Highlander's Sword

by Amanda Forester

  "I think the words you're searching for are, 'I'm sorry for being a horse's arse.'" Chaumont's words floated through the mist, making Aila smile. MacLaren glared in Chaumont's direction, the familiar scowl returning to his face.

  "Let's ride. We need to reach Dundaff as soon as possible to warn them o' the impending siege." MacLaren released Aila's hands.

  "Siege?" The very word struck fear in Aila's gut.

  "Aye, 'tis likely. They have the soldiers now, though I canna begin to explain how."

  "Can we survive it?" The mist suddenly felt more cold and foreboding.

  "For a while, at least," MacLaren had been part of many a siege though generally on the offensive side. If you had a well-equipped, well-disciplined army and were willing to wait, the occupants, or what was left of them, nearly always surrendered. To be the object of a siege was not a thing he relished, knowing slow starvation would probably be his future. Yet he had made a promise to Graham to stand with him against his enemies, and he would do it.

  "We've no' brought in the crops yet," said Aila, her eyes wide. "We'll starve."

  "We have much to prepare afore they surround the castle. Let's ride."

  "Wait! What if we could get more warriors to join the battle on our side?"

  "Aye, that's the only way to defeat the army—meet them on the field. But we dinna have enough troops to face the army McNab has somehow raised, even with our forces combined."

  "What if we sent a plea to the Campbells for help?"

  "Aye, the Campbells have the warriors to do the job. But wi' all due respect, if they did naught to help yer father when McNab was burning his fields, what makes ye think they would help now?

  "Because we are fostering Hamish, one o' the laird's sons. He would be caught up in the siege, too."

  MacLaren raised an eyebrow. That was certainly interesting information. The lass had a point, a good one. They should certainly appeal to the Campbells for assistance. "'Tis a bonnie idea. We'll send a messenger as soon as we reach Dundaff."

  "But we're half the way to the Campbells now. If we return all the way to Dundaff only to send a rider back here, it will waste an entire day. We should ride now to Laird Campbell."

  "Nay, I must return wi' my men and make prepa rations. They take orders from none but me. I must return now."

  "Then I will ride to the Campbells."

  MacLaren replied instantly. "Nay, ye will return to Dundaff."

  "Where it's safe? If Dundaff is to be sieged, I'd be safer riding the country requesting assistance than inside the castle walls fighting over the last scraps of food."

  "Ye forget ye are what he wants. Ye canna ride around wi'out protection. Ye could be taken again or robbed and killed. Ye dinna understand the dangers."

  "I will take the message," offered Chaumont.

  "Do ye ken the way?" Aila asked.

  "Not at all. Is it difficult to find from here?"

  No one answered, leaving Chaumont to guess that indeed it was.

  "I can do this. Please let me help me people," beseeched Aila.

  "Nay, 'tis too dangerous for a woman alone," said MacLaren impatiently.

  Chaumont spoke up again. "I will be her guard."

  "Nay!" shouted MacLaren at Chaumont. "She'll no' be riding to the Campbells. I've lost all who are dear to me. I winna lose her, too."

  "I'm dear to ye?" asked Aila.

  "I'm not?" asked Chaumont.

  MacLaren scowled at them, sputtering a few incoherent words. A small smile played on Aila's lips. Perhaps he cared for her after all. The thought warmed her, and despite the dire situation, she felt rather lighthearted. Somehow the revelation gave her courage, and she was even more determined to ride to the Campbells. She had thought she might be able to do it a moment ago, but if MacLaren felt something akin to affection for her, she knew she could.

  "MacLaren… Padyn, I'm a fast rider. Ye ken it. None will catch me. Let me do this thing. Let me help save my clan."

  MacLaren glared, but this time she interpreted the look as one of concern.

  "Your wife makes a valid argument. I swear no harm will come to her," Chaumont said quietly. At least she had convinced him.

