Highlander's Sword (5 page)

   Aila had no idea what the laundress meant, but the stout woman seemed to require no reply and walked off humming. Before Aila could consider the woman's odd behavior, more castle dwellers came to offer their well-wishes, and even Cook left his kitchens to squeeze her hand in his massive fist.

   "God bless ye, Aila. I was so worrit for ye. Ah, such good news," said Cook, wiping his eyes with the corner of his apron.

   Cook was not alone in giving Aila warm sentiments and congratulations. Hopes were raised as the news of Aila's marriage spread through the castle and to the town of Carron below. It had been a long winter after the grievous tidings of their losses at the battle of Neville's Cross. So many men had left to join the young King David; so few had returned. The Scots were a pragmatic folk. While an alliance between Aila and Sir Padyn MacLaren was not prestigious, it did give the Grahams the one thing they lacked— seasoned, battle-tested warriors. That alone was reason enough for celebration.

   Yet one in the castle was not pleased when news of Aila's wedding reached him. Indulging in a moment of anger, he flung his goblet, which hit the far side of the room, whiskey splattering the wall. Taking gulps of air, he tried to silently regain his composure before anyone could note his reaction, but his body shook with the effort required to contain his fury.

   With the firm resolve of a man long acquainted with deception, he tightened his grip on his emotions, pushing them beneath the surface of the mask he wore so well. Despite his outward appearance of calm, rage seethed within him like a bottled tempest. Seeing the whiskey dripping down the wall, he moved quickly to clean it, noting as he did the container from which the spirit flowed. It was a finely crafted bottle, inlaid with red jewels around the neck. Grabbing the vessel, he walked over to his private chest from which he pulled a smaller bottle. He had intended the special contents of the small bottle for Laird Graham, but these were desperate times. He admired the small bottle in his hand.
'Tis the lovely thing about poison; it takes so little to
leave a man dead.

   He liberally poured the contents of the small bottle into the larger jeweled carafe, smiling at his cleverness and MacLaren's impending demise. He paused for a moment, considering what might happen if Aila should also drink the poison, but rejected the notion with a shrug, confident Aila did not drink whiskey. Satisfied with his reasoning, he rang the bell and told the servant to deliver the gift as a wedding present later in the evening. MacLaren's marriage to the Lady Aila was going to be much shorter than anyone anticipated.

MACLAREN RECEIVED REPORTS FROM HIS MEN, WHO had questioned the nearby crofters. No one had seen anything. Most were gone to the town of Carron for St. John's Eve, and those who had stayed behind were too frail to be outdoors. Whoever had perpetrated the brazen daytime attack had chosen the time and place carefully to minimize the risk of detection. He called for his men to mount up, and they began the journey back to Dundaff.

   Though unsuccessful in their hunt, MacLaren's men were pleased to be active again, and they rode back to the Graham stronghold in good humor. Of late, MacLaren had directed his men to plant his fallow fields, and while his men would follow any command, they were weary of playing farmer.

   MacLaren had returned from France last autumn with this band of war-weary soldiers and landless knights who had followed him in his campaigns against the English and continued to follow him now. MacLaren rode in silence, Chaumont by his side. The men behind him talked and laughed freely, engaging in the easy banter of men who knew each other well. Most had been his companions for years in France. Though many were from other clans or even other countries, they had become his friends, his family, his clan. He would do anything for them—including marriage.

   "We have cause to celebrate, lads," Chaumont said with a smile. MacLaren knew where this was going and concentrated on the dirt path ahead of him.

   "MacLaren has taken a wife." Chaumont was enjoying the moment with unabashed glee. His procla mation was greeted with stunned silence from the men. MacLaren gritted his teeth for what was to come.

   "MacLaren married?" asked one man.

   "But he declared he would ne'er wed," said another.

   "It canna be so."

   "Who did he marry?"

   "The lovely Lady Aila Graham," replied Chaumont in his smooth voice.

   More silence.

   "Heiress to all of Dundaff," Chaumont added.

   Cheers shook the leaves from the trees. Men gath ered around MacLaren, celebrating his—and to large extent their—good fortune. MacLaren accepted their felicitations with stoic resolve. It was certainly good news for his men, but MacLaren was unsure his fate was equally bonnie. Worse yet, MacLaren found there was no end of advice to be given to a man newly married. Even men who were confirmed bachelors now seemed experts in the field of matrimony. As they continued back to Dundaff, MacLaren was assailed by their enthusiastic, if not helpful, comments.

   "'Tis important ye master her early so she dinna give ye no strife," said a gangly youth MacLaren felt sure would kiss the feet of any comely lass who gave him but an ounce of notice.

   "Ho, ho! Big talk from a lad what's more afeard o' the lasses than the English," mocked Rory, a stout fighter who had been married for as long as MacLaren could remember. He gave MacLaren a knowing nod. "Treat her fair now, lad, and she'll do right by ye."

   "Nay, a woman will bring ye naught but aggrava tion." This was from Gilbert, who had left his wife and three children to join MacLaren's campaign in France, only to return several years later to find he had acquired two more bairns. He had endured much hazing from his fellow soldiers about the amazing strength of his seed, which could impregnate his wife from hundreds of miles away—twice.

   "Now, Gilby, Meg is a right fine lass," said one man.

   "Aye, we all think so," rejoined another, followed by the bawdy laughter of the group.

   "Plague take ye all!" spat Gilbert.

