MacLaren took the knife he was offered, saying, "Make no mistake. It will be my hand pushing this blade through yer chest if ye betray yer oath. Rise. I accept yer submission, but ken ye that I may call upon ye to prove yer loyalty, and I expect yer response to be immediate."
"Aye, it will. And MacLaren, please convey my apologies to yer wife. She is a worthy woman."
MacLaren smashed McNab's face with his gauntlet and grunted with satisfaction. McNab crumpled to the ground, blood spurting from his nose, looking up at MacLaren, confused.
"Ne'er speak o' her again," MacLaren growled. He wearied of this conversation. He wanted to be with his wife. And he would happily kill anyone who stood in his way.
"Well done, my lad," said Graham gleefully as he clapped him on the shoulder. MacLaren winced in pain.
"You need some stitching," Chaumont observed.
"I need my wife," MacLaren returned. The ache for her was now even greater than his throbbing shoulder. MacLaren complained, but in the end he allowed himself to be bandaged and stitched as long as he did not have to return to the castle to do it. He refused to remove his full armor, saying it would take too long, so his squire merely removed the shoulder piece. Chaumont did the stitching, and the squire replaced the slightly mangled piece. When MacLaren was tended as well as he would allow, he mounted and rode with Chaumont to St. Margaret's, both men driven by an overpowering desire to be with the women who encamped in their hearts.
Thirty-Five
AILA SLUMPED IN THE CELLAR, SURROUNDED BY darkness. How could she have been so stupid? And how was she going to get out? Entombed in earth, she knew screaming would be pointless. Someone would have to come to the door before they could hear her, and how often would that be? She wrapped her arms around herself to try to press back the rising sense of panic.
She was buried alive.
Fighting despair, she remembered Sister Enid's teaching. Centering on her breathing, she meditated her prayer with every breath. Time seemed to drift away. When she opened her eyes again, she was not sure if she had been there for hours or minutes.
Pacem
relinquo
vobis
pacem
meam
do
vobis
non
quomodo mundus dat ego do vobis non turbetur cor vestrum
neque formidet.
The verse was from the gospel of John.
Peace I leave
with you; my peace I give you… Do not let your hearts be
troubled, and do not be afraid.
God did indeed give peace, one that transcended the hopelessness of her current situation. Whatever her fate, God was with her, and it was enough. She eased back into the feeling, imag ining God's loving arms around her. Taking a deep breath, she stood, focused and ready for action.
Now, how to get out? She felt around the door frame, searching for a way to escape. Dim light filtered into the room from gaps at the top and bottom of the cellar door, but no manner of escape seemed promising. The door had been securely locked. Yet the room had not been built as a prison. There must be a way out.
Aila's thoughts turned to MacLaren. What would he be doing now? Was he even still alive? Would the Campbells honor their promise to ride to the Grahams' aid? There was no way to know. It could be days, weeks, or months before MacLaren could manage to escape a siege. Aila shivered at what the abbot could accomplish in that time. She had been afraid of MacLaren, but she knew now he would never harm her. The abbot was another matter. She doubted she would be afforded mercy from that quarter until she relented to his demands.
For a moment, she considered giving in and joining the convent. In truth, all the abbot wanted was for her to comply with what she had planned to do her whole life. She was certainly more prepared to be a nun than a wife. Her few days as a married lady had revealed no lack of shortcomings in that regard. What would MacLaren think when he came for her and the abbot told him she had changed her mind? She winced, picturing MacLaren's face. He had been betrayed too many times; she could not add herself to that list.
In the darkness, it all seemed so terribly clear. MacLaren's brusque manner, his avoidance, it was all there to protect his wounded heart. She smiled, recognizing her own romantic attributions of his rude behavior. When had it been that she had fallen in love with him?
Love?
It was a startling thought. She could not possibly be in love. The darkness pressed her like a confessional, and her defenses slipped away. She did love him. She had loved him since childhood. She remembered the feel of his arms around her. If given a second chance, she would not deny his advances again. But would she be given that chance?
She must get out!
She felt around the door frame again. The door was securely locked on one side, but it opened inward, so surely there must be some kind of hinge. As her fingers felt along the cracks of the door frame, she thought of the man who had imprisoned her. The message she had received made more sense now. It had not been sent by McNab, as she had thought—why would he wish her to go to the convent? No. She wagered it had been written by the abbot. Privy to the confessions of the entire region, he must have heard a rumor of her impending marriage. He was a greedy, ruthless man, using guilt to manipulate her. Recognizing this released her from the last vestiges of guilt for marrying MacLaren. It was no sin. She could serve God married as well as cloistered. Her confidence soared, though her situation remained unchanged. She focused back on finding a means of escape.
Aila located the hinges, iron hooks on the side of the door, which nestled into sockets bolted to the wall. Aila's heart started to pound as an idea formed. If she could lift the door up a few inches, she could lift it off of the hinges. But could she do it? Crouching down, she grabbed the underside of the door and heaved. Nothing budged. Trying again, she pulled with all her might until her back and arms screamed in protest. The heavy oak door moved not a whit. This was not going to work.
Aila stretched her back and tried to think of what to do. With a flash of inspiration, an image of builders came to mind. She remembered as a child, when builders were adding onto Dundaff castle, they lifted huge stones using levers and pulleys. Pulleys might be difficult to contrive, but a lever might be possible. Excited once again, she searched the room for some thing she could use as a lever. She quickly found a heavy barrel by tripping over it. A long stick was more difficult to procure, but she finally found one hanging from the ceiling, holding up dried meats. Chomping on some dried venison for strength, she slid one end of the pole under the edge of the door and placed the barrel at the pole's center. Taking a deep breath, she pushed down on the top of the pole with all her strength.
