Highlander's Sword (32 page)

   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."

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 known 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.

   "Good morn to ye, my good sirs. To what do I owe the pleasure o' yer presence this early morn?" Graham's deep voice was deceptively mild as he adopted an atti tude of disinterested courtesy in his discourse with the men who were intent on his demise.

   "Greetings, Lord Graham. I regret we must meet under such trying circumstances."

   "'Trying circumstances, ye say?" Graham exploded. So much for disinterested courtesy. After years of the diplomatic negotiations guided by rigid rules of engage ment, MacLaren was amused by Graham's forthright manner, though he took care to betray no emotion. "Ye French are e'er quick to accept aid, but look how ye repay it. Was it no' enough ye called for our braw men to join in yer fight against the English king? But no, ye asked our King David to distract the English by marching against York. Did no' my clan answer that call? Is no' my only son lying cold in his grave for ye?"

   Graham roared so loudly there was not a soul in Carron or Dundaff who could not hear his words. "Ye are naught but an ungrateful bastard, without honor, hiding behind yer bonnie helm like a bloody coward."

   This time a faint smile passed over MacLaren's lips. He liked negotiations with Graham. Direct and to the point.

   "You impinge my honor, sir!" replied the Golden Knight with feeling.

   "That I do, and make no mistake about it," coun tered Graham, speaking French to ensure there was no misunderstanding. "Now make your vile demands, or get your sorry arse the hell off my land."

   There was a moment's pause, and MacLaren imagined the Golden Knight was trying to regain his composure after being so abused. The French had much more false politeness in their negotiations than did John Graham.

   "I regret my presence here. Let me state first that France appreciates all those who have fought on her behalf. But honor requires that I press my case, not against you or your family, Lord Graham, but against those you have given sanctuary. I challenge Sir Padyn MacLaren on the field of honor. Send him"—the French knight glanced at McNab—"and his wife forth, and we shall withdraw."

   "I am Padyn MacLaren." MacLaren urged his mount forward a step, conversing in the familiar French he had spoken for so many years. "What claim do you have against me?"

   "I accuse you of the murder of the nobleman, Gerard de Marsan. Do you deny it?"

   Silence surrounded them. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath. Everyone looked at MacLaren.

   "I do not deny de Marsan died at my hand."

   "Then I challenge you to the field to avenge the death of de Marsan."

   "I wouldst know my accuser."

   The Golden Knight removed his helm and pushed back his mail, revealing sandy brown hair, blue eyes, and a long, thin nose. "I am the Duke of Argitaine and half-brother to Gerard de Marsan."

   MacLaren nodded his head. He had been rightly challenged. It all made sense now. "Name your condi tions, Your Grace."

   "Joust of war."

   MacLaren only nodded, a small smile playing on his lips. Neither he nor the duke had ever been defeated at the joust, but neither had they ever faced each other. It was time to determine who was best. MacLaren wished the stakes were not quite so high for this contest, but so be it. He would once again pay the consequence for his folly.

   "And you will leave if MacLaren wins?" Graham asked.

   The duke nodded. "My fight is not against you. This day, either Sir Padyn or I will meet our Maker, and my honor will be defended. Either way, my men will leave peaceably unless called on to defend themselves."

   "But… Your Grace…" McNab stuttered.