by Amy Jarecki
His Lordship closed his eyes, a pinch forming between his brows. “Did Longshanks not have the castle surrounded? How were you and your brother saved?”
“Before Edward’s army breached our walls, Da commanded our cleric to spirit me as well as my brother and sister out the Firth of Solway in a skiff. Harris was but three years of age at the time and Florrie just five. My father’s last words to me were to protect the lad with my life. And I am happy to report Harris, the true Earl of Caerlaverock, is securely hidden behind the walls of Lincluden Priory.”
The Bruce sat back. “The nunnery?”
She stood a bit taller and squared her shoulders. “I believe it the best place to hide him from my uncle. Please, Herbert mustn’t ken the lad still lives.”
“Understood, m’lady. Rest assured your secret is safe with me. And in time, I will make certain this matter is resolved. There is nothing more important than the preservation of Scotland’s own.”
Ailish released a sigh as if she’d been holding her breath for ages. “Bless you, Your Gr—uh…Your Lordship. When I received news of your coronation, I kent you would be the answer to my prayers”
“I commend your courage.” The Bruce ran his fingers over his ring’s enormous ruby. “When the time is right, all of Scotland will be liberated. With the news that Caerlaverock’s heir has survived, the charter lands will be restored in your brother’s name.”
“Oh, I cannot tell you how much your words have made my heart soar.”
“I must caution you.” Lord Bruce’s eyebrow quipped as he held up his finger. “The English presently occupy over half of Scotland’s border. The task of reclaiming them will be long and arduous. But make no bones about it, I have committed my life to this task.”
Ailish had never heard more uplifting news. “As have I. Tell me what I must do. I can act as a messenger or spy. Anything…”
“The best place for you is behind the priory’s walls with your kin.”
Ailish bit her bottom lip. Those walls were ever so suffocating—not that she didn’t appreciate the nuns who’d taken her in. It was just she’d been hiding behind the grey stone barbican for six years. If only there was something more she could do to help. She wanted her uncle out of her home so badly, she would gladly pick up a sword and face them herself if she could.
“You came all this way to bring news of your brother’s existence. Tell me, why did you not send a missive?”
“And miss the coronation? Moreover, miss a chance to represent Clan Maxwell and pledge our fealty?” Ailish clasped her fists over her heart. “In no way would I allow such a momentous event to pass without the representation of my kin.”
“I admire your spirit,” he said, drumming his fingers on the wooden armrests. “Tell me, did the nuns send a retinue to accompany you?”
“The nuns?” she asked, doing her best not to laugh aloud. “Alas, they are quite poor and there is but one old guard at the priory, and I assure you he is too valuable to the order to accompany me.”
Lord Bruce blinked, his mouth dropping open. “You came to Scone alone?”
“With my lady’s maid.” Ailish inclined her head toward the door. “The outspoken woman in the vestibule.”
“Are you jesting? The kingdom is riddled with our enemies. You could have been captured—molested, or worse.”
The tips of Ailish’s ears burned. Aye, she knew of the dangers, but this day was far too important not to take the risk. “We dressed in nun’s habits and shared a mule.”
“Good Lord, your story grows more precarious with your every word.”
“I beg your pardon, m’lord but are you not happy that I have come?”
“Nay, it is not my happiness I am concerned with, but your wellbeing.” His expression changed, making a wee bit of unease roil in her stomach. “You, lass, are a noble daughter of an earl. A match must be made with your hand, and safe passage to return your person securely behind Lincluden’s walls is of dire importance.”
Ailish gulped. “I see,” she said, half-dazed. In no way had she come to Scone to find a match. Her duty was to represent Harris, and that was what she intended to do. Surely, His Lordship wouldn’t see fit to find her a husband before her brother came of age and was securely returned to Maxwell lands.
“I will speak to the steward and ensure he is aware you will pledge fealty on behalf of your brother on the morrow. By that time, I will have appointed someone to accompany you behind the priory walls where I expect you to remain until the wars have abated.”
