Highlander's Sword

by Amanda Forester

  "He may help or no. I dinna ken. He has many interests that press his time."

  "I'm sorry, Mary. I kenned ye and Chaumont were on friendly terms."

  "We are." Mary focused on her trencher and poked aimlessly at the broiled meat with her knife. "But perhaps I mistook his friendship for something it is not. He set me to rights last night."

  Aila now also poked at her food, feeling low for broaching what was clearly a sore subject. Searching for something to say, she pounced on the first thing that came to mind. "Tell me about MacLaren. I ken so little o' my husband."

  Mary welcomed this change of subject with a smile. "He is a good mon, a strong leader, though he was gone far too long, fighting in France, and we suffered his absence. He was truly upset at our condition when he returned and has worked himself ragged to pull our clan back from the grave."

  "He sounds a worthy laird."

  "Och aye, there be naught he woud'na do for his clan."

  "Including marry a wealthy heiress?" The words left Aila's lips before she could censor them. She looked down at her food. She had not meant to sound so sharp.

  Mary turned a bit red, but it was the truth, and they both knew it. "Aye, even that. Though I'm sure he will treat ye kindly. And perhaps love may blossom between ye." Mary didn't sound particu larly hopeful.

  "I hardly know him, but I ken him to be an honor able man," said Aila softly.

  "Aye, he is that. I married his cousin, James Patrick. They were good friends, like brothers they were."

  Aila looked at Mary with eager eyes, not wanting to press her for more but hoping she would continue her story.

  "MacLaren was a serious lad. He rode off to war a wee young, if ye ask me. He stood wi' the auld laird, his father, at the battle o' Halidon Hill. Poor lad, his father was killed, ye ken. He was naught but twelve summers, so the elders chose his father's brother to be laird. But poor Fin died a few years later. MacLaren was a mite young when the elders chose him as laird. He takes his responsibilities hard."

  Aila soaked in every word Mary spoke. She couldn't get enough of hearing about her husband. She took a deep breath and decided to ask a question that had been nibbling on her consciousness, though she was not sure she wanted to know the answer. "Lady Patrick… Mary," Aila corrected as Mary began to protest the formality of address. "I have much respect for MacLaren and his defense o' his clan. But I need to ken if…" Aila tried to find the right words to ask what was burdening her heart. "Does MacLaren have another, er, woman to whom he shows affection?" It was the closest she could come to asking if MacLaren had a leman.

  "Goodness, no." Mary's answer was immediate and reassuringly certain. Aila let go of her held breath, listening as Mary continued. "Though to be honest, many women, maidens or no, have tried to entice him to their beds, but he will have none of it. He seems distant and cold to everyone, though he has his reasons."

  Aila nodded. She had heard enough of his betrayal in France to understand at least some of why he was distant.

  The meal was finished, and Gavin asked if he could explore the convent. Mary admonished him not to get into mischief or bother the nuns, and got a wave in response before her son was out of sight. Aila and Mary walked arm in arm out of the hall.

  "'Tis certainly no' my place to say," said Mary, "but do ye ken what happened to MacLaren in France?"

  "MacLaren has told me a little, and Chaumont has told me more," said Aila, wondering if Mary knew any more of the story. They found a secluded place by the garden wall and sat on a bench to talk.

  "Then ye heard o' the countess what betrayed him to the English?"

  "Aye."

  "Poor MacLaren, he blames himself for Jamie's death."

  "Why is that?" Aila had come to understand Mary had lost her husband during MacLaren's campaign in France, but more than that she did not know.

  "My husband, MacLaren's cousin, died in the battle he waged to protect the countess."

  "Little wonder he is so distrusting," Aila said slowly, rethinking her interactions with her husband. Aila's mind drifted deep into thought about this, and she began to see MacLaren's actions from an entirely new perspective.

  "Lady Aila." The deep voice in front of her made her jump. Father Barrick, the abbot, stood before her, his sword belted to his side. "A word with you, if you please."