  "After we secure the Campbells' assistance, we can return to the castle through the secret passage I told ye about," Aila continued.

  "Nay." MacLaren shook his head, turning to Chaumont. "After ye return from the Campbells, take her to the convent where she will be safe from this. Then ye alone may return to the castle."

  Aila's heart soared. "Thank ye. I will no' fail ye." MacLaren trusted her to do this mission, and it made her warm and tingly. She wanted to return to Dundaff after going to the Campbells, to stand with her people, but she knew better than to press her luck.

  MacLaren looked from Aila to Chaumont. Aila sensed the struggle with his thoughts, or possibly his emotions. He looked decidedly unhappy. Aila waited, hoping for some declaration of love.

  "We've tarried in this glen too long," said MacLaren. Aila nodded and turned to go. It was not exactly what she was hoping for. MacLaren called back to them, "Aila, take care. Ye are… well… ye are dear to me."

  Aila smiled with delight. "As ye are to me."

  "Ahem." Chaumont cleared his throat, looking at MacLaren expectantly.

  "Chaumont, ye auld bastard, yer dear to me, too. Now look after my lady wife, or I'll run ye through."

  "MacLaren," responded Chaumont with an easy smile, "oh lawful son of wedded parents, I love you, too."

  Chaumont was a good rider, swift and sure. His mount was strong, his cause noble, and he had been saved from having to die bravely. It was his chivalric duty to be courageous in the face of impossible odds, in order to protect the life of MacLaren and his fellow knights. Had Aila not intervened, MacLaren and he surely would have been killed, hopefully allowing their fellow comrades in arms enough time to escape a rout and live to sing melancholy tales of their tragic last stand. Fortunately, Aila, or rather her impersonation of an apparition, had saved him from the honor of the type of heroism that generally proved fatal.

  The sun rose in the sky, chasing away the damp and the mist. Chaumont was generally cheerful, but today was a sheer delight. All he had to do now was follow Aila's lead, guard her person, and secure an alliance with the Campbells. There was also the matter of the Golden Knight, far afield from his rightful place in France. But Chaumont wasn't about to let a few hundred well-trained knights come between him and his good humor.

  Chaumont easily threaded through the trees down the slope, following Aila. When they reached the open heath, she nudged her mount into a gallop and raced away. He kicked his mount to follow, riding fast, then faster. Soon he was approaching dangerous speeds, but still the image of Aila kept getting smaller as she distanced him with every step. There was nothing he could do but urge his mount forward and hold on for dear life. She was as swift as the wind. No woman should be able to ride with such speed. It was maddening, humbling, and intriguing. He thought of MacLaren and couldn't help but smile. He had truly married a vixen despite her shy appearance. Chaumont raced after her, desperately trying to keep her in sight. It was unmanning to have a mere slip of a girl best him so easily, and as soon as he caught up with her, he would tell her so. It didn't appear they would be having words anytime soon.

  Despite his wounded pride, Chaumont acknowl edged she was leading them quickly off McNab's land. One could never accuse her of stalling to be retaken or joining up with McNab's forces. She rode like the very hounds of hell were nipping at her feet. It reminded him of how MacLaren rode at times. They were a perfect match. When at last they had entered onto MacLaren's land and the landscape started to look more familiar, Chaumont called for her to rest the horses. He could use a break from riding too, but he'd rather be tortured until death before admitting it. Well, maybe not death. He was not quite that proud.

  Resting by a fresh spring, she explained they would travel to the Braes of Balquidder, bringing Creag an Turic into sight before headi
ng northward to the Campbells. As they continued on their journey, Chaumont insisted he lead on familiar ground, so as to better protect her, he said, and to have more control of the pace and restore his injured pride, he thought.

  So it was that Chaumont was the first to arrive at Balquidder. In the valley below him lay the smol dering remains of Lady Mary Patrick's farm. The barn had been burnt to the ground. The farmhouse still stood, but the thatched roof was gone. Chaumont's blood turned to ice.

