Highlander's Sword (33 page)

   "Ah, now ye must ken I'd ne'er give the likes o' ye my daughter," Graham mocked, giving McNab a penetrating glare. "But ye must no' come all this way for nothing. I'll see ye leave wi' a friend. Pitcairn's head is on a stake in my bailey. I'll have it sent to ye."

   McNab blanched, but his bad news was not over.

   "This challenge doesna settle things between us, McNab," MacLaren said coldly to the man who had abducted his wife. "When I am finished wi' His Grace, I will come to settle my account wi' ye."

   "I accept yer challenge," replied McNab gamely, "but ye will forgive me if I wish His Grace best fortune in the coming joust."

THE FIELD WAS PACED AND MARKED OFF IN SHORT order. It was a makeshift list at best, with no tilt as a barrier to keep the horses from colliding. Despite its deficiencies, it was the closest most of the Scots had come to a tournament, and the atmosphere was disturbingly festive. MacLaren could understand the people's enjoyment. They had learned there would be no siege, no battle, and no one was at risk except the two men who jousted. The people got not only a reprieve from war, but a show as well. What did they care if he ended up dead? People lined the field, baskets of food were brought, the French knights shamelessly chatted up the bonnie lasses, and the bets were laid. MacLaren was not favored to win.

   "You look to me to have the advantage here," Chaumont said cheerfully to MacLaren as he helped him prepare for the first pass of the joust. "You'll look fine in that golden suit he wears."

   MacLaren smiled at his friend's support, though he wished it had less bravado and more confidence. Slamming his visor down, he took up his lance and moved into position. He had jousted many times in tournaments with great success but never a joust of war. In the tourneys, the goal was to knock the opponent off his horse. Today, the goal was death. The lances, far from being blunted to avoid serious injury, were equipped with sharp metal tips. It would be a bloody day.

   MacLaren studied his opponent. The Golden Knight was the brother of that weasel de Marsan. Bad luck that. It was the only kind of luck he seemed to have of late. The Golden Knight saluted him with his lance, and MacLaren returned the gesture. MacLaren took a breath, said a prayer, then spurred his mount to try to take the life of his opponent.

   Racing at full speed, MacLaren stood up in his stirrups as he approached and leveled his aim to the duke's chest. With a blinding clash, the horsemen met. MacLaren's lance was deflected and shattered by the duke's shield. The duke's lance struck MacLaren's helm and glanced off. MacLaren swayed in his saddle as he struggled to retain his seat and his senses. The helm had held against the lance, but the force of impact addled MacLaren's brain for a moment, and he took his time walking his horse back to his position to give his fuzzy head time to clear.

   "I thought you were supposed to hit him, not the other way round," commented Chaumont dryly as he handed MacLaren a new lance for another pass.

   "Thanks for setting me to rights," MacLaren returned. "I shall attempt this new strategy."

   MacLaren raced toward the approaching figure of the duke with resolve, this time aiming for the neck. His Grace aimed for the same. Once again it was done in a flash, MacLaren's lance shattered and deflected. The duke had struck true, tearing a hole through MacLaren's shoulder armor. MacLaren turned and trotted back quickly, not wanting anyone to deter mine the extent of his injuries.

   "I dinna like yer new strategy," muttered MacLaren upon his return.

   "You're not doing it right," answered Chaumont grimly as he pulled mangled metal from the gash in MacLaren's shoulder and stuffed bundles of linen gauze through the hole in his mail shirt to staunch the flow of blood. MacLaren's left arm hung at a rather awkward angle. Chaumont took MacLaren's shield from the breathless squire, who had raced to retrieve it from the field, and wedged it into the saddle. The shield was now holding up MacLaren's left arm rather than the other way round, but there was naught to be done about it.

   "I fear the question o' who is better at this sport will no' be answered in my favor," MacLaren said mildly, as if he was commenting on the weather.

