"Oh, go on. Kiss her, and be done wi' it," said MacLaren. So much for waiting another few months. MacLaren walked on to find Aila, anticipating her reaction to seeing him. Would she run to him? He had never been demonstrative with emotion, but just this once it would be nice.
Nay, great.
He needed her close to him. He was not ever going to let her go again.
"You are looking for Lady Aila?" came the low voice of Father Barrick, the abbot. MacLaren had never met the man before but was immediately wary, seeing his mail and sword. He had heard reports Barrick had been one of the few Knights Templar to escape persecution in France and flee to the rela tive safety of Scotland. If it was true, he certainly did nothing to hide it.
"Aye," responded MacLaren. "Do ye ken where she is?"
The abbot nodded his head. "She is in seclusion and does not wish to be disturbed."
"Pray tell her MacLaren, her husband, has arrived. I'm sure she will want to see me."
"Lady Aila is promised to the Church. Your marriage violated that promise and will be annulled. Returning to the convent made her realize her place is here. She wished me to express her regrets, but she has decided to take her rightful place among the Sisters of St. Margaret's."
Silence fell between the two men. MacLaren struggled to make sense of what the abbot had just said to him. Saints above, not again. It could not be possible he would fall in love with two women who would betray and reject him. No, it was not possible.
"I would speak to my wife," MacLaren replied,
emphasizing the word
wife
. If Aila was to reject him, let her do so to his face. He needed to hear her speak the words. He needed to try to convince her to change her mind, honor be damned. He was fully committed now, and he would see it through to the end.
"I think you should leave," replied the abbot, putting his right hand on his sword hilt.
"I winna leave 'till I speak to my wife," answered MacLaren. He still wore his battle harness, his giant claymore strapped to his back. He had never fought a priest before, but he had never loved anyone like he loved Aila.
He prepared for a fight.
Thirty-Six
AILA SAT DEFEATED, HER HEAD RESTING AGAINST THE barrel, when she heard soft noises, like the scratching of a mouse. At first, she doubted the noise was there at all, but then it came again.
"Hello? Is anybody there?" She sat still but heard nothing. The thought that the abbot had returned chilled her, but she persisted. "Please, is anyone there?"
"It's alright, Lady Aila, my mother said I could play as long as I dinna hurt anything, and I dinna hurt nothing."
Gavin! Aila had never been happier to hear a friendly voice. "Of course ye hav'na hurt anything," Aila said, trying to keep her voice calm, "but please come here. I'm locked in the cellar."
Aila heard the boy approach until he was standing outside the door. "How'd ye get yerself stuck in the cellar, Lady Aila?"
"I had some help wi' that, and now I need out. Will ye help me? I need someone who is verra strong."
"I'm verra braw, Lady Aila. Mama told me so, and Sir Chaumont, too!"
Aila smiled. She certainly hoped he would be able to help. "I'm going to lift up the door, and I want ye to push on the left side when I tell ye."
"But why?"
"We're going to move this door off its hinges. Do ye ken ye can help?"
"I can do it, Lady Aila. If I canna, I can get Chaumont. He's right strong."
Aila stopped. "Chaumont is here?"
"Aye, and MacLaren, too. All the Frenchies are running away. They winna bother us no more. That's what Mama said when she wasna kissing Sir Chaumont. They sure do like to kiss." Gavin's voice told her he was baffled by the interest in such sport. All Aila heard was that MacLaren was here.
"Where is MacLaren? Can ye bring him here?"
"He's busy having speech wi' Father Barrick. Is it a sin no' to like a priest? He says ye're in seclusion. What's seclusion?"
"Hurry, we must get me out," rasped Aila, putting the pole into position and thrusting it downward with all her might. Once again, the iron scraped as the door lifted out of its hinges.
"Now push!" she shouted. Nothing happened. "Push harder, Gavin!" She held the pole down as long as she could until the door burst open with a crash, dislodging the pole and throwing her to the ground.