  "Mary!"

  "Saints above, what has happened?" Aila's voice behind him reminded Chaumont of his duty to her. It was all that prevented him from bolting down the side of the cliff to check on Mary's well-being, though to remain still made his body shake with the effort. He must see if she lived, if she was injured, if she needed him.

  "I must see to the Lady Patrick and her young son." Chaumont looked to her for permission to alter their course, twitching at the delay this was causing. Worry seized him so intensely he fought to take breath.

  "Certainly, please go to her while I continue the road to the Campbells."

  "Nay, m'lady, I cannot allow you to ride without a guard. I promised MacLaren I would see you safe."

  "I would go down into the valley wi' ye, for I am

  deeply distressed at the sight below, but if I do, I'll no' make it to the Campbells afore the castle gates are closed for the night."

  The delay would cost them a full day before they could put their request before Laird Campbell. Chaumont knew his duty was to ride on and protect Aila and the lives of his comrades, and Graham, his newly acquired liege. Yet his duty was also to the Lady Patrick, and he could not, would not, leave her.

  "Ye see to the welfare o' Lady Patrick. I'll continue on to the Campbells and meet ye here again when I am finished," said Aila.

  "Nay, my lady, I cannot leave you. 'Tis not possible."

  "MacLaren would want ye to check on the welfare of his clan."

  "MacLaren would want me to protect you with my dying breath."

  "I will be quite safe. I can ride faster wi'out ye."

  Chaumont winced. That part was true enough, but it rankled to have it spoken aloud.

  "There will be none who can catch me." That part was probably true too, but Chaumont could not let her ride alone. Yet the vision of Mary in need could not be banished from his mind.

  "I must stay with you," said Chaumont, looking not at Aila but at the smoldering ruins below. Chaumont struggled with unfamiliar emotions. He had seen much in his few years. Keeping emotionally distant and finding humor in his circumstances were the only ways he knew how to survive. Getting involved led only to pain, something he took care to avoid. He had perfected the role of an agreeable outsider, distant from those around him. He lived life as if he were watching a play, laughing at the actors but always staying in the audience. He didn't feel removed or distant now. He wanted to be down in the valley but struggled with conflicting loyalties. When he turned back to Aila, she had already ridden off a fair amount, expertly guiding her mount over the rocky terrain.

  "Aila!" he shouted.

  She stopped and turned her horse. "Go! I'll be well. Ye'll no' catch me. No one will." She spun around and continued to rapidly traverse the treacherous terrain.

  Chaumont indulged in an uncharacteristic curse. He had no doubt MacLaren would see him in hell if anything happened to her.

  "Take care, Lady Aila. MacLaren did not jest when he said he'd see me at the end of his sword should any harm befall you," he shouted, but she was already beyond hearing.

  Resigned and relieved to be given leave to see to Mary, Chaumont guided his horse down the narrow path to the valley. To his right, Creag an Turic loomed large and vacant. He cursed again, noting the wall he had so laboriously reconstructed was breached once again. He listened for any sound coming from the structure, but all was still. MacLaren had left twenty clansmen to guard the tower castle, and there would be more castle dwellers in addition to that. The silence was eerie. Despite the bright sun, a shiver ran down his back. He continued down the slope to Mary's house, an oppressive sense of foreboding growing with every step. What had happened here? Where was everyone? He feared what the answer would bring.

  Chaumont approached the home of Mary Patrick. The door had been broken and lay in bits and slivers, leaving a gaping hole into the house. Dismounting with caution, he donned his helm and gauntlets, and drew his sword before entering. Just outside the doorway, he stopped, listening for any sound. He lingered longer than necessary. He was afraid to enter. Afraid of what he would find.

