Highlander's Sword (3 page)

   "Come now, children," Graham said, bursting back onto the landing, his large frame dominating the small space. "The priest is ready to proceed."

   Moments later, Aila was in front of the altar, standing beside Sir Padyn MacLaren. Father Thomas, the elderly priest who served Dundaff, recited the order of marriage from memory, though in his dotage he could remember little else. Aila was speeding toward a precipice and would soon fall if she did not act quickly. She tried to think of what to do, but her brain seemed to move at the speed of day-old porridge. She prayed for guidance but received no discernible answer. She glanced around, desperate for someone to come to her aid, but the elderly priest prattled along, oblivious to her concern. Her father stood, looking determined, the tall knight seemed quite amused by the whole scene, and MacLaren did naught but stare grimly down at her.

   The priest reached the point of asking MacLaren the covenantal questions of marriage, which he answered in the affirmative without any hesitation. Yet his grasp on Aila's hands tightened until she gasped. He released her instantly, a flash of surprise flickering across his otherwise expressionless face. The priest posed the same questions to her. She looked at her father, who gave her a curt nod to proceed. Still she hesitated. Aila waited for some sign as to what to do. MacLaren said nothing, but gently claimed her hands, his hands rough, yet warm. Looking up at MacLaren, she was captured by his gaze. Though his face remained expres sionless, his eyes told a different tale. She guessed there was much behind the cold mask he wore.

   "Do you take this man?" the priest asked again. Aila gathered the frayed edges of her courage and took a deep breath.

MACLAREN LOOKED DOWN AT THE WOMAN HE WAS about to marry as she struggled to find an answer to the priest. She appeared to be as happy to be standing at the altar as he was. Perhaps she would say no. A twinge of relief crept through him at the thought.
Go
on, lass, turn me down.

   He glanced at Chaumont and wished he had not. The bastard was grinning like a fool, obviously taking vicious delight in this turn of circumstance. Chaumont had proved his courage and skill in the crucible of battle and earned his place as MacLaren's second in command, yet the Frenchman had an irritating habit of always finding amusement in life, often at MacLaren's expense. Chaumont was most decidedly laughing at him. Perhaps with good cause. MacLaren wished he had not been so adamant in vowing never to marry. After his disastrous engage ment to Marguerite, he'd sworn he would never trust another woman. And now here he was at the altar. Well, trusting and marrying were two distinctly different things.

   MacLaren turned back to glare at his reticent bride. The proposal he'd received from Graham yesterday was most unexpected and one he could ill afford to refuse. As part of the proposed alliance, MacLaren was to fight against Graham's enemies, and in return, Graham would give MacLaren his daughter Aila in marriage. More importantly for his clan, MacLaren would get her dowry. Graham needed warriors; MacLaren needed land. It was a fair trade. Aila's fortune would provide for his clan.

   Whatever his personal feelings on the matter, MacLaren knew his duty. He had returned from France to find his clan impoverished, his herds raided, his fields fallow. He had done what he could to rebuild, but he needed coin for the clan and addi tional land for the knights he had brought back with him from France. His men deserved their reward. Aila's dowry, along with the hope of inheriting all of Dundaff someday, amply provided for all.

   The wench only needed to say "aye." MacLaren scowled down at Aila, waiting for her to give her answer. Behind him, Graham cleared his throat and glared at his only offspring. Aila blanched but continued to dither. Since there was naught to do but wait, MacLaren took another good look at his maybe bride.

   Aila was a bit tall for a lass but had a trim figure, at least from what he could tell from her modestly cut kirtle. A large white wimple covered all of her hair, and she was a bit long in the tooth to be still unmarried. He quickly did the math based on what he recalled from his friendship with her brother; MacLaren was twenty-six, which would make Aila about twenty-two. Old for a first marriage, but if she had been intended for the convent, it would explain why she had not married earlier. Her face was pleasant, and he could find no obvious fault with it, except the poor lass looked terrified. She looked up at him, and the green of her eyes caught his attention. His stomach did a sudden flip. Odd… must be marriage did not agree with him.

   He continued to gaze into her eyes, unable to turn away. With sudden clarity, he decided he did want her to consent to the marriage. The longer he looked into her eyes, the more certain he became. He took her hands in his, enveloping her cold hands with his warm ones. Her lips parted, and her eyes widened. A tingle flushed through him, warming places he thought long dead. Everyone else faded away.
Marry me.
He gently rubbed the palms of her hands.
Marry me.

   "I do."

   A slap on the shoulder brought MacLaren back to reality. Chaumont was smiling like a fox in a henhouse. MacLaren scowled. He was not sure what had come over him. He could not possibly be weak enough to be tricked again by a woman's beauty. Not again. Never again. He glared down at Aila. He was not sure what power she thought she could wield over him, but he would have none of it. She was his wife by Church and by contract, nothing more. He would do his duty by her. His heart would not be touched.

   With a bow to the altar and a curt nod to the priest and Laird Graham, MacLaren led Aila outside. Best not to look at her. Might fall into the trap of those

Blinking dazedly into the sunlight, Aila walked out of the chapel tower on the arm of her new husband. What had happened? Was she truly… married?

   "Fire!" The yell came from a lookout on the castle wall.

   "Fire on the fields!" The cry was taken up by watchtowers throughout the castle. Without a glance at his new bride, MacLaren took off, running down to the lower bailey, with the French knight close at his heels. Aila's father hobbled behind.