  It was not a request.

  Laird Graham stood on the wall walk of the upper bailey, grimly looking down on the scene below him. The castle was overflowing with people, burghers, and crofters alike, who had fled the approaching army of McNab and his unknown French conspirator. They were all looking at him, waiting for him to speak. Despite the crowd, it was eerily quiet, giving the morning a chilling air. They wanted to know Graham's plan to survive the siege. They also probably wanted to know why Pitcairn's severed head was on a stake in the middle of the lower bailey.

  Beyond the castle walls, Graham counted his enemy as they surrounded his fortress, freely helping themselves to whatever bounty they could find among the houses and shops of Carron. At least the town still stood, which was another comfort, though probably due more to his enemies' own interest then any sign of restraint on their part. He was outnumbered, badly. Even with MacLaren's warriors, he had no hope of a frontal attack. To do so would be suicide, and he'd had enough of charging into battle against hopeless odds.

  He needed to say something to his clan. He needed a plan. But what? He had the report that Aila had spoken to Campbell's son, but how could he rely on that? If Campbell did not come… How could he give his clan hope when he felt none? He motioned for MacLaren, Chaumont, and Warwick to join him on the battlements. Perhaps these warriors would lend him the strength and inspiration he needed at this moment. They looked grim. Even Chaumont looked uncharacteristically grave.

  "Good morn to ye, my kin, my clan," Graham began his address to the silent, gray-faced sea of people surrounding him. "Today is a day of reckoning. It is a day when men's accounts are laid bare, and we are called to stand for judgment. It grieves me to say our clansman, my friend, Pitcairn our steward, was found in league with our enemies. In truth"—Graham raised his voice to a fierce roar—"I caught him trying to betray us to our enemies while we slept." Gasps were heard from more than one quarter. "This foul betrayer o' his own people turned on me, and I would be lying in my grave this morn if no' for the actions o' Sir Chaumont, who has saved all o' our lives."

  Cheers erupted from the crowd, which seemed eager to grasp upon any strand of hope. Graham turned to Chaumont, who was looking somewhat embarrassed, and embraced him as well as the full armor they both wore would allow.

  "Sir Chaumont," Graham said, his voice ringing through the silent crowd, "for yer honor and courage, and for yer defense o' our clan in her time o' need, I bestow upon ye our greatest thanks. Kneel, Sir Chaumont." Chaumont took one knee as Graham drew his long sword. "I wouldst knight thee, for surely ye exemplify the verra image o' a true knight, but others have claimed that privilege. Yet I wouldst show our thanks for yer courageous actions. So, Sir Chaumont, I bestow upon thee the name o' Graham and all the rights and responsibilities therein." Graham tapped Chaumont on both shoulders, the blade glinting in the morning sun. "Rise, my son."

  Chaumont rose shakily to his feet, and the crowd cheered again. Pretending to shield his eyes from the sun, Chaumont tried to surreptitiously wipe the tears from his eyes, but then abandoned the effort and let the tears flow. MacLaren sniffed, nodding at Graham and clapping him on the back in a sure sign of approval.

  "Though weeping may remain through the night," Graham said, speaking to the crowd, giving his rough paraphrase of Psalm 30, "in the morning there be rejoicing. The Lord has taken away but has given back again." Graham stood between Chaumont and MacLaren, taking their hands he raised them aloft. "Behold my sons!" The clan was moved to cheers once again, even louder than before. On the other side of the battlements, his enemies took note of the noise and scrambled into a defensive line. Graham smiled. Good, let them worrit
themselves, wondering what we're about.

  Gasps and stunned silence caught Graham's atten tion. On the other side of the wall walk the soldiers made way and stood at attention, revealing none other than his wife. Graham's jaw dropped. Two soldiers flanked her on either side, and as she drew closer, he could tell they were carrying her by her elbows so the clan would not see her limp. In truth, from afar it must look as if she floated to his side. Her blond hair was elaborately coiffed, and she wore a brilliant red silk gown, ornately embroidered with gold thread. She was carefully wrapped in fur, her hands hidden in long, flowing sleeves. She looked stunning.

