Highlander's Sword

by Amanda Forester

Chaumont was in fine form, talking and laughing and endearing himself to as many people as possible. He even started telling heroic stories about MacLaren's time in France. MacLaren knew his friend was trying to divert attention away from the reality of Aila's absence. At the end of the feast, the entertainment emerged. Jugglers and acrobats proceeded to entertain, yet to MacLaren, their amusing antics were a mockery of his shame. He wanted nothing more than to leave this public arena of humiliation, but to leave would be to admit he was hurt by her rejection. Defeat was unthinkable. He had never surrendered in battle, and he would not now.

  Just as MacLaren was considering murdering the juggling clowns to put an end to the nightmare that was his wedding feast, the musicians struck a lively tune, and before long, the men began spirited attempts at dancing. For partners, they grabbed their wives or unmarried lasses or one another, and soon the rushes were flying. Chaumont was swarmed by interested lasses, and he promised to oblige each of them in a dance of whatever sort they were most interested. MacLaren watched grimly while Chaumont danced with polished perfection. Taking a short break from his partners, Chaumont sat by MacLaren, the absence of a certain lady looming large.

  "No need to sulk in your drink. Come, dance, do whatever you please. There are more than enough bonnie lasses for us all."

  "I warrant ye feel different, but there be some problems bedding a wench canna solve," grumbled MacLaren.

  "That may be true, my friend," Chaumont replied with a sly smile, "but it fails more agreeably than most."

  The corners of MacLaren's mouth twitched again. "Go, my friend, let me no' keep ye from yer quarry."

  Before Chaumont could find another partner, the musicians took a break, and folks began to wander outside. MacLaren walked from the banquet hall, thinking about his mother's necklace still in his sporran. What a fool he had been to think he had anything that cold-hearted wench wanted.

  Outside in the courtyard, the large bonfire was lit with a great whoosh of light and heat. The priest said prayers to St. John, requesting blessings for the coming harvest. Others brought cattle to walk sunwise around the fire to bring good luck and prosperity. After the circling, some of the spryer young men took to jumping over the flames.

  "What on earth are they doing?" Chaumont asked.

  "Heathen ritual," muttered an old man at his side. "They jump o'er the flame as a sacrifice to the gods. Ought no' be done!" The man tottered off to complain to the priest as another young buck braved the flames to the appreciative gasp of the crowd and squeals of delight from the young females. Not to be outdone, some of MacLaren's men joined in the jumping.

  "It seems to me this fire jumping has more to do with winning favor from the lasses than any heathen gods," said Chaumont to MacLaren with a wry smile. "And a brave thing to do, wearing a skirt."

  "'Tis called a kilt," MacLaren answered in a growl.

  "Whatever you call it, with naught underneath, 'tis a good way to get your bollocks burnt."

  A tall, thin man with long silver hair walked toward the fire, people moving out of his way.

  "Please tell us a story," begged a child.

  "And what story would ye have me tell?" asked the man with a slow smile.

  "The ghost!" exclaimed several children at once.

  "Ah, the ghost. They say a lone figure in a hooded cloak, riding a pale horse, has been seen roaming these woods in the wee hours o' the night." At the sound of the storyteller's rich voice, people moved to hear him, the elderly given spaces on benches placed around the fire. The silver-haired bard paused, waiting for people to settle. The fire popped, sending a cascade of orange sparks high into the night sky, the dancing flames casting flickering shadows on the stone walls of the bailey. A hush fell over the crowd.

  "Our good King Robert Bruce," began the storyteller, "after winning freedom from the tyranny o' the English, was no' long to enjoy his victory. His success was no' wi'out sacrifice, and having met much hardship fighting for the freedom o' the Scots, he took sick in his later years. Realizing he would no' recover from his illness, he repented the sins of his youth and fervently wished he had been able to go to the Holy Land to make war upon the Saracens as penance for his actions. Thereby, he requested his closest friend and strongest warrior, the Good Lord James Douglas, to carry his heart to Jerusalem.

