“You travel without guard or servants, my lord,” the prior said to him calmly, clearly determined to find the truth. “It is my duty as prior here at Beauly and as God’s servant to question you.”
Lyall gave in. “She is my wife!” As long as I declare by title, that I am Baron Montrose, Lyall thought, there can be no legal bond. There can be no binding handfast. “I, Baron Montrose, declare to all here that she is my wife.”
The prior wisely turned to another monk. “Go fetch your pens and parchments, Pater. You will scribe the documents immediately and my lord can mark them as proof. I see he wears his signet ring.”
Lyall wanted to groan aloud. ‘Twas his own ring he wore, not Montrose’s.
By the time the scribe had returned, Glenna’s feverish movements and shouts had stopped and she slept calmly on the pallet. The prior had been busy himself, gathering all thirty five monks in the room.
Lyall had to make his declaration. “I, Baron Montrose of Rossie—“
“Lyall Robertson,” Pater Bancho volunteered cheerily. “Your family names will be best, my lord. You stated who you were at the gates. Do you have more names, my lord?”
Never in his life had he wanted to kill a man of God…until that moment.
Lined up like draughts on a game board, they were all looking at him expectantly, a room full of monks, with their neatly shaven tonsures and wearing their plain dark habits, wide cowls, and rope belts with prayer beads, some of them with large metal crosses on chains hanging from around their necks and their hands clasped before them, except the scribe who was bent over an trestle oaken table, writing swiftly, his ink quill making scratching noises on the parchment. He looked up, quill in the air.
“We are waiting, my lord,” the prior said.
“I, Lyall Ewane Donnald Robertson, Baron Montrose,” he told them his names but lied about the title, so he still had the hope that that one more lie might keep the document from binding him to Glenna. “Declare my wife Glenna, my lady Montrose.”
“What is her surname?” the scribe asked him without looking up from his work.
“Robertson,” the good Pater Bancho said.
“Gordon,” Lyall said at the same time.
“Glenna Gordon Robertson,” the scribe repeated, scribbling away.
“Lyall?” Glenna said weakly, opening her eyes clearly andsitting up, holding the blankets tightly to cover her and staring at all the monks surround them.
He spun around. “You are awake!” His joy at that moment was unexplainable. He was inexplicably overcome by the urge to cross the room and hold her tightly against him. Instead he moved cautiously, then touched her brow and swept his hand gently down her cheek.
Head cocked slightly, her look was puzzled and disoriented.
“Your fever is gone,” he said gruffly.
“What happened to your mouth?”
“My mouth?” Lyall raised his hand to his lip. It was swollen and sore to the touch.
“My lady,” the prior said, stepping close. “Is this man your husband?”
She glanced at Lyall, but he dared not shake his head. He tried to communication with his eye.
“Aye,” she said, mistaking him and agreeing quickly, then added, “I am lady Montrose.” Glenna frowned at him and she rubbed her face and looked around. “What is he doing?”
“We are merely documenting that you are in truth a husband and wife,” the prior said. “There was some concern when you were too ill to question. A small mistake, but all is well now that you are awake. Please tell us your family names.” The prior gave a wave of his hand added. “For the scribe.”
“My family name?” She frowned thoughtfully and Lyall knew the drift of her thoughts. “I used to be Glenna Gordon,” she said casually, then looked up. “But I believe my correct surname is now—“
Lyall tried to wink at her but she wasn’t looking at him.
“Robertson,” Bancho interrupted again. “You are wed to my lord.”
“Gord—“ Lyall started.
“Canmore,” Glenna corrected at the same time, and the monks in the room began to quietly murmur amongstthemselves. The look on her face showed she realized what she had just said was a grave mistake.
