"Ah, but she has everything to do wi' it," said Pitcairn, regaining his calm demeanor though Graham had glimpsed what lay beneath the surface. "'Twas sheer providence that made Aila sole heir and provided me wi' such a simpleton like McNab to use. Things have got a bit out o' hand, but I think it will still work out nicely. 'Tis really verra simple if ye think on it, but then ye've ne'er been a thinking man."
Pitcairn stopped his cool tirade to lunge again, attacking the injured man without mercy. It was only a matter of time now before the Dundaff laird would fall, and they both knew it.
"How did ye know o' this tunnel?" Graham asked as Pitcairn broke off the attack. He needed time to catch his breath and try to think of some escape from this trap. What he needed was a miracle.
"My son was no' as reticent to talk to me as yers was to ye, my laird," Pitcairn answered in a self-satisfied, mocking tone. "Now if ye will oblige me, I must kill ye, though I admit I canna recall when I've had more amuse ment. But I have much to do tonight—open the gate, loose the soldiers, take the castle, murder MacLaren and his men as they sleep. A steward's work is ne'er done."
Pitcairn approached again with malice, beating Graham back until he trapped Graham's blade under his own and stomped down on the flat of it, wrenching the sword from Graham's hands.
"And now good-bye, my laird. Have no fear. After I use McNab and his friends to take the castle, I'll rid these walls of the usurper McNab and take Aila for myself. Yer grandchildren will have my blood, my name. Think on that as ye die." Pitcairn sneered as he raised his sword for the death blow. Graham glared at him, not giving the traitor the satisfaction of seeing him cower.
"I'll see ye in hell!" Pitcairn screeched, the sound coming to a sudden and dramatic stop as a dagger caught him in a gap of armor at his throat. Wide-eyed, Pitcairn dropped his sword and reached for the blade stuck deep in his neck. The traitor dropped to the ground, dead.
"My lord, are you well?" Chaumont asked as he struggled to open the locked gate by reaching through the bars. Opening the lock, Chaumont rushed to Graham's side. The old laird looked at Chaumont as if he were a vision.
"My son," whispered Graham and reached for Chaumont.
"Nay, sir," said Chaumont with concern as the laird put a large hand on his shoulder. "I am Chaumont, your servant."
"Nay," said Graham with the growl of authority in his voice. "I say ye are my son. Help me to me feet, my lad."
Chaumont did what was asked, grimacing at the effort of raising Graham's large frame. Once on his feet, Graham put both hands on Chaumont's shoulders, both to steady himself and to emphasize the importance of what he was to say.
"I say ye are my foster son, Chaumont Graham. Do ye accept that name and the responsibilities that come wi' it?"
Chaumont stared at the Graham laird, saying nothing for a long time. He swallowed hard, but could not hide the tears in his eyes. "Father?" Chaumont's voice wavered.
"My son," Graham answered, his voice thick with emotion, and gave his new foster son a back cracking embrace.
Thirty-Two
LADY AILA AWOKE LATE THE NEXT MORNING AND immediately wished she could go back to sleep. Several days of little or no sleep and hard riding had taken their toll. Everything ached, especially her back side. She had not been beaten for her misbehavior as she had feared, but she sorely felt like she had.
Dragging herself out of bed, she found a basin of water alongside a fresh linen chemise and tawny brown kirtle. They were homespun and plain but refreshingly clean. After an invigorating wash in the cool water, she felt revived in her fresh clothes. She found the good sisters with Lady Mary Patrick and her son, Gavin, at the midday meal. She was amazed at how long she had slept, and felt a little embarrassed lest someone think she was a sluggard.
"Good day to ye, m'lady," said Mary as Aila sat next to her.
"Good day to ye, Lady Patrick," replied Aila cordially. It had been a long time since she had the occasion to socialize with people her age, and she hoped in Mary she had found a friend. "Had ye a comfortable night?"
"Aye, verra well indeed. And ye, my lady?"
"I slept verra well and shamefully long. Please, would ye call me Aila?"
