Highlander's Sword (7 page)

   The sun was low on the horizon. It was St. John's Eve at last. The burghers of Carron walked up to Dundaff for the festivities, their torches forming a line of lights up the steep path to the castle gates. A tremor of excitement coursed through her. This would be the first time she attended a feast or even ate in the Great Hall.

   Walking down to her room, Aila was accosted by various servants and lady's maids. Soon they were swarming around her, preparing her for the banquet, chattering and clucking like mother hens. Lady Graham's own personal attendant, Treva, arrived to do her hair. As the skilled woman plaited and crafted her hair, Aila wondered if her mother had sent Treva, or if the valued attendant had come on her own.

   At one point, she was left alone with the taciturn woman and seized the chance to voice her concerns. "Treva, I may need to live wi' Laird MacLaren," said Aila.

   "I expect so," returned the lady's maid.

   "My mother depends on me. I am concerned for her welfare."

   "I've been serving Lady Graham for twenty years now. I warrant I can care for her." Treva stopped her work and looked directly at Aila. "Dinna worrit yerself now. Yer mother winna starve."

   "Thank ye, Treva. I'm much relieved." And she was.

   With wide grins, the maids came back into the room. They had completed the alterations to the gown and were clearly proud of their work. Senga entered, carrying a fine carafe with red jewels, saying a ghillie had brought the whiskey from a well-wisher in the castle for their wedding night.

   Aila took the red-jeweled bottle and admired the craftsmanship before placing it on the side table. Everyone seemed so happy to rejoice in her marriage; Aila was truly touched.

   "Look at ye now. I ne'er kenned to see ye a bride," said one maid as she affixed the veil.

   
Nor I
, thought Aila.

   "What a night ye'll have tonight," said another, and the maids giggled in response.

   "Ye'll be wi' child in no time."

   
Child?

   Aila's mouth went dry. Of course a man would be wanting heirs; why hadn't she thought of it before?

   "Aye, he'll have ye breeding soon, t'be sure." Because her future had consisted only of the convent, she had given little thought to marital relations between man and wife. How did a man impregnate his wife? Would he want to do that to her? Tonight? Her heart beat faster. She glanced at the whiskey on the table. She never drank potent spirits, but perhaps tonight she would make an exception. The women around her all seemed to be more knowledgeable on the subject, and she wished for some basic clarification. It should be the role of her mother, but Aila knew better than to request help from that quarter. Despite her curiosity, she was embarrassed to admit ignorance to her servants, and they finished their work before she found the right words.

   Dressed to the satisfaction of her maids, she felt like an entirely different person, one she knew not. Her ladies stepped back and looked at her, smiling. Maggie even had tears in her eyes.

   "Ye look verra bonnie, m'lady."

   For once in her life, Aila believed it to be true. The bodice of her silver kirtle had been lowered and made more formfitting, revealing cleavage that had never before seen the light of day. The full skirt of her gown had been modified to add a short train. Over the kirtle she wore a sleeveless surcoat, open at the hips, pale blue in color and richly embroidered. It fit snug across her chest and was tied tight with silk ribbon, giving those never-before-seen parts of her some added lift. Low on her hips she wore a gold belt from which her small dagger hung. Her hair had been plaited and styled on the top of her head, falling in auburn ringlets down her back. A gold circlet mitre was placed on her head and held a gauzy veil that delicately framed her face. She felt exposed with her hair loose… and excited… and free.

   The maids discussed whether she should go down on her own or wait for an escort. To Aila, who had never attended meals in the Great Hall, it felt wrong to arrive without an invitation. MacLaren would surely escort her or send a ghillie at the very least. She dismissed her maids with a smile and watched out the window, tapping her toe as she waited for her escort. This was going to be quite a night.

   Looking down at his attire, MacLaren regarded it with disgust. The fancy clothes, the expensive gifts, it all reminded him of the last time he had courted. His jaw clenched. He would not play the fool again. He changed back into his Highlander's garb. He was a MacLaren and proud of it. His lady wife best accustom herself to her fate.

   
"Slàinte!"
called a man when MacLaren entered the Great Hall.

