Despite his wounded pride, Chaumont acknowl edged she was leading them quickly off McNab's land. One could never accuse her of stalling to be retaken or joining up with McNab's forces. She rode like the very hounds of hell were nipping at her feet. It reminded him of how MacLaren rode at times. They were a perfect match. When at last they had entered onto MacLaren's land and the landscape started to look more familiar, Chaumont called for her to rest the horses. He could use a break from riding too, but he'd rather be tortured until death before admitting it. Well, maybe not death. He was not quite that proud.
Resting by a fresh spring, she explained they would travel to the Braes of Balquidder, bringing Creag an Turic into sight before heading northward to the Campbells. As they continued on their journey, Chaumont insisted he lead on familiar ground, so as to better protect her, he said, and to have more control of the pace and restore his injured pride, he thought.
So it was that Chaumont was the first to arrive at Balquidder. In the valley below him lay the smol dering remains of Lady Mary Patrick's farm. The barn had been burnt to the ground. The farmhouse still stood, but the thatched roof was gone. Chaumont's blood turned to ice.
"Mary!"
"Saints above, what has happened?" Aila's voice behind him reminded Chaumont of his duty to her. It was all that prevented him from bolting down the side of the cliff to check on Mary's well-being, though to remain still made his body shake with the effort. He must see if she lived, if she was injured, if she needed him.
"I must see to the Lady Patrick and her young son." Chaumont looked to her for permission to alter their course, twitching at the delay this was causing. Worry seized him so intensely he fought to take breath.
"Certainly, please go to her while I continue the road to the Campbells."
"Nay, m'lady, I cannot allow you to ride without a guard. I promised MacLaren I would see you safe."
"I would go down into the valley wi' ye, for I am
deeply distressed at the sight below, but if I do, I'll no' make it to the Campbells afore the castle gates are closed for the night."
The delay would cost them a full day before they could put their request before Laird Campbell. Chaumont knew his duty was to ride on and protect Aila and the lives of his comrades, and Graham, his newly acquired liege. Yet his duty was also to the Lady Patrick, and he could not, would not, leave her.
"Ye see to the welfare o' Lady Patrick. I'll continue on to the Campbells and meet ye here again when I am finished," said Aila.
"Nay, my lady, I cannot leave you. 'Tis not possible."
"MacLaren would want ye to check on the welfare of his clan."
"MacLaren would want me to protect you with my dying breath."
"I will be quite safe. I can ride faster wi'out ye."
Chaumont winced. That part was true enough, but it rankled to have it spoken aloud.
"There will be none who can catch me." That part was probably true too, but Chaumont could not let her ride alone. Yet the vision of Mary in need could not be banished from his mind.
"I must stay with you," said Chaumont, looking not at Aila but at the smoldering ruins below. Chaumont struggled with unfamiliar emotions. He had seen much in his few years. Keeping emotionally distant and finding humor in his circumstances were the only ways he knew how to survive. Getting involved led only to pain, something he took care to avoid. He had perfected the role of an agreeable outsider, distant from those around him. He lived life as if he were watching a play, laughing at the actors but always staying in the audience. He didn't feel removed or distant now. He wanted to be down in the valley but struggled with conflicting loyalties. When he turned back to Aila, she had already ridden off a fair amount, expertly guiding her mount over the rocky terrain.
"Aila!" he shouted.
She stopped and turned her horse. "Go! I'll be well. Ye'll no' catch me. No one will." She spun around and continued to rapidly traverse the treacherous terrain.
Chaumont indulged in an uncharacteristic curse. He had no doubt MacLaren would see him in hell if anything happened to her.
"Take care, Lady Aila. MacLaren did not jest when he said he'd see me at the end of his sword should any harm befall you," he shouted, but she was already beyond hearing.
Resigned and relieved to be given leave to see to Mary, Chaumont guided his horse down the narrow path to the valley. To his right, Creag an Turic loomed large and vacant. He cursed again, noting the wall he had so laboriously reconstructed was breached once again. He listened for any sound coming from the structure, but all was still. MacLaren had left twenty clansmen to guard the tower castle, and there would be more castle dwellers in addition to that. The silence was eerie. Despite the bright sun, a shiver ran down his back. He continued down the slope to Mary's house, an oppressive sense of foreboding growing with every step. What had happened here? Where was everyone? He feared what the answer would bring.
Chaumont approached the home of Mary Patrick. The door had been broken and lay in bits and slivers, leaving a gaping hole into the house. Dismounting with caution, he donned his helm and gauntlets, and drew his sword before entering. Just outside the doorway, he stopped, listening for any sound. He lingered longer than necessary. He was afraid to enter. Afraid of what he would find.
He forced himself to enter the farmhouse, his boots crunching on the splintered wood and crockery. He entered cautiously, sword poised, his eyes adjusting to the dim light. The room was very different from the last time he was here. The furniture had been smashed and thrown to the sides. A peat fire smoldered in the hearth, and a porridge pot hung above it. Chaumont wondered how long it had been there and where the attackers had taken the Lady Patrick. If she had been hurt in any way… He clenched the hilt of his sword.
A battle cry ripped through the silence, jerking Chaumont out of his reverie. Instantly his sword was up in defense against the figure who raced toward him with a pike.
With joy he recognized her and lowered his sword. "Mary!" he shouted with a surge of elation.
"Go to hell, ye French bastard!" screeched Mary and stabbed him in the chest with her pike.
Twenty-Nine
MARY THRUST HER PIKE MERCILESSLY INTO HIS CHEST.
"Ow!" cried Chaumont. His steel-plated cuirass prevented the spike from cutting into his flesh, but it would surely leave a good bruise. "Mary, 'tis me," said Chaumont, removing his helm.
