Highlander's Sword

by Amanda Forester

  He was gorgeous.

  "Good day, Lady Patrick. I hope this day finds you well." The French knight spoke in a smooth voice with a hint of a French accent, which was at once charming and seductive. Everyone seemed enchanted with Chaumont. Children loved him, men respected him, and many a lass had set their cap to marrying the handsome young man. Mary swal lowed hard, instantly conscious of his beauty and poise. She felt rather common and dull in contrast. A few moments of awkward silence followed. Chaumont's easy smile faded and he continued to look at her in expectation.

  "Och, aye." Mary said, remembering herself. "Do please come in."

  "Thank you kindly," Chaumont replied with a generous smile and followed Mary Patrick into the main room of the farmhouse.

  Chaumont looked around Mary's homey domain with satisfaction. Her timber home was much larger than the crofter's huts but still smaller than a true manor house. It had been well built, with a real wooden floor and hand-carved wood trim. The main room boasted a large stone hearth and a long wooden table with benches on either side. In one corner was a steep, open staircase, more akin to a ladder, which went up through a hole in the ceiling to what must be a loft. On the side of the room, an open doorway led to the kitchen in which mutton was roasting over another fireplace. Around the room was evidence of work: a spinning wheel, a loom, reeds for weaving baskets. It had a nice feel, and Chaumont had an odd sense he had come home. This was particularly strange, since Mary's home was nothing like any place he'd ever lived.

  "MacLaren asked me to see you regarding some business—" Chaumont began.

  "Chaumont!" Mary's son, Gavin, came running through the side door and straight to Chaumont. He stopped short of where Chaumont was standing, and for a moment, looked like he wanted to embrace the legs of the tall knight. He settled for a bow instead, which Chaumont graciously returned.

  "Tell me about fighting the English! Did ye e'er get hurt? Did ye ride in tourneys?

  "Now, Gavin, dinna be bothering Sir Chaumont," chastised Mary.

  "No bother at all," said Chaumont with a smile.

  "Faith, sir, I'll wager ye have more pressing matters to attend to."

  "Not at all, I assure you," said Chaumont, thinking of MacLaren's search for McNab in the brush. MacLaren could take care of himself; this place was much more hospitable. Gavin took his hand and led him to the bench by the table. When they were both seated, Chaumont began to answer the boy's ques tions, helping himself to some warm bread and fresh cream butter Mary thoughtfully provided. He could stay here all day.

  "Let's see. Fighting the English was always hard work, quite a formidable foe. Yes I've been injured, but by God's grace, never seriously. And yes, I've competed in tournaments."

  "I warrant ye were the best." Gavin gazed at his hero with shining eyes.

  "I was tolerable, but did you know MacLaren never lost at the joust?"

  Gavin's eyes widened. "Ne'er? He must ha' been champion in all o' France."

  Chaumont smiled. "He was well known in Gascony, at least. As for champion, there was another knight who was also undefeated in the lists. He was called the Golden Knight because of his beautiful armor. Yet every time he and MacLaren were set to compete, something prevented the match. Once, the Golden Knight withdrew before the tourney due to injury. Another time, MacLaren was forced to with draw because he was needed to hold a town against the English."

  "Who was this Golden Knight?" It was Mary who asked the question, caught up in the story.

  "No one knew. Sometimes nobles would fight without benefit of title or name, else their competi tors, many of whom owed them liege, would with draw rather than fight their lord."

  "Did my father compete in the tourneys?" Gavin asked.

  "Yes," Chaumont replied in a soft voice. "There were few who could best him with a sword."

  "How did he die?" Gavin asked the question in a matter-of-fact sort of way. The room was quiet, the question hung heavy in the air.

  "He was shot with an arrow from a distance. Caught him in the gap of the armor at the neck." There was more silence as this new information was absorbed by Mary and her son. "James Patrick was one of the best men and strongest fighters I've ever known. Here now, let me see your arm." Gavin raised his arm up for Chaumont's inspection, which Chaumont felt from his wrist to his shoulder, giving him a hard squeeze. "Just as I thought. You favor him, strong in the arms. You'll make a fine knight, just like your father."

  Gavin beamed. "Will ye learn me to use a sword?"

  "Certainly." A small sound from Mary made him quickly add, "With your mother's permission of course."

  "Go now, Gavin, and tend to yer chores," said Mary in a soft voice.

  Gavin opened his mouth to protest, but with one look at his mother, he changed his words to, "Aye, Mother," and trudged out the door.

  "Thank ye for yer kind words to my son."

  "Think nothing of it. Only spoke the truth," Chaumont replied.

  "He be at an age where he misses no' having a man about the house."

  Chaumont turned to face Mary, who sat next to him on the bench. She was still relatively young though past the full bloom of youth. He would guess her age to be mid-twenties, about his own age. Her features were pretty, but she had the sturdy, confident look of a woman who had managed an estate and raised a son alone for many years. A fresh glow graced her cheeks, and her lips were full and red. Unlike many married ladies Chaumont had known who adorned their hair with elaborate head coverings, Mary's wavy brown hair was simply pulled back and tied, not with a ribbon, but a leather thong. She was of average build, with an ample bosom and a curvy figure even the plain brown linen kirtle could not hide. Chaumont smiled at her. He doubted her home would remain without a man much longer.