Bowing her head, she curtseyed. There were a great many things on His Lordship’s mind. She doubted he’d give a second thought to her marriage prospects—at least for the time being. “Thank you, m’lord. I am in your debt.”
The Bruce rose and moved toward the door. “Come, ’tis time to prepare for the ceremony. Are you looking forward to the feast?”
“Och aye, I am. I have not enjoyed a moment of merriment since the day my father passed.”
“Wonderful.” He rested his hand on the latch. “And where might you be staying?”
“The monks gave us sanctuary in the nave of the Church of the Holy Trinity.”
“I suppose ’tis the best place for an unwed lass as long as your lady’s maid never leaves your side.”
“I assure you, Coira wouldn’t dream of leaving me to my own devices.”
“Good,” he replied, opening the door. “Then at least you should remain dry and well looked after.”
Ailish agreed, though sleeping on the stone floor had given her aches and pains she’d never felt before. Still, Bruce had been correct when he’d said it wasn’t safe to be alone. She’d come across more than one merrymaker in his cups who had made an indecent comment or two. Honestly, if Ailish hadn’t been there to meet the man who would be crowned king this eve, she’d still be wearing a nun’s habit at this very moment.
In the vestibule, Coira stood expectantly wringing her hands, though there was no sign of the steward.
His Lordship bowed. “If you will excuse me, my brother is engaging in a sparring match I cannot miss.”
“Sparring, Your Lordship?” asked Coira.
“A young nobleman, bent on proving his worth. The tourney should be entertaining if you stand at a distance. And knowing Neil’s prowess with a blade, I doubt the challenger will last longer than a moment or two.”
Ailish and her lady’s maid followed him outside until the Bruce pushed into a mob of people who instantly surrounded him. She stood on tiptoes and strained to catch sight of the contenders, but the view was blocked by the backs of countless men.
Coira took her hand and gestured up Moot Hill where a small gathering of women had assembled. “Let us join the others there. ’Tis a mite safer, though I’ll say it is no proper sport for a young lady.”
Ailish pulled her hand away and moved beside the woman. “In these times, I feel it is important to observe and understand the qualities that distinguish a good swordsman from bad. Especially for those of us who are entrusted with the protection of clan and kin.”
“Aye, but you were a wee lass of fourteen when you fled to the sanctity of the abbey. I ken you’re aware the world is a violent place, but it is ever so dangerous for a young woman like you. Especially one with your beauty.”
“You sound as if you’re siding with Lord Bruce.”
“Siding?” Coira asked, her tone annoyingly curious. “What did he say?”
“He was quite surprised to hear that Harris had survived the siege,” Ailish explained, emphasizing the reason why they’d traveled all this way. “As we’d hoped, he agreed to uphold my brother’s rights to Caerlaverock when Scotland sheds the shackles placed upon us by Edward Plantagenet.”
“Praises be. I would have thought no less. You haven’t spent the past six years ignoring your own needs and schooling your siblings for naught. What I want to know is what did His Lordship say about you?”
Ailish gulped. “Me?”
“Your prosp
ects. Surely he realized you are of marriageable age.”
“The Earl of Carrack has far more important things on his mind than my present state of spinsterhood,” Ailish said, doing her best to avoid Coira’s interrogation. After all, the Bruce had not mentioned whether or not he had a suitor in mind. “Besides, as long as Uncle Herbert controls the Maxwell purse strings, I have no dowry.”
“For now. But you just said he sides with your plight.”
“He does, but he also said it will take time to drive the English out of Scotland. I’m not about to hold my breath.”
“Humph.” Coira turned her attention to the ring. “Oh, my, have a look at the contenders. The dark one is quite braw.”
As Ailish followed her maid’s line of sight, she covered her gasp with her hand. Good heavens, Coira had definitely not exaggerated. “’Tis Lord Neil Bruce and an unproven knight,” she managed to squeak.
Aye, there were two men in the ring, but the younger was most imposing.
Most imposing.
