Highlander's Sword (15 page)

AILA WOKE EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, A HABIT BORN from years of early morning rides. While still wrapped in her blankets, she almost convinced herself this was all a horrible dream. But when the remnants of sleep left her, it was painfully obvious she was still locked in the small room in the inn, her maid snoring beside her. Senga had been allowed into her room shortly after McNab left. Aila had been relieved that Senga was flushed and smelled of wine and meat, so at least she had been fed and warmed. Aila was further grateful her maid had brought food with her. Her meal consisted of naught but porridge, but Aila had been happy for it.

   Aila looked around her small prison, with a growing sense of panic. She knew once McNab got her to his fortress, there would be no chance for freedom, and her ploy last night would not stall him much longer. Unless someone rescued her, she might indeed become McNab's wife. Since her marriage to MacLaren was never consummated, if McNab claimed her by handfast and she conceived within a year, she was caught. A slimy feeling slithered over her. McNab would certainly do his part to ensure she would be with child as soon as possible. Motivated by this unhappy thought, Aila got out of bed and tried the door again. It remained locked, just like the last half-dozen times she had checked. She wandered around the small room, seeking a way to escape. Finding nothing once again, she sighed and sat down in the chair.

   Remembering Sister Enid's words, Aila closed her eyes and breathed deeply, focusing on her breath. There must be an escape.

   
Aut quomodo dicis fratri tuo sine eiciam festucam de oculo
tuo et ecce trabis est in oculo tuo.

   
"Small is the gate and narrow the road that leads to
life, and only a few find it,"
she murmured. Standing, she searched the room again, repeating, "Small is the gate." She took another look at the window covered in animal skin. With sudden excitement, she ripped the skin from the window and tried to peer outside. The opening was a rectangular slit cut high into the stone wall. She grabbed a chair to stand on and was able to stick her head through the hole.

   Aila breathed deep. The air was refreshingly sweet with the fresh smell of rain in the orange light of dawn. Her room must be in the back of the inn, since her window faced nothing but thick forest. Aila squiggled forward a bit more until she was able to see down. It was a straight drop for two stories. She experimented with different positions and found if she turned sideways, she might be able to fit her shoulders through. Yet emerging head first out of the second floor window had fatal repercussions, so she wriggled back in to consider her options. Casting her eye on the blankets covering her sleeping maid, Aila had an idea.

"Wake up, Senga. I ken a way to escape."

MacLaren woke early and roused his men before the sun broke through the early morning mist. He was impressed when the Graham warriors joined his men to break their fast at this early hour without complaint. Some differences between the two groups of men were plainly evident. Many of MacLaren's men wore their traditional Highland garb, while Graham's men wore mainly breeches and tunics. Of course, Chaumont was the best dressed of the lot, happily chatting at Warwick, who made little effort at continuing the conversation.

   MacLaren ate quietly and took the measure of the Dundaff warriors. Graham's soldiers may have been few in comparison to the lands they defended, but they were proud and well-disciplined. Graham's men, Pitcairn and Warwick, were able leaders. Pitcairn was meticulous in his person, neat and orderly. He was observant, watching those around him with a shrewd eye. MacLaren doubted there was much this man failed to notice. Warwick was a large man, gruff in speech and not above meting out physical punishment if he felt his men would benefit from the lesson. He was also abundantly equipped with weaponry. Besides the claymore at his back, he had a thrusting sword at his left side and a mace at his right. Strapped across his chest were several daggers, a war hammer, and an axe. MacLaren had rarely seen the like. This was not a man he wished to engage in a fight.

   After the basic meal, Sister Enid, supported on the arm of a younger nun, found MacLaren and wished him a safe journey.

   "Thank ye, Sister, for yer counsel last eve," said MacLaren sincerely.

   "May you find the peace you seek."

   MacLaren nodded. Something had shifted last night, though he would have difficulty saying what. He no longer felt consumed with guilt and driven by anger. Those emotions were still present, but something else was there, too.