Mary smiled at Aila and nodded. "If ye will call me Mary. Thank ye for letting us come wi' ye to the convent. It was dreadful being set upon by those foreign devils. I fear my house may ne'er be the same."
"Ye were verra brave to stand up against them," Aila commented, truly impressed. "I'm sure there will be some who will help ye rebuild yer home."
"Aye, ye're right my… Aila. 'Tis sure MacLaren will help me rebuild, as he has done for so many this past year. Ye've married yerself a fine man, if ye dinna mind me saying."
"Thank ye," replied Aila, her heart warming to this new piece of praise for her husband. "But I was thinking of a certain Frenchman who seemed verra attentive last eve." Aila intended to touch on what she assumed would be a happy topic for Mary, but was confused by the sudden shadow of disappointment on Mary's face.
"He may help or no. I dinna ken. He has many interests that press his time."
"I'm sorry, Mary. I kenned ye and Chaumont were on friendly terms."
"We are." Mary focused on her trencher and poked aimlessly at the broiled meat with her knife. "But perhaps I mistook his friendship for something it is not. He set me to rights last night."
Aila now also poked at her food, feeling low for broaching what was clearly a sore subject. Searching for something to say, she pounced on the first thing that came to mind. "Tell me about MacLaren. I ken so little o' my husband."
Mary welcomed this change of subject with a smile. "He is a good mon, a strong leader, though he was gone far too long, fighting in France, and we suffered his absence. He was truly upset at our condition when he returned and has worked himself ragged to pull our clan back from the grave."
"He sounds a worthy laird."
"Och aye, there be naught he woud'na do for his clan."
"Including marry a wealthy heiress?" The words left Aila's lips before she could censor them. She looked down at her food. She had not meant to sound so sharp.
Mary turned a bit red, but it was the truth, and they both knew it. "Aye, even that. Though I'm sure he will treat ye kindly. And perhaps love may blossom between ye." Mary didn't sound particu larly hopeful.
"I hardly know him, but I ken him to be an honor able man," said Aila softly.
"Aye, he is that. I married his cousin, James Patrick. They were good friends, like brothers they were."
Aila looked at Mary with eager eyes, not wanting to press her for more but hoping she would continue her story.
"MacLaren was a serious lad. He rode off to war a wee young, if ye ask me. He stood wi' the auld laird, his father, at the battle o' Halidon Hill. Poor lad, his father was killed, ye ken. He was naught but twelve summers, so the elders chose his father's brother to be laird. But poor Fin died a few years later. MacLaren was a mite young when the elders chose him as laird. He takes his responsibilities hard."
Aila soaked in every word Mary spoke. She couldn't get enough of hearing about her husband. She took a deep breath and decided to ask a question that had been nibbling on her consciousness, though she was not sure she wanted to know the answer. "Lady Patrick… Mary," Aila corrected as Mary began to protest the formality of address. "I have much respect for MacLaren and his defense o' his clan. But I need to ken if…" Aila tried to find the right words to ask what was burdening her heart. "Does MacLaren have another, er, woman to whom he shows affection?" It was the closest she could come to asking if MacLaren had a leman.
"Goodness, no." Mary's answer was immediate and reassuringly certain. Aila let go of her held breath, listening as Mary continued. "Though to be honest, many women, maidens or no, have tried to entice him to their beds, but he will have none of it. He seems distant and cold to everyone, though he has his reasons."
Aila nodded. She had heard enough of his betrayal in France to understand at least some of why he was distant.
The meal was finished, and Gavin asked if he could explore the convent. Mary admonished him not to get into mischief or bother the nuns, and got a wave in response before her son was out of sight. Aila and Mary walked arm in arm out of the hall.
"'Tis certainly no' my place to say," said Mary, "but do ye ken what happened to MacLaren in France?"
"MacLaren has told me a little, and Chaumont has told me more," said Aila, wondering if Mary knew any more of the story. They found a secluded place by the garden wall and sat on a bench to talk.
"Then ye heard o' the countess what betrayed him to the English?"
"Aye."
"Poor MacLaren, he blames himself for Jamie's death."