  "I'd be happy to teach the boy any of my skills, but first let me acquit myself of the duty MacLaren has pressed upon me." Chaumont drew forth the bag of coin and set it on the table. "Your share of the rents, m'lady."

  "Thank ye kindly." Mary's smile fading as she looked the bag. "I kenned MacLaren was no' collecting rents this year."

  "Well, not as such." Chaumont shifted on the bench. He was afraid she might ask about this. "But MacLaren says you're still owed your due."

  "MacLaren…" Mary still contemplated the bag of coin. An uneasy silence followed. Mary reached for the bag and clenched it so hard her knuckles turned white, before dropping it back to the table. "MacLaren has been quite concerned for my comfort but also quite content to ne'er speak to me. Everyone is verra kind yet…" She looked at Chaumont with a determined intensity that caused him to shift again and give a furtive glance at the door. "I ken there be something I'm no' being told." Mary reached out and touched his hand as it rested on the table. Their eyes met. "I need ye to tell me the truth. What were the circumstances o' my husband's death?"

  Chaumont shifted on the bench again. "As I said, he died in battle."

  "Aye, so ye said, but I ken there be more. Please, ye must tell me what it is. Did he die a coward? Did he dishonor the clan? All the warriors that returned wi' MacLaren ken it, I can see it in their eyes when they speak to me. They'll ne'er tell me, so ye must." Mary lowered her voice to a whisper. "Did he take up wi' another women? Is he no' really dead, but ye made up the story to protect me from the truth? Can ye no' see, 'tis driving me mad. I can take the bree wi' the bram. Please tell me the whole truth."

  Shocked and concerned, Chaumont reached over and took both of Mary's hands in his own. "Dear lady, you must not trouble yourself so. Your husband was a brave man and fierce warrior. He would no more dishonor his clan than he would be unfaithful to your marriage." Chaumont sighed, knowing he must tell her yet still wishing the task had fallen to another. "But you are right there is something you have not been told, though it applies to MacLaren, not to you or your late husband.

  "MacLaren fell in love and was engaged to be married to a French countess," Chaumont continued. "To defend her, he made war against three English captains. We were victorious, but
your husband, brave to the end, fell in the battle. MacLaren returned to his lady with heavy heart only to find the countess had deceived him and merely used his protection to gain better terms in submitting to English rule. Because he succumbed to her deceit, he blames himself for Patrick's death."

  Silence filled the house and Mary stared at him with unseeing eyes.

  Uncomfortable with the oppressive quiet ringing in his ears, Chaumont continued to speak. "Though in hindsight, had we not been in Gascony to protect the countess, we probably would have joined the French at Crecy. Personally, that is one battle I'm glad we missed. The English won the day, and hundreds of French knights were put to the sword. Likely us, too, had we joined the fray."

  Mary closed her eyes. "So my Jamie is really gone."

  "It grieves me to say, but yes."

  Mary sat on the wooden bench next to Chaumont. Finally, someone had told her the truth. The truth was her husband was dead. Tears slipped without warning, though she did not know if the emotion was grief over losing her husband or relief there was not some dark secret about his character. Without quite knowing how it happened, she found herself in Chaumont's arms, holding onto him as if he was her one line of safety in a perilous sea. She pressed her face into his chest, trying unsuccessfully to stop the tears. He stroked her hair and murmured something in French that sounded comforting. His compassion only made her cry harder.

  When her tears subsided, she attempted to release him, embarrassed for her behavior, but he seemed unwilling to let her go. She sighed and relaxed into the embrace, feeling the warmth of his body and taking momentary comfort in being held. The moment ended, and she was flooded anew with shame at her actions with this man she barely knew.

  "I'm so sorry," she said, disentangling herself from his arms, her cheeks burning. "What must ye think o' me?" She avoided his eyes, afraid to see judgment, or worse, mockery.

  "I think you are a lady of integrity who is not easily fooled by the deception of others."

  Chaumont's brilliant blue eyes were fixed on hers. The feeling of embarrassment subsided and was replaced with another emotion, harder to name but equally intense.

  "I know you to be a lady of honor," Chaumont continued. "You remained here on MacLaren land whilst others fled. That is why the clansmen give you honor. Because you stayed true. True to your husband. True to your clan. They give you nothing that isn't your due."

  Heat flooded her face and she shook her head, overwhelmed by Chaumont's words. "Faith, sir, I deserve no such praise. I am only a poor farmer's daughter. Ye call me 'lady' based on the actions o' my husband. 'Tis an odd thing, too. I wasna called that whilst he was alive, since I dinna ken he was knighted 'til ye all returned. And truly, I stayed here no' for my great virtue but because I had nowhere else to go." Chaumont's eyes never wavered from hers, and his attention flustered her.

  "I am a bastard by birth," said Chaumont slowly leaning closer to Mary. "Named for the place of my mother's death, I haven't even a proper family name. Would you strip my spurs because of it?"