"I ran into it, Lady Aila, is that alright? Och, I done broke the door. Mama will be powerful mad," said Gavin, looking dismayed.
"Nay, child, ye've done verra well," she said, giving him a warm hug. "Now, quick, can ye take me to MacLaren?"
"Sure I can, Lady Aila," replied Gavin with clear pride at his accomplishment. "Follow me."
Outside in the courtyard between the chapel and the main residence hall, MacLaren and the abbot faced each other, swords drawn. Father Barrick had demanded he leave. MacLaren had refused to go; he was on shaky ground, and he knew it. Chaumont and Mary stood nearby, and many of the nuns watched the scene, not sure what to do.
Chaumont came up to MacLaren and spoke softly. "Watch yourself, my friend. He's a Templar."
"How would ye ken?"
Chaumont looked away. "I know most of the old Templars out of France, those that survived the slaughter, that is."
MacLaren nodded, storing this information away for future questioning. There seemed to be much he did not know about his friend.
"Are you sure you want to pursue this?" Chaumont asked. "You are on holy ground. If you attack an abbot on Church grounds, you'll be excommunicated for sure." MacLaren weighed his options. He wanted desperately to talk to Aila. He distrusted this abbot, but he had to admit Aila had tried to run away to the convent before for just this purpose. It was possible she had changed her mind again. Would he fight the abbot and drag her back against her will? Silently, he prayed for wisdom.
He sighed and resheathed his blade. "I've no' come to fight ye, Father. I wish only to speak wi' my wife. If she wishes to stay, I winna press her." MacLaren was resolute. Aila was not Marguerite. He understood that now. If she chose God over him, how could he feel betrayed? Perhaps it would be the better choice for her. He realized he loved her enough to let her go, if it be her wish. Time would heal his heart. Eventually. Maybe. Not.
"Nay, wait!"
MacLaren turned with a jolt. It was Aila. His heart raced to see her, but then he frowned. Her dress was torn, her face smudged with dirt, her hair a mess. What had happened here?
"Father Abbot says ye wish to stay." MacLaren addressed Aila. "If that be so, I will leave at once. Tell me true for now and evermore. Do ye wish to take orders, or do ye wish to be my wife?" MacLaren spoke without emotion, preparing to walk away with at least a shred of his dignity intact.
Aila glanced between MacLaren and the abbot. Both men waited on her answer. "When my father said I was to marry ye, I was given no choice. Now, I do have the right to choose. But I would no' wish for bloodshed, especially no' in this holy place." Aila frowned, the concern clear in her eye.
"Go on, lass. 'Tis time to choose," MacLaren said gruffly.
Aila glanced nervously at Father Barrick then straight ened her shoulders. "Sir Padyn MacLaren, I would be proud to be yer wife for the rest o' my days."
MacLaren closed the gap between them and seized
her in a kiss. She melted into his arms, and MacLaren wanted to hold onto her forever.
"Noooo!" shouted the abbot and rushed forth with his sword. MacLaren pivoted quickly, drawing his own blade and blocking the abbot's attack that would have cut Aila to shreds.
"I dinna want to fight ye, Barrick, but I will defend my wife to the death, whatever the consequences," MacLaren snarled.
"She was meant for the convent, until you poisoned her mind. I will not let her leave with you. Her inheri tance belongs to the Church," seethed the abbot, striking again against MacLaren's sword.
"Her inheritance belongs where her father wishes. The Church has no right to interfere."
"Please, ye must no' fight o'er my inheritance," begged Aila as Chaumont dragged her away from the fight. No one was listening to her. She yelled louder, "My husband is a righteous, God-fearing man who intends to give my dower lands, the land the convent and abbey were built on, to the Church."
That got everyone's attention.
MacLaren and the abbot stopped and stared at her. MacLaren frowned.
"That is very generous of you, Sir Padyn," said Sister Enid as she limped in between the combatants. "We greatly appreciate your kind remembrance of our poor community."