  With some effort, Graham shut his gaping mouth and gave her a bow, which she returned with a nod of her head. The crowd was silent once again. It was the first time most had seen their lady in ten years.

  "My laird, my clan," Lady Graham said, her voice ringing out over the stunned crowd, loud and true. "It grieves me that we are now so beset. Yet together we will stand against our enemies. And together we will defeat them."

  The crowd erupted once again. If their lady could stand beside their laird, surely miracles could happen. Graham was so proud of his wife he could almost burst. In a few words, she had given them the confidence to fight. She looked so beautiful at that moment, regal, with her face glowing in the early morning sun, he could almost kiss her. The impulse seemed strange, but then, why not kiss his wife?

  Graham moved his hand around her slim waist, pressing her to him and helping to take the weight off her feet, which he knew must be paining her. Slowly he bent down, brushing his lips against hers. He expected her to pull away, but she did not. In her eyes was naught but surprise. Encouraged, he bent down again and claimed her lips, remembering their sweetness and feeling surprised she could still command his full atten tion. The throng below was cheering even louder now, but John Graham heard none of it until the clarion sound of pipes pulled his mind back to the present.

  Out across the heath, into the distance, troops were beginning their descent over the far hill. Squinting into the sun, he held his breath until he saw the familiar banner. It was the Campbells. Line by line, more soldiers came into view, and Graham felt like weeping in relief. Turning his gaze heavenward, he said a silent prayer of thanksgiving and noted with satisfaction that Chaumont and MacLaren appeared to be doing the same.

  "The Campbells!" came the cry from the tower, and the cry was repeated up the battlements.

  "We're saved," cried a woman's voice.

  "To the armory," Graham shouted. "Prepare for battle. Tonight we drink to the defeat of our enemies!"

  The people cheered with excitement, and Warwick strode off to see to the arming of the masses.

  "Thank ye," Graham said quietly to his wife, whom he still held in his arms. "They needed ye… I needed ye. I've neglected ye too long, but no more. Tonight ye shall sleep in my bed." His wife trembled, though her eyes shone and a smile played on her lips.

  "A command, my laird?"

  Graham leaned closer, whispering for only her to hear. "Nay, only the pathetic begging o' a lonely auld goat who misses his beautiful wife."

  Lady Graham did smile then and laid her head against his chest. "See to it ye dinna get yerself killed today."

  "Wi' ye as my prize, there be little chance o' that."

  Thirty-Three

  FATHER BARRICK WORE THE PLAIN BLACK ROBES OF A priest, but the links of his chain mail were visible at his neck. From his belt, a rosary hung at his right side, a long sword from his left. Aila's stomach tensed in his presence, but she stood and curtseyed.

  The abbot turned and walked away, Aila hustling to catch up. When they were alone, the abbot spoke without emotion and without bothering to turn to her.

  "I understand you have been forced to marry. A serious matter, since you had already pledged yourself to the Church."

  Aila swallowed hard. She had always intended to take orders, but she knew as well as he that she had never formally committed herself. The abbot spoke with such grave authority, however, that she began to feel the familiar pangs of guilt.

  "Aye, Father. One canna ken the will o' God," Aila stammered weakly. The abbot turned on her a critical eye, and though he said nothing, she felt severely reprimanded. Clearly, this man knew the will of God. She, of course, did not.

  "I am glad you have come to us. I shall grant you sanctuary for the next cycle of the moon to determine if you are with child. If you are, I'm afraid there may be little I can do to help you."

  "Nay," Aila stammered. This conversation had taken a decidedly awkward turn. "There is no need. I… I am no' wi' child."

  "But how can you be sure?" The abbot turned once again and scrutinized her carefully. "Have you had relations with him?"