  "Nay, sir!" Mary unconsciously leaned closer. "Ye are truly a knight if e'er there was one."

  "And you are more a lady than any I've met who shares the title." He was very close now, their lips just a whisper apart.

  "Me mutton's burnin'!" Mary jumped from the bench and fled to the kitchen. When out of sight, she leaned against the kitchen wall, hand on her chest, and took several deep breaths to clear her head. He's just over friendly, she reminded herself. And ye are a lonely, auld widow. Ye got little chance o' winning his affection, so dinna become one o' his lovesick fools. After a few more calming breaths, she stepped back into the main room, the mutton, which actually was burning, utterly forgotten.

  "Well now," said Mary, keeping her distance and trying unsuccessfully to appear at ease. "I thank ye kindly for yer… kindness. I winna keep ye from yer work."

  Standing, Chaumont bowed low at the waist. "Good day to you, my lady."

  It was several minutes after he quit the house before Mary remembered to curtsey.

  Walking back up the hill to Creag an Turic, Chaumont stopped and turned to look down at the home of Lady Patrick. He stood for a minute, then ran his fingers through his hair and shook his head. He walked all the way back to the tower house with a smile on his face. Collecting his companions,

  Chaumont mounted his destrier and rode back to find MacLaren. His smile never dimmed.

  MacLaren was tired of playing games with McNab. He had chased him throughout the day, had a few brief clashes with some of his clansmen, but never found McNab himself. It had been a fruitless, irritating day, made worse by the continuous distraction of his traitorous wife. MacLaren concealed himself in the forest and leaned against the rough bark of a tree, watching Aila. The lady was mumbling strange words, seemingly unaware of the men around her.

  "What is she doing?" Chaumont asked.

  MacLaren had his blade to his friend's throat before he realized who had spoken. "Chaumont," he grunted and resheathed his sword, focusing his attention back on his wife. "I dinna ken. She's been like that all day."

  "Perhaps you hit her harder than you intended."

  MacLaren shook his head. "I dinna even ken what language she's at now."

  Chaumont listened for a moment. "Greek," he said definitively. "I recall it from my days at the Abbey. You've married an educated lady, at least."

  "Aye. Whether she's right in the head is another matter."

  "Touched or not, I rather like her."

  "Like her? She ran away wi' McNab!"

  "You don't know the truth of that. Perhaps you should ask her what happened."

  "Humph," snorted MacLaren and stomped off to finish preparations to leave. He had decided to pull back, since the light was fading, and he wanted to be off McNab's land before making camp for the night.

  Soon they were all mounted and on their way. Some of Graham's men acted as rear guard. MacLaren trusted them to do that much, but those guarding Aila were his own men. With Rory in charge, he was confident Aila would not be able to escape. He led the party at a quick pace. He wanted to get back to Graham lands and find a safe place to make camp. His men needed rest and he felt safer in the woods than going back to Dundaff.

  Finding a sheltered spot near a stream, they made camp with the efficiency of men accustomed to a soldier's life. Though they had not brought provisions, MacLaren's men were familiar with living off the land, and soon a variety of game had been caught and roasted over an open fire.

  Throughout the meal, MacLaren watched Aila from afar, noting how much she ate and how she interacted with the men. She looked a little worse for wear. Her gown was torn and covered in grime, her thick hair she had tried to plait into one long braid down her back, but it stuck out in all directions. Yet she held her head high and her eyes blazed. Both his warriors and the ones from Dundaff treated her with the utmost respect, and she them, which pleased him. Dirty as she was, she was still beautiful.

  MacLaren shook his head. It was best not to think that way. She had betrayed him, like he had feared she would. She had made her feelings toward him perfectly clear by refusing to dine with him on their wedding night and running away the next day. His stomach churned to think of being married to such a woman, yet they had made their decision. She had agreed to the marriage, and it had been blessed by the Church. There was only one thing left to do, and regardless of what either of them thought about the situation, it needed to be done tonight.

  Eighteen

  AILA FOUND HER "RESCUE" FROM MCNAB TO BE quite disappointing. She and her maid were taken on horseback by four of MacLaren's warriors and "guarded" all day long. The soldiers were exceedingly polite, professional, and watched her every move ment. Different emotions pulsed through her as she waited for a chance to speak with her new husband. At first, she dreaded seeing him again. His behavior had been so cutting, perhaps her mother was right, and he would be cruel to her once she was in his power. Every time he returned, MacLaren
completely ignored her, refusing even to acknowledge her exis tence, referring to her when speaking to others only as "her." As the day slowly passed, irritation crept in, and soon her anger overwhelmed her fear. After all she had been through in the past few days, to be treated with utter disrespect and accused of running off with McNab was unbearable.

  The sun sank low in the sky and with it sank Aila's hopes of making it back to Dundaff that evening. She attempted to stay centered and calm, focusing on her breath or conjugating a variety of calming words. Closing her eyes, she sat on the fallen tree stump provided for her to rest and worked through "peace" then "calm" then "serenity." When Latin failed her, she moved to Italian and then tried to recall what little she knew of Greek and Hebrew. It was of dubious comfort.