"Chaumont?" said Mary, startled into stopping her second lunge. Unfortunately for Chaumont, Gavin continued his attack from behind. Chaumont received a painful thump on the back of his head, and the room started to spin. He turned with it to see the horrified face of Gavin and fell with a clank next to the frying pan Gavin had thrown at his head.
When Chaumont awoke, he was lying on the floor, his head cradled in Mary's lap. She was stroking his head and murmuring something in Gaelic. He looked up at her, gaining a clear view of the wondrous bounty of her womanly figure. He stared open-mouthed. He, a man not unfamiliar with the female bosom, was gawking like a fresh lad. He snapped his mouth shut and tried to turn away, but she gently turned his head, pressing his face into her breasts. The air grew thin. A man could die this way, he thought, making no attempt to save himself.
"There now," she was saying in English and leaned over him to press a cool cloth on the back of his head. "I am so sorry ye was hurt."
Chaumont found his face pressed further into Mary's ample bosom. He let out a groan that had nothing to do with pain.
"Does it hurt overmuch?"
"No, not at all," Chaumont answered truthfully though muffled from between her breasts.
"Och, ye poor mon, I'm suffocating ye." Mary leaned back to give Chaumont some air.
Oh, what a way to die
, mused Chaumont and pressed his lips together to keep from voicing his knave's thoughts.
"Ye poor dear, I can see how much ye are hurt. Come here, Gavin, and say how verra sorry ye are."
Gavin slumped forward, looking miserable. "I'm sorry. I dinna mean to hurt ye."
Chaumont was very content lying in Mary's lap and felt more like shaking the boy's hand than chastising him. If this would be the result, perhaps he could pay the boy to lob things at him on a regular basis.
"Do not trouble yourself, Gavin," Chaumont reas sured the boy. "You did right to protect your mother. You're the man of the house now, and it is your right and responsibility to do so." Gavin's shoulders straightened at Chaumont's praise, and the smile returned to his face. "Especially when your mother is such a beauty." Chaumont turned back to Mary and smiled at her reddening face.
"Wheesht now. Ye dinna ken what ye're saying. Ye're concussed." Mary helped him to stand, Gavin giving him a hand. Chaumont sighed. It was too good to last forever.
"What happened here?" Chaumont asked.
Mary let out a long breath and shook her head. "I canna say, for I've ne'er seen the like. 'Twas yesterday a huge army o' knights came thundering into the valley. They was French, all dressed in armor, like ye, Sir Chaumont, though what they were doing in the Highlands, I dinna ken. They asked where the MacLaren was. I said naught. They became angered, and I ran into the house wi' Gavin. But they broke down the door, as ye can see. All they asked was that same question, o'er and o'er. Each time I answered I dinna ken, they would break something. Then they took to torching the place. There were so many o' them. They spread out to the village and up to Creag an Turic, too. But none would say where MacLaren was other than he had ridden east. Finally, when they was satisfied we could say no more, they all left. 'Twas the oddest day I e'er had."
Chaumont nodded slowly. It was strange they would just leave, but then the whole thing defied explanation.
"Was one of the French knights dressed all in golden armor?" Chaumont asked.
Mary's eyes went wide. "Aye, looked to be their leader."
"That was the Golden Knight of Gascony. The one I told you of earlier."
"But why would he be here?"
"That I cannot answer. 'Tis very odd."
"Aye."
They stood in silence, puzzling on this unanswer able question.
"But what of the men at Creag an Turic and the villagers? Was anyone hurt?" Chaumont asked. "Where are they?"
"None was hurt, as much as I can tell. They were threatened, and the property took a beating. Afterwards, folks decided to head up to the hills and live like they used to afore MacLaren returned."
Chaumont reached out and took her hand. "Did they hurt you, Mary?"
"Nay, I woud'na let them hurt my mother," said Gavin proudly. Chaumont turned to him. He had forgotten he was in the room.
"That's a good lad," said Chaumont with a smile, which faded at the troubled look in Gavin's eye. "How did you protect her, Gavin?"
Gavin gazed at the floor then looked at Chaumont with tears in his eyes. "No one would say where MacLaren went. They was going to do horrible things. I was powerful scared o' what they would do to my mother. So I… I told them where MacLaren went." Gavin stared once more at the ground.
"What did you tell them?" asked Chaumont softly. He doubted Gavin actually knew where MacLaren was heading. Last the lad had seen MacLaren was several days ago when they were riding to Dundaff.
"I told them they rode east, in the direction of McNab's land. I told them how to get to McNab's stronghold. Did I do wrong?"
Chaumont smiled. Gavin had seen their direction and made a guess. "No, my boy. You did exactly the right thing, standing up and protecting your mother and the rest of the clan. MacLaren would be proud."
Gavin stood taller and gazed up at Chaumont in admiration and relief. Chaumont smiled. MacLaren would not have wanted his clan to be harassed in his defense. At least now he knew how the French knights had come to McNab. The French rode to McNab and found a willing ally against MacLaren. But why these knights were here, and why they were searching for MacLaren, was indeed a mystery.
"But why are you two here alone and not with the rest of your clan?"
"This is my home. My land. I winna run from it." Mary spoke with conviction, her determination shining in her eyes. She was beautiful, and he knew his admiration had nothing to do with being hit on the head.
"You are much to be admired, my lady, but I must ask you to come with me to the convent where you will be safe. Even now, those French knights are likely preparing an attack on Dundaff. MacLaren will make his stand with Graham. I need to return." Chaumont moved toward her until he stood directly in front of her. "I need to know you are safe."
Mary shook her head. "Dinna ask me to run."
"Not running, only a calculated retrenchment. For your son, if not for yourself."
"This house, this land, 'tis all I have left." Mary spoke softly, tears welling in her eyes.