  Aila blushed from head to toe. These were matters she wished to speak of to no one, let alone the abbot. She stared at the ground and gave her head a barely perceivable shake. The abbot's eyes flashed, and the corner of the left side of his mouth curled upward in an opportunistic sneer that vanished as quickly as it came.

  "Then fear not, for I will write to His Eminence the Pope, and your marriage will soon be annulled. You will be able to take your orders very soon."

  Fear gripped her stomach and gave it a nasty turn. The irony that this had been exactly her plan not five days ago was not lost on her. But now… now she felt differently. Much differently.

  "But MacLaren—" Aila began, not knowing quite what to say to the intimidating abbot.

  "Do not concern yourself with him. In his current position, he cannot come for you, and if he does, he has no rights on this holy ground. Though I find it likely you will soon be a widow."

  Aila gasped at Father Barrick's cold, emotionless evaluation of the situation. Could MacLaren really be in danger of losing his life? Blood thundered through her veins, and she felt her courage return. MacLaren stood and fought for her clan. She would stand by him.

  "Nay, Father, ye mistake my intent. 'Twas no' my will to wed MacLaren, I grant ye, but now that I am his wife, I intend to honor my vows to him."

  "And what does your will matter in this?" Father Barrick turned on her, his voice so fierce she took two steps back. "Come, I wish to show you something."

  Father Barrick walked into one of the side buildings used to store food through the winter. Aila followed reluctantly. She sensed danger, and every instinct she had told her not to go into the building, but he was the abbot. How could she disobey?

  He walked on a narrow path through the storeroom and then down a set of stairs cut into the earth, leading into the root cellar. At the bottom was a heavy oak door that was padlocked. It was here the sisters kept their more valuable food stores—tea, spices. The abbot unlocked the door and stepped inside.

  "W-why are we here?" Aila wished her voice had not wavered.

  "Come here. I wish to show you something."

  Aila stepped into the room, her eyes gradually adjusting to the dim light. The abbot quickly slid past her, back outside, closing the door behind him.

  "What are ye doing?" Aila cried as he locked the door.

  "You are being tempted to deny your vows to the Church. As your abbot, I am responsible for your salvation, and I will ensure the sanctity of your soul. Your marriage will be annulled, and you will remain in isolation until you are ready to take your vows."

  "Nay!" Aila screamed, panic taking hold. "Ye canna do this. Ye canna force me to take orders"

  The abbot only laughed. "Every wench has their breaking point. Do not doubt that very soon, you will do anything I ask. Do not underestimate your worth, Lady Aila. You will make a most valuable asset to the convent."

  The abbot's words hit her cold and hard. She recoiled from them as if she had actually been struck. Aila slumped onto the floor, grim realization setting in. She was rich, very rich. Wealthy enough to make the Church authorities turn their heads to whatever tactics the abbot might use to make her consent to take her vows. She sat on the floor and put her head in her hands. She had kno
wn better than to follow him down here. She had sacrificed her freedom and her marriage because she had not wanted to seem rude. She was a fool.

  MacLaren, Graham, and Chaumont rode forward slowly under a flag of peace to have speech with McNab and the French invaders. MacLaren still could not understand why the French would leave their homeland and come so far to attack him. It seemed these foreign knights held a grudge against him. But what had he done to the Golden Knight other than defend Gascony against the English? Nothing made sense.

  They rode slowly out of the portcullis and down

  the narrow, winding road to the base of the moun tain to meet with McNab and his French allies. The horsemen waited for them on the flat plain between the castle and the town, their banners fighting with the breeze. Campbell rode forward with his second to join the conversation. All had their visors raised except the Golden Knight, who continued to conceal his face. McNab and his second looked decidedly shabby next to the Golden Knight and his second, a decorated knight named Forbier, whom MacLaren had fought beside in France. MacLaren tried to catch his eye, but Forbier stared only at Graham, ignoring his former comrades in arms with such determination, it could be meant only as a rebuff—or possibly embarrassment.