by Emma Prince
“All the same, we are family, and I dinnae want to see ye hurt,” Finn continued. “So I will say this. Remember that when we reach Scone in a handful of days, Jerome Munro will continue on to Avignon to deliver the King’s declaration to the Pope, whereas we will return to Trellham.”
Where she would be wed, as per her father’s wish. Finn didn’t need to speak the last bit, for the knowledge hung in the air between them.
Dread and sadness twined together in the pit of her stomach. Aye, Jerome bore secrets behind his dark façade, yet they would never be Elaine’s to learn. They only had another sennight before fate drew them apart—forever.
That cold thought settled into her chest as she lowered herself to the hard ground and prayed for sleep to numb the pain.
Chapter Nine
“There it is—Scone Abbey.” Jerome pointed across the slow-moving waters of the River Tay toward a single spire rising above the trees in the distance.
Despite the dour air that had hung over their traveling party for the last sennight, Elaine’s face broke into a wide, achingly bonny smile as she gazed at the top of the abbey.
True to her word, she hadn’t complained during the journey, though he knew it must have been hard on her. They’d kept a brisk pace, stopping only for their most basic needs and sleeping on the ground every night.
She had dirt under those delicate white fingernails of hers. Her plain woolen dress was muddy around the hem. She’d wrangled her russet hair into a long, simple braid to keep it out of her way, which gave him a clear view of her features every time she winced from a long day in the saddle.
Though he hated knowing she’d been uncomfortable, he couldn’t help being awestruck at her beauty, even dirty, rumpled, and travel-weary as she was.
But he’d been true to his word as well. He hadn’t touched her again—not that he’d had an opportunity. Finn had insisted that Jerome take the first watch every night, ensuring that Elaine would be asleep by the time he returned to camp to trade places with Finn.
It was for the best, he reminded himself for the hundredth time. He knew the Bruce would be eager to send the declaration to the Pope with all haste once Jerome returned with the seals. Which meant he likely only had a day or two left with Elaine once they reached Scone.
He guided Duff along the western bank of the Tay, Elaine and Finn following. Ahead, a wooden bridge spanned the wide river. They’d left behind the shelter of the deeper forests earlier that day, and it was strange now to ride out in the open. Several people and even a few carts rumbled along the bridge, most heading toward the abbey.
They fell into the stream of people and crossed the bridge. As they drew closer to the abbey, the air seemed to hum with excitement and activity. The King was preparing for not one but two grand celebrations—the delivery of his declaration and the fete to honor his loyal nobles. No doubt all in the area had been hard at work getting ready for both.
As they continued on, the trees thinned, revealing a wooden palisade encircling the abbey. For several years, Scone had served as the site of the Scots’ parliament, but because the Bruce had been occupied with securing the Borderlands from the English, the abbey had seen little activity.
But ever since the King had turned his attention from warfare to governance in the last few months, he’d taken up residence—as the guest of Scone’s Abbot—at the palace attached to the abbey. The palisades, which had been under construction when Jerome had left for his trek across Scotland, was a hasty effort to protect the King, yet the fifteen-foot tall wooden wall, with sharpened spikes along the top, did the job well enough.
Though the makeshift gate that had been built into the palisades stood open, admitting carts of food and supplies for the King’s celebrations, a guard halted Jerome as they approached.
“Ye there. What is yer business at the abbey?” the guard asked.
“I am Jerome Munro,” he replied evenly, “come bearing the seals of all those who support the King.”
The guard’s eyes widened before he ducked into a swift bow.
“Tell the King,” the guard said to one of his companions on the inside of the palisades. “Jerome Munro has returned.”
Murmurs of surprise spread like wildfire around him. Several farmers and craftsmen who’d been headed into the abbey stopped and stared at him. He turned to find Elaine watching him, her vibrant eyes inquisitive.
“It seems your name is as well-traveled as you,” she murmured.
Though he hadn’t enjoyed the attention this mission had garnered him until now, a swell of pride rose in his chest at the light of admiration in her eyes.
