Highlander's Sword

by Amanda Forester

  Aila smiled at the crowd, looking around with delight. MacLaren glared back at the clamoring men, wishing they would all stop looking at his wife. After the initial shock of her beauty passed, he felt a pulsing mix of pride, possessiveness, and suspicion. He feared his lovely bride would use her beauty to manipulate him, as another lovely lady had done to him once before. But no, he remembered, he was not supposed to judge her using another woman's measure. MacLaren scowled. Aila was forever getting him to make promises that were wretchedly hard to keep.

  "Ye look much improved," MacLaren told her and internally groaned. That hadn't come out quite right.

  "A bath and a clean gown does help," said Aila, grinning as if he wasn't the biggest oaf in the world.

  "What I meant is I've ne'er seen any woman as beautiful as ye are tonight." There, that sounded better. Aila's smile faded. What had he said wrong?

  "I ken ye have little love for beautiful women."

  "Ah, well," he stammered. She had a point there. "I find I may need to revise my opinion to say that perhaps I can tolerate beautiful women who are Scots." He leaned in closer. "Particularly, beautiful women I somehow had the good fortune to marry."

  Aila's smile returned, and her eyes twinkled in the candlelight. "I find I may be able to tolerate a verra braw Highlander I happen to have married."

  "Good to know you two have moved to the level of tolerance," said Chaumont, who was sitting on the other side of Aila and listening shamelessly to their private conversation. Both MacLaren and Aila glared at him, and he laughed with enthusiasm.

  "Ignore him," said MacLaren. "Dinna ken why I tolerate the bastard." He pulled from his sporran an emerald necklace. "This is for ye. 'Twas my mother's." He awkwardly struggled with the clasp but managed to get it around her neck.

  "'Tis beautiful," Aila murmured. "Thank ye. I will cherish it." She gazed at him happily. Oh, so happily.

  He kissed her. Far in the distance, he could hear people cheering and knew he was becoming a spec tacle. He didn't care. He kissed her again and would have gone on kissing her had not Aila realized people were watching and pulled away, embarrassed. He could hardly wait to have her alone.

  The musicians struck up a lively tune, and the meal proceeded as normal, though MacLaren noted warily the addition of a taster for the food at the head table. Graham was indeed taking the threat to both their lives seriously. MacLaren also learned that Graham had "rewarded" the soldiers who participated on the recent mission by giving them some leave from their duties, thus reducing their opportunities for being in places where mischief may be done.

  MacLaren was reassured by these security measures and that Graham was careful not to reveal their suspicions to the traitor amongst them. It was a dangerous game they were playing, but the potential rewards made it worth the effort. Aila grabbed his arm as jugglers started to perform, the light in her eyes dancing with childlike joy. Yes, the rewards would be great indeed.

  After the meal was finished, Graham stood and addressed his clan. Voices hushed as the laird began to speak in a voice that rang strong and clear through the hall. "First, I begin by thanking my new son-in-law for his courageous actions in rescuing my daughter." A cheer rang forth from the crowd. "And I commend my daughter for defending her virtue from that bastard McNab." Another cheer brought heat to Aila's face.

  "But I must tell ye the battle has just begun. Archibald McNab has declared himself our enemy. 'Tis he who has been deliberately, wi' malice o' forethought, set fire to our fields." Graham paused as there were gasps in the hall from those who did not yet know their enemy. "This dog, for I canna rightfully call him a man, wishes to steal the verra bread from yer table. He believes himself yer better. He would steal the Lady Aila and declare himself yer master. What do ye say to that?" Roars of protest ripped from the crowd.

  "Remember, my clansmen, 'twas his clan what betrayed Wallace, was traitor to the alliance o' the clans, and denied the freedom o' all Scots." People were on their feet now, yelling their protests of McNab, banging their knives or goblets on the table. Aila was surprised at the racket and slid closer to MacLaren on the bench they shared. He put his arm around her protectively, amused by her response and by Graham, whom he determined was a master at eliciting the utmost loyalty of his clan.