He was even taller than His Lordship, his shoulders broader, his beard blacker. And though he was a young man, the look in his eyes was as determined and fierce as a well-trained falcon. Ailish couldn’t recall ever setting eyes on a man who took her breath away, but there she stood, weak-kneed. She slid her palm to her chest, pressing to allay her sudden lightheadedness.
“The challenger is James Douglas, son of the Lord of Douglas,” said a woman from behind.
The name needled at the back of Ailish’s mind but she couldn’t place it. Did her father not entertain a Sir Douglas? Did he hail from Galloway as did she?
Douglas.
A vague memory. Of course! She snapped her fingers. The challenger’s father had dined at Caerlaverock. Ailish even remembered serving him wine with her own hand. And that meant their fathers must have been allies.
As she returned her attention to the ring, Robert the Bruce chopped his hand between the opponents and bellowed, “Spar!”
With a hiss of metal, both men drew their swords, sidestepping as they circled. And by the glint of malice in their eyes, it appeared to be no friendly bout.
With a feral bellow, Douglas lunged forward, his strike deflected by the older man. Though he was smaller, Lord Neil proved to be fast and agile. Their swords clanged in a blur of deadly strikes and near-misses.
While the crowd roared, Ailish clenched her fists beneath her chin, squeezing her elbows at her sides. “Must they be so vicious?”
Coira chuckled. “It would hardly be a sparring match if they exchanged pleasantries afore each attack.”
Ailish’s body jolted with every single strike. She hissed and bared her teeth as Douglas advanced, hacking his blade and showing no mercy. Goodness, Robert Bruce had been wrong about the newcomer. The pair were well-matched. But just when it seemed as if the younger man would win, Lord Neil spun, aiming for Douglas’ knees.
Ailish cringed, barely able to look, positive the poor man would be crippled for life. As the blade was about to connect with sinew and bone, James Douglas countered with a mighty upswing, the clash of metal on metal almost deafening. With his follow-through, the hilt wrenched from Lord Neil’s hand, sending the sword end-over-end through the air.
The crowd erupted with applause as the Bruce grabbed the young man’s hand, raised it above their heads, and proclaimed him the victor.
Clapping, Ailish smiled, her heart thundering beneath her heavy woolen gown. Time slowed as Douglas looked her way, his eyes boring through her as if he were indeed gifted the honed sight of a falcon.
Her breath stopped.
The young man bowed her way right before he was swarmed by the crowd.
“My heavens, that was quite a match,” said Coira.
“Mm hmm,” Ailish agreed, still unable to pull her gaze from the top of the man’s head of wild black hair, which was easy to spot because he was taller than all the others.
“I suppose neither of us have seen men spar for some time. Was it too shocking? Did the fight bring back fearful memories?”
Shaking her head, Ailish regarded at her lady’s maid and blinked. “Not at all,” she said, a bit breathless, her limbs feeling feather-light as if she might be floating. “Though the match was far more vigorous than I expected.”
“I most certainly agree.” Coira tugged Ailish’s elbow. “Come, let us find a corner in the nave where I can help you prepare for the coronation.”
2
In a private chamber above the abbey’s vestibule, James raised the thick chasuble over Bishop Lamberton’s head. “I’m looking forward to the feast after the ceremony.”
The old man shrugged into the garment, his face appearing through the neck hole with a disapproving pinch as if he’d just swallowed a bitter tonic. “The festivities should be the last thing on your mind. You may have won this day’s sparring match, but you are not yet in Robert’s confidence. Never forget he alone is the conduit for reclaiming your lands.”
James moved behind the bishop with the stole and draped it over his shoulders, ensuring the cross settled exactly in the center of his nape. “I am keenly aware that my fate lies in His Lordship’s hands and I’m doing everything I can to earn his favor. And it hasn’t been easy to gain his ear. He was sequestered in the abbey hearing supplications all day.”
“Aye.” Lamberton faced him. “But remember your actions speak louder than words. Stay close to him. Remain attentive. And most of all, do not allow your mind to be addled by the ladies.”