   When the laughter subsided, Chaumont, who had been riding quietly next to MacLaren, listening to the questionable marital counsel of the Highland warriors, decided it was time to contribute to the conversation. "You all seem to be full of advice, most of it bad, and none of it addressing what is most important in a marriage." He spoke in his rich, smooth voice, the ever-present spark of humor in his eyes.

   "What might that be?" MacLaren asked warily. He wasn't beyond tossing him in another cold loch if he felt the need arise.

"I speak of your husbandly duties in the marital bed."

   This got the attention of the men, and they rode in silence, listening to what the Frenchman might say on the topic. "You know it is your responsibility to give her pleasure so she can give you children." The Highlanders nodded. It was well known only a woman well pleased in the bedroom could conceive a child. Those who had never heard of this particular axiom also nodded wisely, believing the Frenchman to be an expert on all such matters.

   Yet MacLaren remained a skeptic, both of the state ment's truth and Chaumont's humor. "Do ye really ken that be true, or is it an old wives' tale?"

   Chaumont smiled broadly. "I am sure it is a tale told by many wives." More laughter rang forth from the men. What followed was more advice from the men on the subject of happily bedding a wife, which ranged from the crude to the poetic.

   After a while, one man turned to Rory, saying, "Do ye no' have a dozen bairns? Ye must know how to keep a wife well pleased."

   "That I do, laddie, that I do." He lowered his voice as if sharing a great secret. "I'll tell ye how to give the greatest pleasure a lass has ever known."

   The men leaned in their saddles, straining to hear the old man's words.

   "Take a bath."

   Her maids prepared her bath and worked to modify a silver gown to be more in keeping with the current court fashion. The reality of her union to MacLaren began to sink in. After the bath, the maids attempted to tame Aila's wet, curly tangles into long ringlets.

   "Och, m'lady," said Maggie, one of the maids, "ye ne'er told us ye were to be wed."

   
Nobody told me either.

   "And such a man," said another maid.

   "'Tis verra braw," said a third.

   "Aye, verra." The maids all made happy humming noises.

   "Too bad about his face. What an ugly scar."

   "Gained fighting against the English," Aila reminded them, though in truth she did not know how he had received the scar and was unsure why she needed to defend him.

   "Aye, m'lady," the maids acknowledged. They finished without further discussion and sent her up to dry her hair in the sun.

   Alone with her thoughts, Aila stood on the turret with her face to the sun. Pushing aside the doubts and worries, she considered what it might be like to be married to such a man as MacLaren, who had risked his life to bring back the body of her dear brother. To MacLaren, who was knighted in France for fighting valiantly against the English invaders. To MacLaren, who had been her brother's friend and whom she had secretly idolized in her younger years. She smiled, remembering her childish fancy. She had secretly watched the young MacLaren, thinking he was the most handsome lad she had ever seen. She had planned to marry him at the age of five, until she realized "nun" meant "no man."

   Aila's smile broadened. MacLaren's growth to manhood had done nothing to diminish his appeal. She wondered if his choice in brides had been motivated solely by the size of her inheritance, or if he felt any particular regard for her. The thought of MacLaren wanting her gave her a sudden flush. He had looked into her eyes with such intensity, as if he was the first person to truly see her. Her smile waned as she remembered how he had acted after they had wed. What would it be like to be married to him? Would he be kind or harsh? Questions tumbled in her head.

   
Si qua ergo in Christo nova creatura vetera transierunt ecce
facta sunt nova.

   The scripture came unbidden to mind.
If anyone is
in Christ he is a new creation, the old has gone, the new
has come.
A new beginning? That would be nice. She breathed deeply of the promise in the air. Closing her eyes, she enjoyed the warmth of the sun. It was St. John's Eve.

   Anything was possible. Returning to the castle, a multitude of questionable pieces of advice ringing in his ears, MacLaren decided it was time to meet his wife. Chaumont intercepted him and refused to allow MacLaren to seek her until he was washed and dressed "properly."

   "I dinna come to court her. I've already married her," MacLaren said, arguing he did not bring the garments Chaumont deemed necessary.

   "I've yer clothes here," chimed in Braden, his squire. MacLaren glared at Chaumont with suspicion.

   Chaumont shrugged. "I may have given him a few packing suggestions."

   After MacLaren was dressed to Chaumont's satisfaction, MacLaren was directed to Lady Aila's tower, being warned several times to go to the third floor—not the second, but the third. Lady Graham, it was whispered, resided on the second floor. He wondered at the emphasis but dutifully passed the second floor and continued on to the third. He stood on a small landing before a heavy oak door, wondering what he was supposed to say to his bride. The opportunity had emerged so quickly, he barely had time to think about it, except that it presented a resolution to a problem.

   Graham's proposition for MacLaren to marry his daughter provided MacLaren with much-needed land and fortune from her dowry. And if Graham was to sire no more children, MacLaren would inherit more than he had ever dreamed of owning. The marriage fulfilled his responsibilities by providing support to his clan and land for the knights who followed him. It was the right thing to do, but as he had made his quick decision yesterday, he had considered only Aila's land and Aila's money, not actually Aila herself. Prior to Marguerite, he had taken his knightly vow of purity seriously and so had little experience with women.

   Now, as he stood outside the door, he felt… what exactly? Intimidated? Nervous? He shook his head to bolster his courage and his pride. Such nonsense.
You've bedded a countess; you can bed her. People get
married every day. This is nothing more than a common
business transaction, like buying an apple at the market.
With that romantic thought, he knocked on the door and, without waiting for a reply, opened it.