They dismounted and led their horses through the wooden gate. A stable lad hurried toward them and took their horses’ reins, leaving them free to continue on toward the palace.
The abbey’s single spire rose high into the overcast sky, yet other than that, the structure as a whole didn’t resemble a holy house. Several buildings had been added to its base so that it sprawled wide with additional meeting rooms and chambers to accommodate not only the holy men there, but also the nobles of parliament and the King and his attendants.
Jerome approached the addition to the left of the spire, knowing it to be the great hall, which the Bruce used for not only feasts but official business as well. Several corridors splintered off from the back of the hall, one of which would lead to rooms where he, Elaine, and Finn could refresh themselves after their travels before being presented to the King.
But just as they stepped through the double doors and into the lofty, impressive space, a commotion at the back of the hall snagged Jerome’s attention.
“…greet him myself,” someone with a booming, commanding voice was saying as he stepped into the hall from one of the corridors. “The man has done enough to earn my thanks, I think.”
Amongst the handful of servants hurrying into the hall, Jerome spotted a russet and gray head towering over the rest.
The man was unmistakable. Robert the Bruce himself approached them.
“Is that…?” Elaine breathed beside him, her gaze fixed on the approaching group. “Oh, gracious.”
Her gaze skittered down to her travel-worn gown, her dirty hands, and her mud-caked boots. “Oh, gracious,” she repeated. “I cannot…I cannot meet the King of Scotland like this.”
She swayed precariously on her feet. Without thinking, Jerome’s hand shot out, clamping around her waist to steady her. At Finn’s sharp look, he withdrew somewhat, but still kept a grip on her elbow to ensure she wouldn’t stumble.
“I’m afraid ye dinnae have a choice,” he said softly to her as the Bruce neared. He gave her elbow a squeeze. “Dinnae fear, lass. A little mud willnae shock him.”
She shot him a wobbling smile, and gratitude flickered in her eyes before she turned her attention to the Bruce.
The King halted before them, a broad grin curling his red and gray beard up at the edges.
“Munro! Never have I been so glad to see such a grim face, man!”
Jerome made a quick bow but then straightened and took the Bruce’s extended forearm in a firm shake. It had been a shock to learn when he’d been made a member of the Corps that the Bruce allowed such informalities among his inner circle of trusted warriors, but Jerome wasn’t one to criticize his King’s choices.
The Bruce turned to Finn. “I take it back, Munro. Sutherland here has ye beat for gloomy scowls.”
Finn’s mouth quirked as he repeated Jerome’s motions, bowing but then taking the King’s forearm.
“And who is this lovely lass?” The Bruce asked, shifting his dark, intelligent gaze to Elaine.
Elaine instantly dropped into a deep curtsy, remaining lowered with her head bowed.
“May I present my sister-in-law, Lady Elaine Beaumore,” Finn said. “Thanks to yer generous invitation, sire, she’ll represent the Beaumore family in accepting yer gift of lands.”
The Bruce blinked. “How unexpected.”
“Lord Beaumore’s healt
h wouldnae permit him to attend, and my lady wife is close to her time with our second bairn.” Finn shrugged, his lips twitching with good humor again. “Only the wee lass was up to the task.”
Jerome saw Elaine’s cheeks pinken, and he spoke without thinking. “And a fine representative she’ll be. Sire, ye are meeting one of yer fiercest supporters and most loyal subjects.”
With her head still lowered, Elaine angled her chin and sent him a grateful look.
Damn it all, he was beginning to fear he’d do aught for another one of those wee smiles or looks.
The Bruce stepped forward and bent so that he could take Elaine’s hand. She stared at the King in awed bewilderment as he helped her rise and dipped his head over her hand.
“Och, then it is I who should be bowing to ye, milady,” the King said gallantly. “For I am naught without yer support—and that of yer family.”
“Th-thank you, sire,” Elaine mumbled.
“And pray tell,” the Bruce went on, still holding Elaine’s hand up. “What has made ye one of my—what did ye say, Munro? My fiercest supporters and most loyal subjects?”