She was rewarded by a grinding metal sound. It was working! She pushed harder, picturing freedom within seconds. When she let go of the lever, however, the door slid right back down in its hinges. She checked the hinges to be sure, but they were still stuck tight. Controlling her frustration, she tried again. Again she was able to lift up the door but she could not pull it toward her and off its hinges. Every time she let go of the pole, the door slid down into the hinges.
With mounting frustration and desperation, she tried a variety tactics, wiggling the pole farther under the door, pulling herself on top of the pole and bouncing up and down. Nothing worked. Exhaustion set in, and she sat down beside the barrel, utterly defeated. She put her head in her hands and bit back tears. There was no escape from her prison.
MacLaren and Chaumont left Graham to ensure McNab and Argitaine left peaceably and immediately. This situation was resolved better than MacLaren expected, and he felt a growing anticipation to see Aila again. Their separation had not been long, but it had been illuminating. Perhaps it was the excitement of the day, but he was filled with uncharacteristic hope for the future. He had sworn he would never love again, but he feared that promise had been broken. Visions of Aila danced in his head and spurred him on toward St. Margaret's. Aila on the tower, wearing naught but her chemise. Aila as a wood nymph, flying through the forest on horseback. Aila's body pressed close to his. He wanted her more than he had ever wanted a woman. More than he had ever wanted anything.
A small voice inside him told him to be wary, told him to reserve his heart. He could be married to her, even enjoy her, but to love her was dangerous.
Do not
give any woman your heart. Do not give any woman the
power to hurt you.
The voice sounded reasonable, and he would have liked to oblige, but it was too late. His heart was gone; he was a man lost. Spurring his horse, he raced faster with Chaumont right behind.
As they entered the gated grounds of St. Margaret's, Chaumont nudged in front of MacLaren, blocking his path. MacLaren looked at him impatiently. He wanted his wife. Surely whatever Chaumont had to say could wait until after his reunion. Maybe tomorrow, or better yet, next week.
"I need to make a request of you." Chaumont looked uncharacteristically sober. MacLaren gave him his full attention. Chaumont was rarely serious.
"What would ye ask o' me?"
"Lady Mary Patrick. I believe you are her nearest kin and her laird." Chaumont paused, looking, of all things, rather nervous. MacLaren nodded, and Chaumont continued. "I would ask permission to court her."
MacLaren stared at him. He did not want to say he was surprised, but he was. He had noted Chaumont's interest in Mary, but he had noted Chaumont's interest in many a bonnie lass. Never had he known him to make a serious suit for anyone or apply for anyone's hand. He frowned, recalling Chaumont's history with the ladies of the French court. He was chivalrous to a fault, but he had never been troubled by monogamy.
Chaumont read his look and sighed, saying, "I know well I am unworthy of her, but I would like to make a new start with her and her son. Graham's acceptance of me and the gift of his name give me reason to hope I may be able to provide a future for her."
"I ne'er kenned ye to settle down wi' only one woman." MacLaren frowned. He would lay down his life for Chaumont, but he had a duty to protect Mary. "I dinna want Lady Patrick to be hurt when ye take a new lover."
"Indeed, I wish to have none but Lady Patrick. If we are wed, I give ye permission to deal with me most severely if I so much as look at another woman." Chaumont spoke with an ardent passion MacLaren had never heard before. He laughed at the thought of Chaumont falling for Mary.
"Dinna be so quick to condemn yerself, my friend. Ye've been true to me. Perhaps ye'll make a good husband for Mary. But only if she wishes to have ye. I'll give ye my permission to spend time wi' her and her son. After we mark the year of Patrick's passing, ye can court her openly."
Chaumont smiled a wide, honest smile. "Thank you, thank you." He laughed. "I'm gushing like the schoolboy I've never been, but thank you, my friend."
"Verra good. Let's proceed, shall we? I want to see my wife."
Chaumont smiled broadly, and they both rode into the main courtyard. Their presence attracted attention as the sisters emerged from their work to greet them. Mary Patrick was also quick to hail their return.
"Praise the Lord, ye're back!" she exclaimed. "And so soon, I woud'na believe it if I dinna see it wi' my own eyes. Saints be praised, but ye both look hale enough. What miracle has happened?"
The men dismounted, and after handing off their horses, Chaumont was quick by her side. Mary smiled and moved to put her arms around him but then flushed and turned back.
"MacLaren was challenged to a joust of war and won the day," said Chaumont, his eyes never leaving Mary. "The French are leaving, McNab is crawling back home with his tail betwixt his legs, and Dundaff is saved, thanks to your laird."
"Ye dinna speak the whole truth, Chaumont," said MacLaren beside him. "Mary, I ken introduc tions are in order." Mary frowned a little. She had been introduced to Chaumont many months ago. "Lady Patrick, may I present Sir Chaumont Graham. He killed a traitor trying to betray the castle and saved the life of Laird Graham. He single-handedly saved us all from getting our necks slashed in the night and was rewarded by being accepted as a son into the Graham clan."
Mary stared at Chaumont, her eyes bright. MacLaren noted how Mary looked at Chaumont and how he gazed at her steadfastly in return. Unbelievable as it seemed, they clearly had strong feelings for each other. "Lady Patrick," MacLaren continued, "I must also inform ye Chaumont has asked for permission to court ye. After yer year o' mourning, I will permit it, if ye wish it."
"Court me?" Mary asked Chaumont, her eyes wide.
"
Oui
. I love you,
cherie
. I would be forever honored if you would consent to be my wife."
Mary threw herself into Chaumont's arms. "Aye, yes,
oui
," she answered in every language she knew, accepting his proposal. Chaumont returned her embrace but glanced nervously at MacLaren when Mary started to kiss his neck.