"Why is that?" Aila had come to understand Mary had lost her husband during MacLaren's campaign in France, but more than that she did not know.
"My husband, MacLaren's cousin, died in the battle he waged to protect the countess."
"Little wonder he is so distrusting," Aila said slowly, rethinking her interactions with her husband. Aila's mind drifted deep into thought about this, and she began to see MacLaren's actions from an entirely new perspective.
"Lady Aila." The deep voice in front of her made her jump. Father Barrick, the abbot, stood before her, his sword belted to his side. "A word with you, if you please."
It was not a request.
Laird Graham stood on the wall walk of the upper bailey, grimly looking down on the scene below him. The castle was overflowing with people, burghers, and crofters alike, who had fled the approaching army of McNab and his unknown French conspirator. They were all looking at him, waiting for him to speak. Despite the crowd, it was eerily quiet, giving the morning a chilling air. They wanted to know Graham's plan to survive the siege. They also probably wanted to know why Pitcairn's severed head was on a stake in the middle of the lower bailey.
Beyond the castle walls, Graham counted his enemy as they surrounded his fortress, freely helping themselves to whatever bounty they could find among the houses and shops of Carron. At least the town still stood, which was another comfort, though probably due more to his enemies' own interest then any sign of restraint on their part. He was outnumbered, badly. Even with MacLaren's warriors, he had no hope of a frontal attack. To do so would be suicide, and he'd had enough of charging into battle against hopeless odds.
He needed to say something to his clan. He needed a plan. But what? He had the report that Aila had spoken to Campbell's son, but how could he rely on that? If Campbell did not come… How could he give his clan hope when he felt none? He motioned for MacLaren, Chaumont, and Warwick to join him on the battlements. Perhaps these warriors would lend him the strength and inspiration he needed at this moment. They looked grim. Even Chaumont looked uncharacteristically grave.
"Good morn to ye, my kin, my clan," Graham began his address to the silent, gray-faced sea of people surrounding him. "Today is a day of reckoning. It is a day when men's accounts are laid bare, and we are called to stand for judgment. It grieves me to say our clansman, my friend, Pitcairn our steward, was found in league with our enemies. In truth"—Graham raised his voice to a fierce roar—"I caught him trying to betray us to our enemies while we slept." Gasps were heard from more than one quarter. "This foul betrayer o' his own people turned on me, and I would be lying in my grave this morn if no' for the actions o' Sir Chaumont, who has saved all o' our lives."
Cheers erupted from the crowd, which seemed eager to grasp upon any strand of hope. Graham turned to Chaumont, who was looking somewhat embarrassed, and embraced him as well as the full armor they both wore would allow.
"Sir Chaumont," Graham said, his voice ringing through the silent crowd, "for yer honor and courage, and for yer defense o' our clan in her time o' need, I bestow upon ye our greatest thanks. Kneel, Sir Chaumont." Chaumont took one knee as Graham drew his long sword. "I wouldst knight thee, for surely ye exemplify the verra image o' a true knight, but others have claimed that privilege. Yet I wouldst show our thanks for yer courageous actions. So, Sir Chaumont, I bestow upon thee the name o' Graham and all the rights and responsibilities therein." Graham tapped Chaumont on both shoulders, the blade glinting in the morning sun. "Rise, my son."
Chaumont rose shakily to his feet, and the crowd cheered again. Pretending to shield his eyes from the sun, Chaumont tried to surreptitiously wipe the tears from his eyes, but then abandoned the effort and let the tears flow. MacLaren sniffed, nodding at Graham and clapping him on the back in a sure sign of approval.
"Though weeping may remain through the night," Graham said, speaking to the crowd, giving his rough paraphrase of Psalm 30, "in the morning there be rejoicing. The Lord has taken away but has given back again." Graham stood between Chaumont and MacLaren, taking their hands he raised them aloft. "Behold my sons!" The clan was moved to cheers once again, even louder than before. On the other side of the battlements, his enemies took note of the noise and scrambled into a defensive line. Graham smiled.
Good, let them worrit themselves, wondering what
we're about.