Another flush stole over Elaine’s face, but to Jerome’s surprise, she spoke steadily.
“You’ve met my father, haven’t you, sire?”
“Aye.”
“His pledge of loyalty to you brought peace to our lands and people. And you’ve met my sister, and Finn, obviously.”
At the Bruce’s amused nod, she went on.
“They have maintained that peace by looking after Trellham Keep and by continuing to serve you. And of course you admitted my brother Niall into your Bodyguard Corps.”
“I understand his training is going well in the Highlands,” the Bruce replied, understanding twinkling in his dark eyes.
“As my mother passed to Heaven when I was born, and with no other siblings, that leaves only me in the family, sire. It seemed only natural to follow tradition and join your cause.”
The Bruce threw back his head and laughed heartily at that. “Ye are a rare treasure, arenae ye, lass?”
Elaine ducked her head, her cheeks glowing pink and a smile curving her lips. But then she sobered and met the King’s gaze once more.
“Truly, sire, I am humbled to stand before you, for you fight for the greatest gifts of all—peace, prosperity, and freedom.”
The Bruce stilled, his gaze warm on Elaine. Jerome noticed her eyes shimmering with emotion, and another wave of pride hit him. Though he couldn’t claim any responsibility for Elaine’s noble spirit, it felt as though simply knowing her was an honor.
“Ye are the one who has humbled me, lass,” the Bruce said softly, patting her hand before at last releasing it. He drew in a breath, squaring his shoulders. “I see we have much to celebrate this eve. Ye have the seals, Munro?”
Jerome nodded, his hand going to the pouch on his belt.
“Then tonight we’ll feast,” the King said, “though ye are only halfway done with yer mission.” His keen eyes fixed on Jerome. “For tomorrow ye’ll embark for the Papal court.”
Chapter Ten
Elaine gnawed on a fingernail as she watched the merry crowd in the Bruce’s great hall. She stood in one of the many arched corridors at the back of the hall, lingering in the shadows like an over-awed child at the sights that met her.
She’d barely had time to notice the grandly appointed great hall when they’d first arrived, so stunned at the appearance of the King had she been. But now she took in the vaulted, arched ceiling, the colorful pennants and flags hanging from the wooden rafters, and the rich woven tapestries lining the walls.
Hundreds of candles, plus four roaring fires, one on each wall, illuminated the space, which was filled with finely dressed nobles. Some of the men wore breeches in the style of the Lowlands and Borderlands, but many more wore their clan plaids with pride, the array of colors adorned with silver-plated sword hilts, belts, and brooches.
And the ladies wore gowns that would have left Judith and Julia speechless—for once. Every color of silk was on display, as well as elaborate brocades with silver and gold needlework to tease the eye. Every lady seemed to sparkle, their rubies and emeralds catching in the firelight.
Elaine looked down at her own gown. She’d only had room to pack one fine dress in her saddlebags. After she’d washed and rested in the private chamber the King had provided, she’d spent the afternoon attempting to get the creases out of the sapphire silk, which she’d thought complemented her eyes nicely.
Now she saw that it was far too plain for the likes of Robert the Bruce’s court—as was the rest of her. She’d left her hair down, only weaving a matching blue silk ribbon through the strands at the front. She had no jewels, no elaborate veil or headpiece as many of the other ladies did.
What was worse, because this was her finest gown, she’d have to wear it again tomorrow for the King’s ceremony honoring her family and others with land.
Hadn’t this been what she’d wanted? Adventure, excitement, and to be a part, however small, of the Bruce’s work toward freedom and peace?
Aye, and now that it was before her, her traitorous nerves were going to get the best of her. She was a coward, she thought, her eyes burning.
Just as she turned to flee into the safe shadows of the corridor, she bumped into Finn’s chest. Somehow her brother-in-law had approached behind her silently.
“Where are ye off to, Lainey?”
She ducked her head, swiping quickly at her damp eyelashes. “I-I don’t know.”