  "Remember, my brethren, that we are a free people. Though our king be imprisoned by the English and our land lies in ruin, still we remain true to our heritage, under the protection o' the blessed St. Andrew and the guidance o' the King o' Kings, we hold fast to the true inheritance o' the Scots—our freedom." More cheers erupted from the crowd as all were moved by Graham's words. He paused until the assembly grew absolutely silent, waiting in expectation for him to speak.

  "I remember, though some have forgot, a day many years ago when we, the lairds o' Scotland came together at the monastery at Arbroath to write a treatise of our country and our people. It declared our freedom from foreign rule, the right o' the Scots to govern themselves and live in peace. The truth o' these words remains as true today as the day I signed it, for 'it is in truth not for glory, nor riches, nor honors that we are fighting, but for freedom—for that alone, which no honest man gives up but with life itself.'" More cheers again rang from the crowd, and more than one man wiped a tear from his eye.

  Graham raised his glass to the crowd, and it was once again silent. "So I ask ye, my children, my true sons and daughters, to declare yer allegiance. I ask, no' demand, since ye are free to choose him whom ye will serve. If ye choose to serve me, declare it now. If ye choose to serve McNab, I will bid ye farewell wi' my sorrow."

  MacLaren was first to jump to his feet. "Laird Graham, I drink to the alliance o' our clans through no' only our marriage vows but also a like-mindedness in devotion to freedom against the English and all who would subdue us. May our clans live in harmony forever. I pledge to ye my sword in defense of ye against that bastard McNab, along wi' the swords o' my men, as yer cause is our own." To a man, MacLaren's warriors stood and drank down their cups with Graham in a show of alliance.

  Then Warwick stepped forward, pledging his fealty, obedience, and loyalty to Laird Graham. This was followed by Pitcairn and the rest of Graham's men, both soldiers and other clansmen.

  As the men came forward one by one, Chaumont leaned to MacLaren, asking, "Would it be permissible for me to rise?"

  MacLaren was surprised but said, "Ye are free to form allegiances where ye wish."

  Chaumont nodded, and in his eyes was an earnest desire MacLaren had never seen before. He could not fault his friend for wanting to be part of this clan or wanting to form an alliance with this man. Yet he had thought Chaumont beyond the cares of fidelity and family, but perhaps that was only because he had none. MacLaren realized he had misjudged his friend's need to belong.

  Chaumont stepped forward, and the crowd once again was hushed as they watched the tall French knight approach. Chaumont took a knee before Graham, saying, "I am but a landless knight, a bastard son, yet I offer you my sword, my allegiance, loyalty, and fidelity, if you would accept this unworthy vessel."

  Graham glanced over at MacLaren, who nodded. Graham raised his goblet to Chaumont, saying, "Rise, Sir Chaumont, and drink to our alliance. I accept wi' honor yer pledge o' loyalty." Both men drank deeply.

  The traitor watched as, one by one, people rose to give allegiance to their laird. He had too, of course, swallowing the wine like gall. How he hated this man. Graham had taken everything from him. It was time for recompense. The traitor glanced at MacLaren. How many times did he have to kill this man? He should have been dead on McNab's sword last night. No matter, the poisoned whiskey is still waiting for him. He'll no' avoid Aila this night, the rutting bastard. The man sipped his wine, confident that this time his plan would not fail. By morn, MacLaren would be dead.

  MacLaren walked back to the tower where Aila was waiting for him. He had sent her back with full escort so he, Chaumont, Graham, Pitcairn, and Warwick could make plans for war. They arranged a bat
tle plan against McNab for two days hence. Unknown to Pitcairn or Warwick, however, it had been previously arranged with Graham that MacLaren's men alone would ride early that next morn and attack the McNab fortress. It was hoped that since Pitcairn and Warwick would spread the plans for battle to the men, the traitor would hear of it and send the news to McNab. In this way, McNab would be unprepared for battle.