  "Thus, after the death of Bruce at Cardoss, his heart was taken from his body, and being embalmed, was placed in a silver case and worn around the neck o' the Lord Douglas. He took the heart o' Bruce as far as Grenada, Spain, but there was cut down by the Moors. The body o' this brave warrior was found atop the silver case, protecting the heart o' his king wi' last his breath. Sir Simon Lockhard, now called Lockheart, carried the heart o' Bruce back to Scotland, where it be buried below the high altar in Melrose Abbey.

  "Yet some say the spirit o' Bruce canna rest wi' his dying wish left unfulfilled and his heart no' in the Holy Land. Many a Scot ha' sworn they seen him in the mist in the wee hours o' the night, wearing a white cloak and cowl and riding a pale horse so swift no human rider can catch him."

  Confirming the storyteller's ghost story, people gave witness, telling their own experiences of seeing the ghost. Robert the Bruce must be quite restless, thought MacLaren, with all the reported sight ings. Music started again in the lower bailey, and people continued the dancing. The fire would burn all night, and many would stay awake till dawn, celebrating and keeping watch to protect the castle from wandering spirits.

  MacLaren decided he had stayed long enough and walked slowly to the base of Aila's tower. Best to slip away now before anyone could suggest doing some of the more public traditions of the wedding night. The last thing he wanted was to confront Aila with a bunch of her happy kinsmen standing nearby. He had plans for that treacherous wench, ones that were best done without witnesses. She had humiliated him in front of her clan and his. He would see that she paid dearly for her defiance.

  Eight

  AILA WAITED. AT FIRST SHE STOOD IN THE MIDDLE OF the room, anxious for the knock on the door, not wanting to sit and crumple her gown. After a while, she grew weary of standing and leaned against the wall. As the evening progressed, she finally sat at the window, watching for someone to come fetch her. She wondered why it was taking MacLaren so long. After more time elapsed, her anticipation and excite ment faded, and a new reality began to dawn. Could it be she would not be invited to her own wedding feast? A soft knock on her door made her jump, and excitement rushed through her, only to be dashed again when Maggie entered the room.

  "Brought ye a tray o' food, m'lady," said Maggie without looking Aila in the eye.

  "I was planning to join them in the Great Hall."

  "The food's been served, m'lady," said Maggie in a small voice. "They are finished wi' the meal and are having the entertainment now." Maggie began to set the tray of food on the stone bench across from her, but Aila shook her head.

  "Thanks for thinking o' me, but I'm no' hungry."

  Maggie took the tray and crept out the door.

  Aila sat on the cold stone bench, listening to the faint strains of music wafting up from below. They would be dancing now. Her breath fogged the glass, and she idly drew people dancing on the misty window pane. She wondered if MacLaren danced, celebrating his newfound fortune. It was all clear now. He didn't want her. He only wanted her inheritance. A tear slipped down her cheek as she tried to focus her mind on her picture, anything but thinking of MacLaren's disregard.

  Light from the bonfire reflected through her window, flickering in her room like a funeral pyre. A lump formed in her throat and her stomach tightened into a heavy knot. She tried to choke back the emotion, but more tears slid down her cheeks. Her mother had forbidden Aila to eat in the hall; her father had never intervened in her behalf. Her father did not want her. Her husband did not want her. She was alone. It was nothing new, but somehow MacLaren's rejection felt oppressive, and she struggled to draw breath. She started to sob, unable to hold back the tears, which streamed down h
er face. Years of isolation and loneliness came rising to the surface. Without anyone there for comfort, she held herself, thin and weak against the onslaught of grief.

  MacLaren stood at the base of Aila's tower, rigid as the steel of his sword. He took several breaths of cold night, trying to regain his calm so he did not act on his impulse to wring her neck.