Finn caught her wrist, giving it a light squeeze. When she lifted her eyes to his, she saw a rare softness to his features that was normally reserved for Rand.
“Dinnae tell me ye’re afraid of a few puffed-up nobles,” he said, giving her a wry grin. “They arenae half so fine when ye see them in daylight. And wait until they get into their cups a wee bit. Ye’ll see they are no different than Trellham’s stable master, or the blacksmith—or Judith and Julia.”
At her weak smile, Finn frowned.
“I thought this was what ye wanted most—to be a part of something so grand.”
“It was—it is,” she whispered. “But mayhap you and Rosamond and Father have been right all along. Mayhap it is all too much for me.” She gazed out at the chattering nobles and winced.
“Come now,” Finn said firmly. “If ye could meet the King of Scotland looking like a beggar, ye can face this lot.”
She shot him a glare, but his words had the intended effect. She fought a smile as she thought back on her shock and terror earlier that day, but also that she’d done her family proud by managing to find her composure nevertheless.
“Thank you, Finn,” she said, straightening her spine.
He extended his arm and she took it, stepping into the glowing great hall at last.
She needed every drop of courage as she felt several dozen sets of eyes shift to her, curiously assessing her from head to toe. Her nerve began to falter as she swept her gaze over the crowd—until her eyes landed on a group of men standing before the raised dais at the other end of the hall.
Jerome.
Everyone else seemed to fall away, along with her nervousness. He wore the same simple linen shirt and Munro plaid as he always did. Though his jaw was freshly shaven and his dark hair pulled back in a neat queue, his handsome, serious visage was familiar in a sea of strangers.
He stood with four other men, one wearing a red plaid, two wearing Lowlanders’ breeches, and the fourth in a holy man’s robes. It made for a strange assortment.
“Who are those men standing with Jerome?” she asked, glancing up at Finn.
His normal scowl deepened, no doubt because he seemed to have made it his personal mission to keep her away from Jerome.
“I dinnae ken,” he replied grudgingly, “but I will introduce ye.”
As they approached, Jerome’s dark gaze landed on her, and he visibly stiffened.
“Did ye hear me, Munro?” one of the Lowlanders was say
ing. “If England breaks into a civil war, then France will—”
When the man’s gaze followed Jerome’s to Elaine, he cut off abruptly.
The men seemed to know Finn, for they all nodded to him. “Sutherland,” they murmured. It was a reminder of just how important her brother-in-law was to the Bruce’s cause.
“May I present my sister-in-law, Lady Elaine Beaumore,” Finn said.
The man who’d been speaking with Jerome took Elaine’s hand and dipped his blond head low over it in an elaborate bow. “Milady, it is truly an honor to meet the most bonny woman in attendance this eve.”
Elaine eyed him as he straightened, still holding her hand. He was as tall as Finn and Jerome, though lankier than either of them. His refined courtly manner and practiced smile seemed more English than Scottish, yet his soft Lowland lilt said otherwise. Though she had little experience with noblemen, she instantly recognized him as a flatterer.
“This is Sir David de Brechin,” Jerome commented.
“You are too kind,” she said evenly, tilting her head toward de Brechin.
“Ah,” he said, his sandy blond brows lifting. “An Englishwoman.”
The other Lowlander dipped in a stiff bow. “A pleasure, milady.” When he straightened, she noticed that his brown head was a hand shorter than Jerome’s, his build compact. “Sir William de Soules, at yer service.”
“And this is Bishop Kininmund,” Jerome said, turning toward the holy man.
He wore snowy-white robes, over which draped a black cowl. The cowl bore an elaborately embroidered cross over his chest and shoulders in gold thread. Elaine dropped into a low curtsy as he acknowledged her with a subtle nod.
“Good God, it’s hotter than the Devil’s bollocks in here,” the fourth man said abruptly in a broad Highland burr. Impossibly, he stood a few inches taller than Jerome, and he was even broader of shoulder beneath his linen shirt.
Elaine blinked in shock, and the bishop coughed disapprovingly.
