Chapter 11 #2
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 and sitting 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 amongst themselves. The look on her face showed she realized what she had just said was a grave mistake.
It was a mistake he would shoulder, one he must fix. “Wait. “ He stood quickly, laughing as if it were a jest, his hand in the air. “Aye it is the same name, and they are not related by blood. My lady wife is merely a cousin by marriage, I can assure you.”
“Oh, you were thinking of the king?” Glenna laughed softly, quickly picking up on the story.
“It is true. We are cousins. Distant cousins,” she said firmly—her lies rang uncomfortably true, then she added a jest, “But in both family bond and….” she smiled at the prior with a look that proved her lying was equal to her thieving, “by vast distance….” She paused, then said with a smile, “Is not our king in exile?”
A moment later all the monks laughed at her jest.
“Glenna Gordon Canmore Robertson,” the scribe repeated slowly as he wrote slowly, hunched over his ink pot and writing table.
She watched the scribe as if she were afraid to look away. She was still pale and Lyall wished they were alone.
The prior bent down to take her hand in his.
“You have been very ill indeed. You should rest, my dear lady.” He released her hand and straightened, turning to Lyall.
“Come, my lord. The scribe is ready for you. You can place your mark on the papers.” He faced the monks. “You may all stand as witness.”
Lyall looked down at his ring, not the baron’s, and he dared not look at Glenna. An imaginary noose just tightened around his neck. On the inside, he was choking.
The prior stood over him as he pressed his seal onto each parchment. “We will keep the records here with all our birth, death and marriage documents,” the prior assured him and Lyall understood there was as much threat in his tone as there was promise.
Unlike Pater Bancho, there was no sweetness in the prior. The man was too sharp-eyed. All the monks surrounded him like harbinger ravens perched upon a hangman’s tree.
Lyall hid his concern and blithely carried on the masquerade to the end. “ ‘Tis very reassuring to know,” he said simply. He kept his gaze hooded, unable to look at Glenna, looking down upon the documents that lay before him, knowing he wanted to burn them into ashes.