   
"Slàinte mhath!"
MacLaren returned, wishing him good health. A goblet of whiskey was pressed into his hand, and MacLaren made his way through the crowd to the high table.

   
"Slàinte mhor!"
yelled another man, not to be outdone by wishing all present great health.

   
"Slàinte mhor a h-uile là a chi 's nach fhaic,"
called out Chaumont. The Scots cheered. Being in Scotland less than a year, Chaumont's grasp of Gaelic was tentative at best, but he had managed to memorize certain phrases such as, "Great health to you every day that I see you and every day that I don't." It went a long way toward improving his acceptance in the clan. He walked up to MacLaren with a wide grin, and the two men sat down next to Graham at the high table.

   "Arrogant bastard," muttered MacLaren, though the corners of his mouth twitched momentarily in an upward direction.

   "True on both counts, I'm afraid," Chaumont responded with great cheer. "Careful now, wouldn't want folks to see such an undisciplined show of emotion."

   MacLaren, who had just taken a sip of whiskey, choked, trying not to laugh, and was barely able to avoid spraying the table. When he was able to talk, he cursed Chaumont with great creativity and felt much more himself.

   Chaumont's smile faded as he noticed MacLaren's choice of dress. MacLaren was wearing his thick pleated plaid, belted around the waist and thrown over one shoulder, a large broach pining it to a linen shirt dyed saffron yellow.

   "How could you betray me like this?" Chaumont asked, his expression pained.

   MacLaren was confused by the question. He cursed Chaumont on a regular basis, but Chaumont had always laughed back at him. "How have I offended ye?"

   "By abandoning all sense of fashion—what on earth are you wearing?"

   MacLaren raised his cup to his friend. "I am a Highland laird. 'Tis best my wife and her clan ken it well."

   Chaumont stared at MacLaren's bare knees and shook his head.

   "You look like you're wearing your bedroll."

   "Conveniently, it can be used as that. 'Tis quite comfortable," MacLaren added.

   "Yes, I think we all can see how comfortable you are."

   MacLaren snorted but shifted to a more modest position.

   The feast was brought out by young lads, first to Graham, then MacLaren, and then the remainder of his guests by order of importance. Graham acquitted himself well, providing the roasted meat of sheep, fowl, and wild pigs. Venison pies were in abundance, as were salmon, haddock, and cod. Pastries, bread, and cheese were brought out on large trays, along with plates of wild cherries and roasted apples. Of course whiskey flowed like water, along with wine, cider, ale, and mead. As the first course was served, MacLaren looked around for his missing wife, hoping to see her soon.

   "Where's your bride?" whispered Chaumont.

   MacLaren sliced through his meat with a hard slash of his knife and said nothing.

   "She did look a bit on the terrified side this morn. Perhaps you've scared her away," Chaumont continued. "Though I am certain any bride would look the same when they saw you as groom."

   "Attention, my friends, yer attention please." Graham stood at the table, and the room filled with people hushed into silence. "Many blessings to ye this St. John's Eve. Though many of us have borne great losses this past year, still, together we have survived. And now we have reason to celebrate. Tonight I introduce to ye our neighbor, Sir Padyn MacLaren. He has recently returned from France, where he fought valiantly against the Sassenach devils. He is here with his men, seasoned warriors all. And I announce to ye tonight, an alliance between our clans in the marriage of Sir Padyn to our own Lady Aila."

   Shouts echoed in the hall as people got to their feet to cheer. MacLaren stood and acknowledged their enthusiasm for this union. If only he could feel the same. He would feel a lot better if Aila was sitting obediently beside him. Where was she?

   By the time the dessert was presented, MacLaren realized—with the familiar ache of betrayal—that she would not be coming to the meal. Though no one had said anything about it, he could only imagine what they must be thinking of him. She had publicly rejected him at his own wedding feast. His anger increased while the sense of humiliation grew, though he took great pains to keep it behind a cold mask of detachment. He considered finding her and dragging her forcibly down to the meal but decided that would create an even greater scene, providing more interest for the gossipers.

   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.