   "Are you ready to find your skittish bride?" asked Chaumont with his usual good humor.

   "Aye, let's be done wi' it," said MacLaren.

   "Ladies," said Chaumont with a small bow to the two nuns, giving the younger one a sinful wink.

   "Good day to you, Sir Knight," responded Sister Enid, giving Chaumont a wink in return.

   The whole party left St. Margaret's by dawn while the sky was still grey. The rain had stopped, but the ground was wet and muddy from its torrent, and thick mist settled in the low places. They cantered along the main road back to Dundaff, the horses kicking up mud in their wake.

   As MacLaren rode along, something white in the thick brush drew his eye. Stopping for a moment, he dismounted and pulled the sopping head cloth from the bushes.

   "What have you there?" called Chaumont.

   "Looks to be a woman's wimple," replied MacLaren. He turned it over and his stomach sank. Inside were several strands of long, auburn hair. "Aila," he whispered.

"What's that?" said Warwick from behind him.

   MacLaren showed him and Pitcairn the wet, dirty garment. "Maybe it was Aila's."

   Pitcairn frowned. "That could be from any number o' lasses. Who kens how long it has been there?"

   MacLaren was going to order his men to look around, but Warwick was ahead of him. "Tracks!" the Master of Arms called from the brush. "Rain has washed them out a bit, but looks like about a dozen men rode through here heading north toward MacLaren's land or…"

   "McNab's," finished MacLaren, his stomach tight ening. "Let's go."

   "Ye warrant the lass ha' been kidnapped?" asked Warwick, his thick brows furrowed.

   "Aye, or she left the road a willing party."

   'I doubt it," said Chaumont, examining the wimple. "From the amount of her hair she left behind, I warrant this was torn from her head."

   Warwick gave quick commands to his men, proving to be an able leader accustomed to instant obedience. A lad was sent back to Dundaff to determine if Aila had made it back to the castle, and if not, to inform Graham of their suspicions. The rest of the party moved to follow the tracks. Warwick proved to be an able tracker, and MacLaren followed behind, anxious to find his bride. He cursed himself for taking his rest while Aila might be in mortal danger. Yet doubt nagged him, and he wondered if the scene pointed to a kidnapping or a conspiracy. Perhaps Aila had been plotting with McNab all along, trying to force her father's hand to allow her to marry him. MacLaren shook his head. He was not sure what to think, but as time went by, he grew increasingly impatient to find his bride.
Let her be safe
, he prayed, turning to God for the first time since the day of his cousin's death.

Graham sat alone. He had been informed that Aila was missing and presumed kidnapped. As furious as he was at Aila's flight to the convent, he was just as concerned for her safety now. Where was his daughter? If McNab had her… Graham growled. Someone needed to kill that traitorous bastard, McNab. He wanted to do it himself, but supposed he would have to leave the honors to MacLaren.

   Sighing, Graham rubbed his injured thigh. It ached something fierce today, made worse by a sleepless night. Where was his child? He wished he had spent time with her, gotten to know her, but he had let the division between him and his wife separate him from his daughter. What a fool he had been. Aila was married now. He could not do anything for his daughter but trust her to MacLaren's care. It was MacLaren's responsibility to see to his wife. Just as it was Graham's to see to his.

   Graham sighed again. Gossip had ripped through the castle. The rift between Laird Graham and his lady was common knowledge, but this time, her flouting of his authority had gone too far. Graham needed to deal with his wife. He'd rather go to war where merely steel could pierce his armor. The Lady Graham's words were sharper than any blade he had ever known and were wielded by an expert. Still, Graham was no coward. He called for a ghillie to inform Lady Graham to present herself before him and poured a glass of liquid rein forcement while he waited for his lady's arrival.