   "Then knock the bloody bastard off his horse and face him on the ground," commented Chaumont, looking away, but MacLaren had already seen the worry in his eyes.

   "Aye," muttered MacLaren. He needed to do something drastic, or he would lose. And losing this time meant death. Feeling resigned, he moved back into position. Looking across at the man who was about to kill him, MacLaren's mind wandered to Aila. He wondered what she would do if he was to fall. Join the cloister? No, her father had already made it clear he did not want the Church to inherit Dundaff. No, most likely she would be given to another man in marriage. The thought rankled around in his brain.
Another man?
His blood began to pump again, and he could no longer feel the pain in his shoulder.
Another
man?
Nay. He would not let that happen. He gripped his lance with determination and devised the hasty strategy of a desperate man.

   He charged again at the Golden Knight, lowering his lance as before. The Golden Knight lowered his for what would surely be a death blow. Suddenly, MacLaren swerved his horse in front of the duke to the opposite side and held his lance sideways across his body, knocking the duke from his horse. The force of impact also knocked MacLaren to the ground, and he fell neatly, having expected this outcome. MacLaren avoided his damaged shoulder and regained his feet. His Grace landed harder and came up slower. It was a move that would have cost MacLaren points in a tourney joust, but a joust of war had no rules. Still, the move might be considered by some to be undignified for a knight, and MacLaren could feel the heat of the duke's glare even through his helm.

   Both trudged back to re-dress and reequip. They would continue now on the ground. A duel to the death.

   "That was inspired," said Chaumont with sincere admiration.

   "Reset my shoulder. I canna feel my hand," returned MacLaren, focused on the next round. Chaumont and his squire eased him out of the armor he used for jousting, and Chaumont gave a quick tug on his shoulder, resetting his arm with a bone-grinding pop. MacLaren moved it gingerly. It felt exactly like a lance to the shoulder would feel—painful. But at least he could move his arm.

   Back into field armor, MacLaren picked up his clay more and walked back to meet his opponent. MacLaren was good with a lance, better with a sword. He hoped the same would not be true for the duke. He saluted Argitaine, touching his sword to his forehead, and the duke returned the gesture. MacLaren was struck by the futility of this battle. He had nothing against the duke. He had spent years of his life defending this man's terri tory against the English. And now MacLaren was being forced to fight him because of Marguerite's treachery and Marsan's foolishness. What a waste.

   Thoughts were soon silenced as the duke swung toward him, and MacLaren parried the blow. The duke was certainly capable of holding his own. And so it began, this fatal dance as they traded blows one with the other, attacking, fading, spinning jabbing, parrying. Each one testing the other, trying to find weaknesses, trying to find the opportunity to deliver the fatal blow.

   The fight wore on, and MacLaren tired, succumbing to fatigue and pain. Visions of Aila came back to him, and he wondered if these would be his last thoughts. Aila dressed like a queen for the feast, Aila riding wild over the heath, Aila standing at his grave, Aila giving herself to another. The image was infuriating, and MacLaren charged Argitaine like the berserkers of old, striking him under the arm where the armor was weakest.

   The Golden Knight slumped in pain, but regained his footing. MacLaren circled round like a predator that had smelled blood. Striking again, he clashed against Argitaine's blade then sliced back and came down hard on the duke's right wrist. The sound of the bone breaking could be plainly heard, though the plate held and the hand remained attached to the body. The Golden Knight's sword fell from his useless hand.

   Acknowledging defeat, the Duke of Argitaine removed his helm with his one good hand. His face was white, his mouth a thin line. Argitaine looked around him for a moment then took a breath and knelt before MacLaren to accept his death blow. MacLaren admired the man's courage. To kill such a man seemed pointless. Argitaine was desperately needed in France to counter the attacks of the English, who grew ever bolder in their determina tion to defeat all of France under their English king. MacLaren removed his helm.

   "Yer people need ye, Argitaine. I have no wish to kill ye."