  "She'll not be able to give you children if you kill

  her tonight," said Chaumont from behind him, as if reading his thoughts. "And I warrant you'll have a hard time collecting her dowry, too."

  "This is why I wished never to wed. Women are at best an aggravation, at worst a harpy from the bowels o' hell itself."

  "I understand your engagement to Marguerite did not end well."

  "No' end well? That deceiving whore killed my cousin and tried to have me killed, too." MacLaren glowered, pointing to the scar on his cheek.

  "Perhaps it has occurred to you that one bad apple should not keep you from the barrel?"

  "They be no' apples, for their fruit be naught but poison," responded MacLaren, his voice dripping with venom.

  "And your mother?"

  "Was a saint."

  "Naturally."

  "He chose well, my father. I wish I could still seek his counsel."

  "What do you think he would want you to do now?"

  "Take care o' the clan," MacLaren answered without hesitation. "And that's what I mean to do. Come, Chaumont. Let's take the fight to the enemy tonight." MacLaren turned away from Aila's tower and strode toward the lower bailey and the stables.

  "What and miss your wedding night with your bride? Once you've calmed down, you should go talk to the mademoiselle."

  "I've no stomach for cruel, manipulative wenches. I'd rather a sword in my face than a knife at my back."

  Chaumont shrugged and joined MacLaren in rounding up the men. MacLaren's troops were none too happy at the prospect of leaving the cozy fire and the feminine companionship they had found. With so many of the Graham menfolk gone, the lasses were plentiful and looked at the MacLaren warriors with hungry eyes. Separating one from another would be a challenge. His clansmen also balked at leaving the safety of the stone walls and bonfire. Who knew what eerie creatures roamed free this night? Only a great fool would venture forth on this night of all nights.

  MacLaren refused to give a command, rather invited any who would join him to come. Despite their grum blings and misgivings, MacLaren's warriors, to a man, eventually followed him into the wild darkness.

  "If I get caught by a faerie, I expect ye lads to come back for me," said one man.

  "Not me," replied Gilbert. "If I get captured by some beautiful fey creature, let me go. Bid my wife adieu."

  MacLaren spread out his men to cover as much territory as possible. Graham had extensive lands, so it would be impossible to guard it all. MacLaren made some guesses and concentrated more men toward the north. If McNab was behind the attacks and was man enough to leave his own walls on St. John's Eve, he would not want to travel far before being able to flee to safety. MacLaren considered it unlikely anyone would be out tonight. But if one had the guts, it would be an ideal time to attack without risk of being caught, since only a fool would stray from the safety of the fire on St. John's Eve. A fool like me.

  MacLaren spent the better part of the night lying concealed in a ditch carved by a small burn. Nothing happened. During the long, cold night, his mind had ample time to wander. And wander it did, all over Aila's body. He remembered in exquisite detail how her chemise had clung, the shape of her body, the blazing ringlet hair. The more he tried not to think of her, the more his mind turned traitor, and he imagined her again, this time without the chemise. He tried reminding himself she had publicly humiliated him and would no doubt use her beauty to betray him again and again. It was a pointless exercise. His mind would not be tamed, and soon he decided he was a simpleton to be lying outside in the dirt when he could be lying with her, gaining a much more sweet revenge.

  The more he thought on it, the more a desire to return to Dundaff burned within him. Why was he lying in the mud when his beautiful bride lay in bed waiting for him? Her soul may be vile, but her body was not. And truly, what more did a man need? He was about to call the men to return to the castle when a soft noise drew his attention. He peeked above the dirt embankment; torches were headed his way.

  Aila woke early. So early, many would call it the dead of night. Somehow she had fallen asleep on the stone bench, and she stood gingerly, her body cold and sore. Some wedding night. The groom had never bothered to show. She felt like a mouse battered by a cat all night and then discarded, not even worthy enough to kill. Her mother had been right all along; men brought nothing but pain and rejection.