  He forced himself to enter the farmhouse, his boots crunching on the splintered wood and crockery. He entered cautiously, sword poised, his eyes adjusting to the dim light. The room was very different from the last time he was here. The furniture had been smashed and thrown to the sides. A peat fire smoldered in the hearth, and a porridge pot hung above it. Chaumont wondered how long it had been there and where the attackers had taken the Lady Patrick. If she had been hurt in any way… He clenched the hilt of his sword.

  A battle cry ripped through the silence, jerking Chaumont out of his reverie. Instantly his sword was up in defense against the figure who raced toward him with a pike.

  With joy he recognized her and lowered his sword. "Mary!" he shouted with a surge of elation.

  "Go to hell, ye French bastard!" screeched Mary and stabbed him in the chest with her pike.

  Twenty-Nine

  MARY THRUST HER PIKE MERCILESSLY INTO HIS CHEST.

  "Ow!" cried Chaumont. His steel-plated cuirass prevented the spike from cutting into his flesh, but it would surely leave a good bruise. "Mary, 'tis me," said Chaumont, removing his helm.

  "Chaumont?" said Mary, startled into stopping her second lunge. Unfortunately for Chaumont, Gavin continued his attack from behind. Chaumont received a painful thump on the back of his head, and the room started to spin. He turned with it to see the horrified face of Gavin and fell with a clank next to the frying pan Gavin had thrown at his head.

  When Chaumont awoke, he was lying on the floor, his head cradled in Mary's lap. She was stroking his head and murmuring something in Gaelic. He looked up at her, gaining a clear view of the wondrous bounty of her womanly figure. He stared open-mouthed. He, a man not unfamiliar with the female bosom, was gawking like a fresh lad. He snapped his mouth shut and tried to turn away, but she gently turned his head, pressing his face into her breasts. The air grew thin. A man could die this way, he thought, making no attempt to save himself.

  "There now," she was saying in English and leaned over him to press a cool cloth on the back of his head. "I am so sorry ye was hurt."

  Chaumont found his face pressed further into Mary's ample bosom. He let out a groan that had nothing to do with pain.

  "Does it hurt overmuch?"

  "No, not at all," Chaumont answered truthfully though muffled from between her breasts.

  "Och, ye poor mon, I'm suffocating ye." Mary leaned back to give Chaumont some air.

  Oh, what a way to die, mused Chaumont and pressed his lips together to keep from voicing his knave's thoughts.

  "Ye poor dear, I can see how much ye are hurt. Come here, Gavin, and say how verra sorry ye are."

  Gavin slumped forward, looking miserable. "I'm sorry. I dinna mean to hurt ye."

  Chaumont was very content lying in Mary's lap and felt more like shaking the boy's hand than chastising him. If this would be the result, perhaps he could pay the boy to lob things at him on a regular basis.

  "Do not trouble yourself, Gavin," Chaumont reas sured the boy. "You did right to protect your mother. You're the man of the house now, and it is your right and responsibility to do so." Gavin's shoulders straightened at Chaumont's praise, and the smile returned to his face. "Especially when your mother is such a beauty." Chaumont turned back to Mary and smiled at her reddening face.

  "Wheesht now. Ye dinna ken what ye're saying. Ye're concussed." Mary helped him to stand, Gavin giving him a hand. Chaumont sighed
. It was too good to last forever.

  "What happened here?" Chaumont asked.

  Mary let out a long breath and shook her head. "I canna say, for I've ne'er seen the like. 'Twas yesterday a huge army o' knights came thundering into the valley. They was French, all dressed in armor, like ye, Sir Chaumont, though what they were doing in the Highlands, I dinna ken. They asked where the MacLaren was. I said naught. They became angered, and I ran into the house wi' Gavin. But they broke down the door, as ye can see. All they asked was that same question, o'er and o'er. Each time I answered I dinna ken, they would break something. Then they took to torching the place. There were so many o' them. They spread out to the village and up to Creag an Turic, too. But none would say where MacLaren was other than he had ridden east. Finally, when they was satisfied we could say no more, they all left. 'Twas the oddest day I e'er had."