   Presently, a nervous ghillie returned. The lady was not coming, Graham was informed. If Graham wanted to see her, he would have to come himself. Graham's response was extreme, even for a short tempered man. Bellowing, he hurled his large frame to his lady's quarters, cursing across the bailey and yelling even louder from the pain in his leg with every step up the tower stairs. His reaction gained him much attention from his clan, and many waited around the base of the tower, anxious to hear what he would do to his lady.

   "Leave us!" Graham thundered to Lady Graham's maids as he barged into the room, knocking over two delicate tables. The maids were gone before the furni ture hit the floor. "Ye've gone too far this time, madam. I swear ye'll regret yer disrespect to yer master."

   Moira Graham stared at him from her high-backed chair. She was pale but met his gaze, defiant to the end. "What have I done, my lord, to be rewarded with such venom?"

   "What have ye done? Ye sent Aila to the convent, did ye no'? Ye tried to have the marriage annulled!"

   "Aye," said Moira, her eyes flashing. "I've taken care o' our daughter, even if ye could no' be bothered wi' the task."

   "Och, ye've taken care o' her t'be sure," Graham snarled back, pounding over to her and glaring down. "I arranged her marriage with MacLaren to protect Dundaff, to protect all o' us from starvation. 'Tis McNab burning the fields, trying to get me to give him Aila, ye ken? But I forged an alliance with MacLaren to protect us from that bastard McNab so we can have enough grain to feed the clan." Graham grabbed his wife by her shoulders and hauled her to her feet. "Now Aila's gone, kidnapped, thanks to ye," shouted Graham, shaking his wife. It was too much for Lady Graham, whose feet could find no purchase, and she fell into her angered husband, taking them both to the floor. Both Laird and Lady Graham yelled out in anger and pain, giving the castle dwellers below much to discuss.

   "Damnation, woman!" Graham hollered as he reached for her hands to drag her back up. Something felt wrong. He held up her hands to the light, revealing the bony disfigurement. It had a chilling effect on his anger. He held her hands for a long time, saying nothing. Lady Graham closed her eyes and waited.

   "Yer feet, too?"

   Lady Graham nodded.

   "How long?"

   Moira opened her eyes and stared at him before answering, "Fifteen years." She blinked away tears and her lips trembled for an instant until she pressed them into a thin line.

   "Why did ye hide it from me?"

   "I'd rather no' face yer disinterest or yer pity," said Moira, snatching back her hands. "Where be my daughter?"

   Graham shook his head. "I dinna ken. I believed ye locked yerself up here because ye were displeased wi' me. Were ye?"

   This time Moira shook her head. "Why did ye no' tell me about McNab and MacLaren?"

   "Why did ye no' tell me about yer hands?"

   Husband and wife sat in silence on the floor, looking at each other as if for the first time. Indeed, it was the first time they had been in the same room for many years. Graham reached out to take her hand and persisted in his task even when she tried to pull away. Pressing the gnarled fist to his lips, he kissed the back of her hand then her wrist.

   "Ye were a fool to think this little thing would make me displeased wi' ye."

   Moira's eyes shone. Graham tried to stand but struggled with his injury.

   "It still pains ye?" asked Moira softly.

   "Aye, lass," said Graham, managing to get back into the chair and hauling his wife up into his lap. "A fine pair we are. Ah, but ye're still the beauty I married." Lady Graham returned the compliment with a smile that lit her face.

   Those who waited below had a long time to wonder what was happening between their laird and lady. Just as some were suggesting they send a sacrificial lamb to check if the two still lived, Graham appeared, looking surprisingly happy for a man who had confronted his demon wife. Thus, the laird and his lady obligingly provided much conversation in all quarters.

SENGA WAS NOT BEING HELPFUL. AILA STRIPPED THE bed and made her preparations, while Senga hovered, questioned, and protested. Aila remained steadfast in her determination, and Senga became even more panicked.

   "But, m'lady, ye canna try to escape. If they catch ye, they'll beat ye for sure and me, too." Senga's words were chilling, but Aila was determined.