Read Online Highlander's Sword by Amanda Forester - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Amanda Forester
Tags: Medieval
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Lord Douglas. He took the heart o' Bruce as far as Grenada, Spain, but there was cut down by the Moors. The body o' this brave warrior was found atop the silver case, protecting the heart o' his king wi' last his breath. Sir Simon Lockhard, now called Lockheart, carried the heart o' Bruce back to Scotland, where it be buried below the high altar in Melrose Abbey.
"Yet some say the spirit o' Bruce canna rest wi' his dying wish left unfulfilled and his heart no' in the Holy Land. Many a Scot ha' sworn they seen him in the mist in the wee hours o' the night, wearing a white cloak and cowl and riding a pale horse so swift no human rider can catch him."
Confirming the storyteller's ghost story, people gave witness, telling their own experiences of seeing the ghost. Robert the Bruce must be quite restless, thought MacLaren, with all the reported sight ings. Music started again in the lower bailey, and people continued the dancing. The fire would burn all night, and many would stay awake till dawn, celebrating and keeping watch to protect the castle from wandering spirits.
MacLaren decided he had stayed long enough and walked slowly to the base of Aila's tower. Best to slip away now before anyone could suggest doing some of the more public traditions of the wedding night. The last thing he wanted was to confront Aila with a bunch of her happy kinsmen standing nearby. He had plans for that treacherous wench, ones that were best done without witnesses. She had humiliated him in front of her clan and his. He would see that she paid dearly for her defiance.
Eight
AILA WAITED. AT FIRST SHE STOOD IN THE MIDDLE OF the room, anxious for the knock on the door, not wanting to sit and crumple her gown. After a while, she grew weary of standing and leaned against the wall. As the evening progressed, she finally sat at the window, watching for someone to come fetch her. She wondered why it was taking MacLaren so long. After more time elapsed, her anticipation and excite ment faded, and a new reality began to dawn. Could it be she would not be invited to her own wedding feast? A soft knock on her door made her jump, and excitement rushed through her, only to be dashed again when Maggie entered the room.
"Brought ye a tray o' food, m'lady," said Maggie without looking Aila in the eye.
"I was planning to join them in the Great Hall."
"The food's been served, m'lady," said Maggie in a small voice. "They are finished wi' the meal and are having the entertainment now." Maggie began to set the tray of food on the stone bench across from her, but Aila shook her head.
"Thanks for thinking o' me, but I'm no' hungry."
Maggie took the tray and crept out the door.
Aila sat on the cold stone bench, listening to the faint strains of music wafting up from below. They would be dancing now. Her breath fogged the glass, and she idly drew people dancing on the misty window pane. She wondered if MacLaren danced, celebrating his newfound fortune. It was all clear now. He didn't want her. He only wanted her inheritance. A tear slipped down her cheek as she tried to focus her mind on her picture, anything but thinking of MacLaren's disregard.
Light from the bonfire reflected through her window, flickering in her room like a funeral pyre. A lump formed in her throat and her stomach tightened into a heavy knot. She tried to choke back the emotion, but more tears slid down her cheeks. Her mother had forbidden Aila to eat in the hall; her father had never intervened in her behalf. Her father did not want her. Her husband did not want her. She was alone. It was nothing new, but somehow MacLaren's rejection felt oppressive, and she struggled to draw breath. She started to sob, unable to hold back the tears, which streamed down her face. Years of isolation and loneliness came rising to the surface. Without anyone there for comfort, she held herself, thin and weak against the onslaught of grief.
MacLaren stood at
"Yet some say the spirit o' Bruce canna rest wi' his dying wish left unfulfilled and his heart no' in the Holy Land. Many a Scot ha' sworn they seen him in the mist in the wee hours o' the night, wearing a white cloak and cowl and riding a pale horse so swift no human rider can catch him."
Confirming the storyteller's ghost story, people gave witness, telling their own experiences of seeing the ghost. Robert the Bruce must be quite restless, thought MacLaren, with all the reported sight ings. Music started again in the lower bailey, and people continued the dancing. The fire would burn all night, and many would stay awake till dawn, celebrating and keeping watch to protect the castle from wandering spirits.
MacLaren decided he had stayed long enough and walked slowly to the base of Aila's tower. Best to slip away now before anyone could suggest doing some of the more public traditions of the wedding night. The last thing he wanted was to confront Aila with a bunch of her happy kinsmen standing nearby. He had plans for that treacherous wench, ones that were best done without witnesses. She had humiliated him in front of her clan and his. He would see that she paid dearly for her defiance.
Eight
AILA WAITED. AT FIRST SHE STOOD IN THE MIDDLE OF the room, anxious for the knock on the door, not wanting to sit and crumple her gown. After a while, she grew weary of standing and leaned against the wall. As the evening progressed, she finally sat at the window, watching for someone to come fetch her. She wondered why it was taking MacLaren so long. After more time elapsed, her anticipation and excite ment faded, and a new reality began to dawn. Could it be she would not be invited to her own wedding feast? A soft knock on her door made her jump, and excitement rushed through her, only to be dashed again when Maggie entered the room.
"Brought ye a tray o' food, m'lady," said Maggie without looking Aila in the eye.
"I was planning to join them in the Great Hall."
"The food's been served, m'lady," said Maggie in a small voice. "They are finished wi' the meal and are having the entertainment now." Maggie began to set the tray of food on the stone bench across from her, but Aila shook her head.
"Thanks for thinking o' me, but I'm no' hungry."
Maggie took the tray and crept out the door.
Aila sat on the cold stone bench, listening to the faint strains of music wafting up from below. They would be dancing now. Her breath fogged the glass, and she idly drew people dancing on the misty window pane. She wondered if MacLaren danced, celebrating his newfound fortune. It was all clear now. He didn't want her. He only wanted her inheritance. A tear slipped down her cheek as she tried to focus her mind on her picture, anything but thinking of MacLaren's disregard.
Light from the bonfire reflected through her window, flickering in her room like a funeral pyre. A lump formed in her throat and her stomach tightened into a heavy knot. She tried to choke back the emotion, but more tears slid down her cheeks. Her mother had forbidden Aila to eat in the hall; her father had never intervened in her behalf. Her father did not want her. Her husband did not want her. She was alone. It was nothing new, but somehow MacLaren's rejection felt oppressive, and she struggled to draw breath. She started to sob, unable to hold back the tears, which streamed down her face. Years of isolation and loneliness came rising to the surface. Without anyone there for comfort, she held herself, thin and weak against the onslaught of grief.
MacLaren stood at
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