   The duke looked up, and MacLaren could see the struggle in his eyes for a moment until His Grace claimed better control of his emotions.

   "I am honor bound to defend the life of my brother. I have taken a blood oath to meet you on the field of honor. If you let me live, I will challenge you again."

   "Ye have indeed met me on the field. The honor of yer brother has been answered. He died at my hand, yes, but it was he who challenged me first, in a manner."

   "How do you mean?"

   "Yer brother was engaged to marry the Countess

Marguerite, a woman I thought I had an under standing with. As she was informing me of her choice of husbands, de Marsan snuck up behind me and tried to slit my throat. 'Twas him who gave me this." MacLaren pointed to the long scar that marred his face.

   "That is not the tale Countess Marguerite tells."

   "I'm sure it is not, but it remains the truth. I wonder, Your Grace, that ye would trust so implicitly the word of a woman who sold herself to the English."

   "She said the choice was forced upon her by your lack of protection."

   MacLaren gave a derisive laugh. "Protection was all I could give, and therein lies the rub. I could give only my sword and my heart. The English gave her gold. She was forced into her decision by naught but her own greed."

   The Golden Knight sighed and shook his head. "You tell the same tale as one of her ladies-in-waiting."

   "I'm surprised Marguerite dinna kill her maid."

   "Indeed, the maid is dead. She died of fever, or so Marguerite claimed." The Duke of Argitaine sighed again. "By the saints, even I am beginning to disbelieve this woman's story. MacLaren, you have my submission. I acknowledge the challenge has been answered in your favor. Name your terms."

   "I will not hold ye for ransom. France has become my second home, and I canna do anything to hurt her. Yer people need ye."

   Argitaine stood and looked MacLaren in the eye for a long time. His features appeared familiar to MacLaren, and he stared back just as bluntly.

   "You are an honorable man. I have rarely met the like," the duke said finally, handing over his helm and sword. "You are welcome to return to France whenever you desire. She will always welcome her sons with open arms."

   "Thank ye. But this is my home. This is the place I intend to stay."

   The Duke of Argitaine bowed and walked back to his soldiers. True to his word, his soldiers began to break camp.

   From amidst the dust emerged McNab, wearing naught but some leather armor. MacLaren watched McNab's approach with disgust. MacLaren was exhausted, and his shoulder throbbed. He wanted to get off the field and hold Aila in his arms. He wondered how quickly he could kill McNab.

   McNab knelt before him, taking the place of Argitaine, who had quit the field. "I acknowledge I have given you cause for this action against me. I canna look at my own actions wi' satisfaction. I ken I've done ye wrong, and I humbly ask yer forgiveness."

   MacLaren regarded him warily. Unlike his compas sion for the duke, MacLaren felt no hesitation in killing McNab for what he did to his wife, his Aila. Yet here the man offered him submission. He wondered if McNab submitted before him out of a guilty conscience or a drive for self-preservation. Did it matter? MacLaren was hardly in any condition to fight again against a fresh opponent. His shoulder was screaming for attention. He recalled from childhood that McNab was often challenged but had never lost. McNab had not the equipment, but he was fresh, unwounded, and had nothing to lose. MacLaren weighed his desire to kill McNab against his desire to claim his wife.

   "Why?" asked MacLaren gruffly.

   "Why did I try to claim Lady Aila for my own, or why do I submit to ye now?"

   "Both, and ye dinna have my permission to call my wife by her Christian name."

   "My mistake. I sought yer wife because my clan needs the sustenance her dowry would bring. I submit to ye now because my actions were dishonorable, and I wish to make amends."

   "You will swear your fealty and loyalty to me and Laird Graham?"

   McNab drew his dirk and held it before MacLaren. "I swear on my father's iron my fealty to Laird MacLaren and Laird Graham and that I will ne'er again raise my hand in war against them. If I speak ye false, may this iron pierce my heart."