   "Go at 'em, lads!" bellowed Graham to his new son-in-law as they ran ahead. "Saddle me a horse. We'll get the bastards this time!"

   Aila stood alone, watching them run away, wondering when she would awake from this most odd dream. With a bland smile, Father Thomas shuffled out of the tower.

   "Father." She acknowledged the elderly priest as he came up beside her.

   The old cleric smiled and took her hand with a squeeze. "There's a good lass, Molly."

   "No' Molly," said Aila a little louder, leaning over to yell into the old man's ear. "I'm Aila, Aila Graham… er… MacLaren."

   "Lady Aila?" asked the priest with surprise. "Why I have a message for ye, I do." He pulled a folded parch ment from his robes, handed it to her, and continued to shuffle along his way.

   Wondering who could have possibly written her, Aila broke the seal. The brief contents had been dictated by Sister Enid, her dear friend from St. Margaret's Convent.

   
I
am
writing
to
warn
you
against
falling
away from the path of righteousness. I am deeply
concerned that you may soon be pressured to marry.
Remember you are promised to Christ alone, so
take great care to remain true to your commitment
to the Most High Lord. I fear the ungodly may try
to lead you astray, so I urge you most fervently to
take your final vows and join the convent with all
possible haste. In this regard, the abbot and I are of
one mind. I hope to embrace you soon as a fellow
Sister in Christ.

   Despite it being unladylike, Aila sat down on the chapel-tower stairs and put her head in her hands. It was all too much. Around her, the castle dwellers and village burghers went about their daily business, oblivious to her distress.

   "What is she doing?" Aila heard the whispered question as someone passed her by.

   "'Tis Lady Aila, probably deep in prayer," answered another. "She's verra pious, bound for the nunnery, ye ken."

   "Aye, she'll make a fine nun," replied the other as the voices faded from hearing. Fortunately, no one heard the pitiful moans of the ever-pious Lady Aila.

MacLaren and his men joined Graham's forces and sped toward the fire to douse the flames and pursue the culprits. To avoid panic, Graham had tried to play off the arsons as accidents, though the soldiers knew the truth, and many others were starting to suspect. MacLaren doubted Graham could keep this secret much longer.

   Though permanently injured, the Dundaff laird insisted on joining the party. Grievously wounded at the battle of Halidon Hill, John Graham would fight no more. Merely walking was a struggle. MacLaren considered it rather game of Graham to even attempt to ride. Out of respect, MacLaren remained with his new father-in-law, though he would have preferred to be among the group of faster riders. He was impressed Graham actually made the journey, since his old wounds clearly pained him.

   When they arrived at the smoldering field, the fire had been doused, and the destruction was minimal.

   "Good work, lads," Graham's big voice boomed. To MacLaren he said, "We'll get that bastard McNab next time."

   MacLaren searched the scene, but no evidence to the identity of the raiders could be found. He was at a loss as to why anyone would do this. Raiding another clan's livestock he understood, perhaps a little too well. But what benefit could there be in burning another man's fields? Graham was convinced his neighbor McNab was behind the attacks. MacLaren preferred to be more certain before initiating a clan war.

   "With respect, my lord," said MacLaren quietly to Graham, "how do ye ken for sure it be McNab responsible for the attacks?"

   "McNab sent a message, offering to help me against my enemies, demanding Aila's hand in marriage in return," Graham said with disdain.

   "Is this no' the same offer ye made me? Why are ye so convinced o' his guilt?"

   "Do ye ken what that McNab clan has done?" Graham asked, his thick brows furrowed. "They feigned friendship wi' Wallace and then betrayed his men to the bloody English. They fought against Bruce and only supported his cause after he had won. Bruce was right to strip McNab of his most of his holdings. Should have left him naked in the Highlands, I say, but the abbot interceded, more's the pity."

   MacLaren considered Graham's logic but remained unconvinced. The current Laird McNab was too young to be guilty of the sins against Robert Bruce or William Wallace. That past generations of McNabs sided with the English was hardly enough evidence for condemnation. MacLaren was all too familiar with the fickle loyalties of the aristocracy to be overly shocked by the behavior. Still, someone was burning the fields, and even if McNab was not the culprit, he was at least trying to profit from it.

   MacLaren opened his mouth to continue the debate but stopped, noticing Graham's pained expression. Laird Graham was a proud man, one who had earned the respect of all true Scots. He had always supported the call for freedom against the English and had person ally fought for both Wallace and Bruce. His wounds were badges of honor in MacLaren's eyes. Indeed, MacLaren held the Graham laird in high regard.

   "I see your point, m'lord," MacLaren agreed. "Our work is done here. I suggest ye take yer men back to Dundaff while my lads and I ask the crofters if they saw anything notable."

   "Verra good, lad." Graham smiled, looking somewhat relieved. "Our fortunes will turn wi' ye, my son."

   MacLaren watched the Dundaff laird ride away.

   
Son.

   No one had called him that in a very long time.

AILA GRAHAM REMAINED ON THE CHAPEL STEPS UNTIL it seemed pointless to continue to do so. Despite her world coming to an end, everyone else's continued to move along, and eventually she got up to join them. It was still St. John's Eve, and this unexpected and inconvenient marriage had put her behind schedule.