  Graham had argued to send some of his most trusted warriors, like Warwick and a few others whom he deemed beyond suspicion into battle with MacLaren, but MacLaren trusted none but his own men, and so the plan had been made. MacLaren hoped the ruse had been worth the effort, since it had kept him from his bed, and now he would have precious little sleep before rising again to ride back to the McNab strong hold. Tired or not, he was determined this evening to finish what he had started with his beautiful and most unexpected bride.

  Pausing beside the guard he had posted by his wife's door, he dismissed the soldier to get some sleep and entered her chamber, locking the heavy wooden door behind him. His wife lay on the bed, dressed in a linen chemise ornately decorated with lace. She was beautiful and sound asleep. MacLaren breathed deep, enjoying the peace of the moment. She had been everything he could hope for tonight, vibrant and bonnie. More importantly, her words held more truth than he initially had given credence.

  MacLaren watched her sleep, her hair splayed on the pillow, her mouth slightly ajar. She gave a soft snort and shifted position. He smiled. In sleep, at least, she seemed real enough and decidedly lacking in avarice or deceit. Sitting on the bed, he poured a glass of whiskey from a red jeweled carafe someone had thoughtfully left for him. He would drink a few sips then wake his bride and make her his wife.

  Twenty-Six

  AILA WOKE WITH A START TO THE SOUND OF POUNDING. She sat up, trying to get her bearings. She was in bed with MacLaren lying beside her. He was still fully clothed on top of the blankets, looking like he had rather collapsed in his current position. Someone pounded loudly on the door. She shook MacLaren tentatively, but he remained still.

  "MacLaren, Lady Aila, are you well?" came the voice of Chaumont.

  Still groggy, Aila opened the door to him. It was quite dark and must have been the middle of the night. She wondered why anyone would be trying to wake them.

  "Good evening, sir. Is something amiss?"

  "Oui, your husband didn't open the door when his squire knocked, and so he got me worried some thing had happened to you both." Another man appeared behind Chaumont, whom Aila believed to be MacLaren's squire. "Where's MacLaren?"

  "Still sleeping. I'm sorry we didn't answer yer first knock. 'Tis the first sleep we've had in two days."

  Chaumont gave her a knowing smile and walked

  around to the collapsed form of MacLaren. "Come now, time to wake." But MacLaren didn't stir. "MacLaren." Chaumont gave him a shake, but again got no response. "Padyn?" He gave him a hard shove.

  "What… what are ye about?" MacLaren sat straight up and looked around, bewildered. Aila regarded her half-asleep husband, his hair pointing in all directions, and stifled a giggle. He appeared uncharacteristically comical.

  "Time to dress, sleepyhead. Remember, we have a date with McNab," said Chaumont.

  "Och, aye." MacLaren turned so he was sitting on the side of the bed. He put his head in his hands.

  "A drink to wake ye?" asked his squire, offering the cup of whiskey sitting next to him.

  MacLaren grunted at the cup. "I dinna even drink it last night. Must have fallen asleep where I stood. Nay, I dinna want it now. Must have a clear head." As he spoke, MacLaren gestured, hitting the cup from the squire's hand, spilling it to the floor.

  "Dinna worrit o'er it. I'll clean it later," said Aila, trying to be helpful. "Did ye say ye were going to face McNab?"

  MacLaren gave a sidelong glance at Chaumont, who shrugged.

  "Aye," said MacLaren, looking warily at Aila, "we ride to surprise McNab and finish this between us. But only my own lads are going. None else must ken it, or we will lose the advantage of surprise."

  Aila nodded. "Thank ye for trusting me." Though still not fully awake, Aila knew it was significant for MacLaren to share with her his plans.

  "Dinna make me regret it," MacLaren grumbled. To Chaumont he said, "Go and ready the men. I'll meet ye in the lower bailey."

  Aila wrapped herself in her plaid and sat on her bed, hugging her knees as she watched his squire prepare MacLaren for battle. She had seen men in full armor, but never had she been allowed to see the process of the dressing. It was an important time for the men who had earned the right to be called knight, steeped in tradition and superstition. She understood that by choosing to be armored in her presence, MacLaren was showing he trusted and accepted her.

