been no chair near the body.

  "Aye. The chair was crushed beside him. Must ha' broke, and that's what caused the fall. Ye feeling all right, m'lady? Ye look right pale. I shoud'na have told ye. These things are no' for lady's ears." Maggie brushed Aila's hair and affixed the wimple. "Father Thomas came to give the last rites, 'cause he is breathing verra poorly."

  "The stable master still lives?"

  "Aye, but they canna wake him, and I warrant the good Lord will be calling him home soon. There now, ye look right bonnie." Everyone in the room knew that to be a lie. Senga and Maggie gave their curtsies and headed toward the door. Maggie glanced back, giving Aila one last look of pity before she left.

  Pity. In all her years at the castle, Aila may have lived a restricted life, but never before had she been the object of pity. She picked up the copper mirror and gazed at her reflection. Back in her plain kirtle and white wimple, she looked more familiar but rather bedraggled. Her eyes were red and swollen with dark circles underneath. Her cheeks were scraped and scratched. She was married to a man who despised her. She put down the mirror, the copper heavy in her hand. She had seen enough.

  Aila put her hand to the side of her face, as if by holding her head still, her thoughts would likewise stop spinning. Over and over, the image of the crumpled stable master flashed before her eyes. Could it ha
ve been an accident? She shook her head. There had been no chair; a metal rod, yes, but no chair. But what could it all mean? Aila sucked in a gasp of air, shocked by a sudden realization. Someone had altered the scene to make it look like an accident. It could mean only one thing. Somewhere in the castle was a killer.

  She alone knew the truth. No… she was not alone, one other person knew—the murderer. But who could it be? Why would anyone do such a thing? More importantly, had he seen her? Was he waiting even now for her to emerge from the security of her tower?

  Her mother was right. Marriage was a hell on earth. Why had she consented to this nightmare? Feeling she had nothing left to lose, Aila resigned herself to endure her mother's triumph and slunk down to her mother's chambers.

  From her regal, fur-covered chair, Lady Graham regarded her daughter with cold resentment. With a flash of her eyes, Lady Graham dismissed the servants, and they fled for the door. Aila's shoulders drooped further, and she focused on the black tips of her shoes.