The abbot scowled at MacLaren. "If this be your intent, give me your pledge now."
MacLaren had no intention of giving Aila's land to the Church. He needed her land for himself, yet he had not considered the holy community that had already been built on it. All eyes were on him now—the abbot, Sister Enid, Chaumont, Mary, Gavin, and Aila, who looked up at him beseechingly. Give up the land? That is why he had married her in the first place. Suddenly he felt the eyes of God on him as well, and felt ashamed at his own greed. It all belonged to the Lord anyway. He rolled his eyes heavenward. The land was gone.
"Aye, I pledge Aila's dower lands to the Church." MacLaren knew in that instant that he may have given away all of the land he had coveted, should Graham bear another legitimate heir. He didn't care. More than the land, he wanted Aila, not her inheritance, just Aila. Aila smiled up at him, the recognition of what he had given away not lost on her.
"I accept your pledge and will hold you to it," replied the abbot, looking most irritated as he resheathed his sword. "Thank you for your generosity to our community. You are welcome anytime. Now get thee gone." MacLaren smiled at Father Barrick's back as he stalked away, knowing only the last part of that statement had been the truth. It did not matter. He had all he had ever wanted.
Thirty-Seven
AILA SNUGGLED CLOSER INTO MACLAREN'S ARMS AS they rode back to Dundaff. She protested that she could certainly ride, but MacLaren smiled and said she would not be getting away from him that easily. Silly man; she had no intention of getting away. She closed her eyes, enjoying the feeling of his strong arms around her. She pressed her face into his neck to breathe in his scent and wrinkled her nose.
"Ye need a bath." But Aila must not have minded it overmuch, because soon she leaned into him again.
"It will have to wait." MacLaren urged his mount off the trail and into the dense forest.
"Where are we going?"
"Somewhere we can be alone."
Memories of the last time MacLaren had taken her into the forest to be alone flooded back to her. Heat flushed across her skin and she inhaled quickly. She tried to snuggle closer to the man who held her, but the steel plated cuirass was a bit unsatisfying. They rode a little way until coming to a secluded spot. Trees surrounded the glen, and shafts of sunlight shone down through the leaf canopy.
MacLaren dismounted and helped Aila do the same, not releasing her once her feet were on the ground. Aila wrapped her arms around his chest and pressed into him. With all his armor, it was like hugging a tree trunk.
"I need to undress a wee bit," said MacLaren with a slow smile, removing the harness that held his claymore.
"Here?" asked Aila.
"Here," said MacLaren as he removed his surcoat.
"Now?" Aila's eyes gleamed.
"Now." MacLaren spoke with authority.
MacLaren deftly unlaced his shoulder armor. Aila had enjoyed watching him dress. She was enjoying this more. MacLaren had more difficulty unlacing the plates at his elbows, giving Aila time to ponder their encounter with the abbot.
"Why did ye agree to give away the land to the Church?" Aila asked in a small voice, wondering if he would be angered at her for speaking for him.
MacLaren shrugged without halting his work. "If I had not given it up, it would have been a fight 'tween me and the abbot. No' that I would mind dispatching that bastard, but the Church would no doubt take offense at his death. Giving up the land was the only way to leave wi' ye and no' be excommunicated for it."
"So it was right for me to speak so?"
MacLaren released the plates from one of his arms and began to work on the other. Aila chewed her lip and waited for his response.
"Aye, lass," he grumbled, "ye did well."
Aila hugged herself and smiled as the warmth of his words washed over her. For MacLaren, this was high praise indeed.
"But yer clan," she asked, "what will ye do for them if ye dinna have my dowry?"
"I pledged yer dower lands to the Church, no' the coin." With some fierce tugging, the plates on his arms gave way. "Yer father was most generous with yer fortune, and I warrant I can buy more land when I need it. And I plan on keeping yer mother hale and hearty so our bairns will inherit all o' Dundaff someday."