  MacLaren washed his face in a basin while his squire carefully laid out his armor. Aila bit her lip and watched wide-eyed as MacLaren stripped naked. Even in the dim light of a single candle, she was awed by his muscular body, emanating strength and power. Aila stared at his chiseled abdominal muscles, tight and firm, going down to… Her jaw dropped.

  MacLaren caught her eye and gave her a wink. She hid her face in her plaid for having been caught gawking. When she looked up again, he was more decent in drawers and a linen shirt. Over this he put on an arming doublet that had waxed laces with which to attach the armor. Woolen hose were pulled on, and MacLaren tied them to the doublet while his squire wrapped his knees with cloth to provide padding under the armor. The two worked together quickly, and Aila sat silently, watching this practiced dance.

  Chain mail chausses were slipped over the woolen stockings and tied to the doublet. The squire then began to attach the armor pieces, working from the feet up, starting with the spurs. Then steel greaves were added over the shins, and poleyn steel plates were strapped over the knees. Padded cuisses were attached to his thighs, dark green in color and studded with rivets holding small metal plates underneath.

  A mail hauberk was placed over his head, which appeared to Aila like a mail shirt that hung down to just above the knee, reminding her of MacLaren's kilt. A green canvas cuirass was then placed across his chest. As the squire laced it in the back, Aila noted the studded riveting, indicating the steel plates that lined the inside of the cuirass, providing extra protection for his chest. Curved steel plates were laced to MacLaren's outer arms and elbows. Over his head, his squire pulled a surcoat of blue and green that hung down to his knees. The surcoat was belted, from which hung MacLaren's dirk. Finally, his squire strapped on his sword, the large claymore Aila had seen before. His helm and gauntlets he kept to the side, too hot to wear except in battle.

  With shining eyes, Aila gazed at her fully-armed knight. Though she abhorred the thought of her husband riding into battle, still she could not help but admire the man before her.

  "Anything more, sir?" asked the squire.

  "Aye, pour some o' that whiskey into a flask for later and finish getting yerself armed. I'll be down shortly." The squire did as he was told and left quickly.

  "Whiskey is no proper meal. Shall I fetch some thing else for ye?" asked Aila.

  "Nay, my men will have collected the trenchers from last night. We'll eat as we can along the way."

  Aila made a face at the mention of day-old tren chers, and MacLaren laughed softly, walking to her and taking her hands. "'Tis no' that bad. I've eaten much worse, I assure ye."

  "I warrant 'tis pointless to tell ye to be careful."

  "I am always careful wi' both my life and that o' my men. God willing, I shall return soon." He kissed one hand then the other, and Aila felt happy tingles at his touch. "Do ye have a crucifix?" he asked.

  "Aye," said Aila, opening a drawer and handing MacLaren her rosary. MacLaren knelt, holding the cross, and prayed silently. She prayed as well, asking for his protection and safe return. MacLaren made the sign of the cross and stood, taking her hand in his.

  "I must go. I wish I could leave a guard for ye, but I need every man."

  "I'll be
safe. Dinna worrit o'er me."

  "Lock the door behind me and remain here. Yer father will come to bring ye food and drink. Trust none but him, ye ken?"

  "Aye."

  "If our task goes well, I'll be home by the morrow, or maybe even tonight." MacLaren took Aila in his arms, and she hugged him tight, feeling nothing but cold steel plates. He kissed her gently and looked at her as if he wanted to say something. Aila waited expectantly, but he only gave her another soft kiss and walked from the room. As promised, Aila bolted the door behind him and turned back to the window to watch his departure. She could see nothing in the moonless night.

  MacLaren rode hard through the night and into the early dawn. He was tired of traveling the same path and was determined this would be the last time he rode to McNab's land. He hoped to catch the man by surprise, ending this feud quickly and easily. He gave the men instructions to leave McNab to him. He wanted to kill the man for what he had done to his wife.