  The red-jeweled bottle of whiskey still waited for her wedding-night celebration. Perhaps a draft now would do her good. She walked slowly over to the bottle and took out the stopper, breathing in the contents. Instantly she pulled back as the unfamiliar alcohol fumes hit her like a restorative. Making a face, she put the stopper back into the bottle.

  Though it was the wee hours of the morning, she generally awoke at this time. With growing anticipa tion, she decided to follow her normal routine and do what she usually did at this time of the morning. She had thought this lost to her, but since MacLaren was not here, there was no one to stop her now.

  With some difficulty, she shed her fancy clothes, and in the dim light of the moon, she donned a pair of men's breeches, leather boots, and a thick woven shirt belted at the waist that hung almost to her knees. Over this she put on a pale blue silk cape that had once been her grandmother's but had long since faded into grey. Aila valued the old, tattered garment for its inner layer of thick wool, which kept her warm from the chill night air. She quickly spun her hair into a bun and attached her head covering, pinning the hood of her cape to the wimple so it obscured her face from view.

  Moving on soft feet, she descended the staircase and stole through dark corridors as silently and confidently as a cat. Through her daily excursions she knew all the hidden passages about the castle. Exiting the tower, she skirted the courtyard, keeping in the shadows to avoid the sentry's eye. Most of the revelers had gone to sleep, many simply sleeping on the ground, but a few stood guard by the bonfires, ensuring the flames did not wane till dawn.

  Aila crept silently past the guards and then plunged into darkness again, entering the enclosed staircase to the lower bailey. Exiting the tower stairs, Aila slipped quietly into the back door of stables and walked down the short corridor past the stable master's quarters, turning right into the long corridor of the main stables.

  "Good morn to ye, lass," said the old stable master, who was tightening the leather straps of a saddle onto a tall horse. The stable was warm and cozy, lit by the glow of a single lantern.

  "Good morn to ye, Fergus. Lovely day for a ride. How's he doing this day?" Aila walked up to the misty gray stallion, who nudged her softly. Aila responded to his affectionate greeting by stroking his silky nose. The stallion twitched and pawed the ground.

  "He's ready to run," said the old man with a smile. Shadow was a fine piece of horseflesh, the best in the stables. He had been her brother's charger. The horse had returned from war uninjured, but would let none ride him. After repeatedly tossing some of the castle's finest riders, Laird Graham decided Shadow was no longer trustworthy as a warhorse but still kept him for stud. Aila was more persistent and gradually restored the high-spirited horse's trust.

  "Shall we ride today?" Aila murmured to her mount, taking up the reins and following the stable master's slow but steady steps down the long corridor of the stables. Fergus had worked the stables for so long, no one knew his real age, including Fergus himself. He was thin, his shoulders bowed with age, yet his hands still had the strength of a young man's. His skin was like tanned leather, creased yet worn smooth over the years. The animals responded to his calm presence, and Aila always felt at peace when she was with him. Fergus never asked if Ai
la had permis sion to ride, and she never asked him not to reveal her equestrian habits. They both knew she did not, and he would not.

  "I dinna think ye'd come, ye being married and it being St. John's Eve and all," said Fergus.

  "And yet ye saddled him anyway."

  The old man shrugged and led the way with his lantern to the end of the stables. In a dark corner, the last stall stood vacant. On the sides were heaped broken bits of saddle, discarded bits of iron, torn leather straps, and pieces of rope. Fergus entered the stall and moved two boards leaning across the back of the stall. Aila smiled. This was her brother's legacy to her. Her brother Will had taught her to ride and allowed her to ride still.

  The stable master pushed the back of the stall, which swung open noiselessly, revealing a large cave hewn into the rock. The cave was cut out of the side of the mountain and opened into a large room with a sandy floor. Toward the back of the cave, the walls narrowed into a corridor. A thick iron gate barred the passage to a tunnel cut into the stone. Fergus held up the lantern and Aila unlocked the gate, walked Shadow through, and locked the gate behind her.