“I will not.” James waggled his eyebrows. “Though there’s nothing wrong with a wee peek now and again.”
The bishop smoothed his hands down the stole. “You are an insufferable lad. Pay heed to what I say or you’ll rue your actions for the rest of your days.”
“Yes, m’lord, I was merely jesting. No one thirsts for vengeance as much as I. As always, I shall maintain a close vigil as we discussed.”
“Excellent. I did not use my influence to see you assigned to Bruce’s guard for naught.”
James retrieved the bishop’s miter and held it out. “’Tis an honor I shall not take for granted.”
“Bless you, my son.” After situating the headdress in place, Lamberton placed his meaty hand on James’ shoulder. “The order of the ceremony has been decided. As we discussed, you will stand guard. Once the Bruce has been crowned, you will be among those called forward. Earning your spurs will be your greatest honor.”
James’ heart swelled. He’d been waiting for this moment his entire life. At long last, he would be knighted. And, God willing, by the hand of a Scottish king. For far too long, he’d been a landless outcast, biding his time, mulling about on the fringes of the nobility.
Well, no longer.
After he attended to the bishop’s robes, James made his way to the top of Moot Hill, following the pathway of light radiating from dozens of iron torches impaled in the ground and burning with heady peat. He moved to his position of honor, where he stood shoulder-to-shoulder with eleven other candidates for knighthood, forming an arc around the hallowed place where Scottish kings had been crowned for centuries. He’d met a few of these men. They were all sons of chieftains and earls—Arthur Campbell and Robert Boyd were both solid Scots—men James was proud to call friends.
And everyone knew Boyd had once served as squire to the great William Wallace. But he wasn’t a lad anymore. Indeed, the candidate from Kilmarnock had nearly grown as tall and as broad as James.
Resting his hands on the pommel of his sword, he assessed the others who stood with him, those fortunate men who would be knighted this eve in the Bruce’s initial act of kingship. Most were in their prime as was James but, aside from Boyd, none came close to his height or girth. How many of them had lost their fathers in the wars? Boyd had for certain, but James wondered if the others had been tucked safely behind the walls of their father’s fortresses.
If only he had a fortress.
His blood boiled as he clenched his fingers around
his pommel. Soon.
With a herald from a line of trumpeters, the crowd parted, making a pathway for the procession. Led by a cross bearer, Bishops Wishart and Lamberton processed up the hill, their regal robes surreal as the velvet flickered with the slight breeze.
James gave Lamberton a nod as the bishop took his place.
A spark from a torch caught James’ eye. As his gaze shifted toward the light, his breath stopped. Highlighted by the yellow flames, the same lass he’d seen after the sparring match stared directly at him. She was bonny, to be sure. Fine boned, small in stature, and even though it was night, her eyes reminded him of a cat…or of crystals sparkling in candlelight. She wore her tresses unbound, with a ribbon of gold plaited across her crown—a maid. The corner of his mouth twitched up, for only maidens wore their hair uncovered.
James nudged Boyd with his elbow. “Do ye ken who that is?” he whispered.
“The lass in blue?”
“Nay, the lovely on the far right, wearing gold.”
Robert snorted. “Och, they’re all lovely.”
James turned his head, pretending to peer over his shoulder. “Have ye been too long without a woman?”
His friend snorted. “Most likely not as long as you, ye monk.”
“Och, I may be a bishop’s apprentice, but I assure you I’ve taken no vows of chastity.”
As Lamberton turned with a frown, James pursed his lips. Aye, this was no time for idle chat. Besides, Boyd had been right on one count. There were a parcel of bonny women attending this eve, all in their finery. Moreover, James had far more important things on his mind than lusting after a lass.
But there is no harm in looking regardless of what the bishop says.
He shifted his gaze back to the beauty and grinned.
God save his faltering knees, the wee lassie smiled back. His stomach fluttered as if a hummingbird had taken flight. But the moment passed quickly and she glanced downward, covering her dainty lips with her fingers as if embarrassed.
