by Border Lass
A royal fanfare of trumpets announced the Lyon King of Arms and the officers of state. First of these was twelve-year-old David Stewart, Carrick’s heir and soon to be Earl of Carrick and High Steward of the land.
He wore cloth-of-gold and strode boldly and alone to the chancel, to take his place before the prelates on the south side. Other officers of state joined him there.
With a more prolonged fanfare, Bishop Trail of St. Andrews, premier clergyman of the realm, led Carrick himself in, flanked by his constable with the sword of state and his marischal with the royal scepter.
Behind them, looking severe and wearing fine, gold-trimmed black velvet, came the dark, lean figure of the Earl of Fife and Menteith, carrying a red velvet cushion that bore the crown of Scotland.
Carrick wore white velvet, the color of purity, but Amalie thought it a pity that Fife presented a much more powerful appearance. With his grace’s white hair and beard, the white velvet made him look more like a ghost than a king. He limped beside Bishop Trail to the chancel and took his place, not on the throne but on a plain chair opposite Annabella.
The Abbot of Scone began the coronation mass. He and the monarch-to-be took Communion together afterward, and then the abbot gestured to Bishop Trail, who raised Carrick to his feet and administered the oath.
Having sworn in a voice Amalie could barely hear to be father to the people of Scotland, to keep the country’s peace as far as God would allow, to forbid and put down evil, crime, and felony in all degrees, and to show righteousness and mercy in all judgments in the name of God Almighty, Carrick stood silently while Bishop Trail anointed his head and brow with holy oil “in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, amen.”
A din of cheering erupted as the choir burst into song. Soon the cheering congregation was singing with them, and when the hymn ended, Bishop Trail guided his charge to the front of the chancel and said in a ringing voice, “I present to you the Lord’s anointed, your liege lord and undoubted High King of Scots!”
More cheers erupted, along with shouts of “God save the King!”
Looking dazed by the din, the new King started when the Lord Chamberlain approached to drape him in the royal robe. Then Bishop Trail led him to the throne, where the constable presented the sword of state. Sitting to accept the scepter, the King held it in his left hand and gazed vaguely out at the still cheering audience.
At last, the Earl of Fife stepped forward with the crown on its red cushion. Handing the cushion to a minion, Fife took up the crown of Robert the Bruce, splendidly made from the spoils of Bannockburn, and placed it on his brother’s head. Stepping back, he gave a slight nod but said nothing and did not kneel.
Amalie heard a sound like a growl from her left and darted a look at Isabel, to see her glowering at the scene before them. Trumpets played a fanfare and the choir broke into another hymn. Again the congregation joined in.
When the music ended, before anyone spoke, young David Stewart strode forward, ignoring the black look of disapproval on his uncle’s face as he did.
Facing the throne, David dropped to one knee and, head bowed, held out both hands to his father. The congregation fell instantly, totally silent.
Looking astonished but more human than he had since entering the church, the King extended his right hand, and the boy took it between his in the traditional gesture of fealty. Still kneeling, he swore his oath of fealty in a voice clear enough to carry to the back of the church. When he finished, the congregation cheered him.
Fife continued to glower.
“Look at him,” Isabel muttered loudly enough for Amalie to hear. “He’s as furious as he can be.”
Amalie saw that much for herself and wondered at the youngster’s daring. She had heard that he was impetuous and headstrong, but she had seen him only two or three times and could not imagine anyone so young challenging the Governor of the Realm. Fife intimidated most full-grown men.
Others had seen Fife’s fury, because the church fell silent again.
Fife waited only until David stepped back, then moved to take the King by an arm, brusquely gesturing to the marischal and constable to take the sword and scepter as his grace rose. Motioning then for the royal standard bearer to precede them, Fife accompanied the King to the door and outside without so much as pausing at Annabella’s chair.
Hurriedly, everyone else followed them.
Outside, onlookers joined the procession to Moot Hill. Men carried the throne out and put it on top of the hill, and the King gratefully sat down again.
The crowd quickly fell silent as Fife bent, scooped up a handful of previously loosened dirt, and put it in his grace’s hand.
The ladies of Princess Isabel’s party were near enough to hear him say, “I, Robert of Fife, give you the land of Scotland. I will aid you to hold it.”
Amalie’s throat seemed to close, stopping her breath. She shut her eyes, unsure if that voice was the same one she had heard on the other side of the door.
Turning to the crowd, Fife said a bit more loudly, “I, Robert, Governor of the Realm of Scotland, give you your new-crowned King.”
She still could not be sure. Opening her eyes, she gazed speculatively at him.
The huge crowd screamed its approval as Isabel muttered her fury. “They don’t even understand that he is declaring that he gave John the crown. ’Twas bad enough to force him to take the name Robert, but this is too much!”
The Lyon King of Arms stepped forward. Trumpets blew for silence, and just as the ancient Celtic seanachies of old had done, the Lyon King began to recite the King’s kinship to those ancient kings. “Behold the High King of Scots, Ard Righ Albannach,” he intoned. “Robert, son of Robert, son of Robert, son of Marjorie, daughter of Robert, son of Robert . . .”
When he finished, the first among the earls present stepped forward and dropped to a knee to swear his fealty. Other earls followed in order of precedence, then lesser nobles, down to those holding the largest baronies. Even the least of barons had to swear fealty, but not everyone need do so on Coronation Day.
At last, with a sigh of relief, Isabel said, “We can ease our way out of this throng now, I think.” With a brilliant smile, she turned and looked directly at the people just behind her, who quickly made way for her.
Amalie had been about to suggest that they look for one or both of the knights who served Isabel to make way for her, but Sir Duncan and Sir Kenneth had lost sight of them as they hurried to follow her and the procession to Moot Hill.
The ladies emerged from the crowd without incident and headed for the abbey park below Moot Hill, where fires had been burning since sunrise to prepare meats for the coronation feast. Trestle tables sat in the shade of tall beech trees, and Amalie saw Isabel’s knights and others guarding tables draped with white linen, clearly intended for the royal family and the most powerful lords of the realm, and their guests. Other, plain wooden trestles were available for lesser nobility, and the rest of the mob would look after themselves. Food was plentiful for everyone.
As Amalie followed Isabel with her other ladies toward one of the tables set apart for the royal family and their noble attendants, her gaze roamed freely.
Only after disappointment stirred did she realize she was seeking someone in particular, and not any member of her family or Isabel’s.
Sir Garth Napier took the King’s soft right hand between his own two now bared and calloused ones, and felt as if he held something fragile.
Perhaps because Robert the Third, as one must now think of him, did not suit Garth’s notion of a king any better than that of most Scots, he was unprepared for the surge of emotion he felt as he gently held that hand to promise his fealty.
The powerful feelings that swept through him banished the words he had so carefully memorized, making him fear he would fail to perform his duty to the King on behalf of his own people. As it was, the people of Westruther scarcely knew him anymore. Thanks to his duties as a knight of the realm, he had barely set eye
s on the place since his father’s death nearly a year before.
The previous baron’s steward had served in that office since before Garth’s birth and was a trustworthy man who understood commitment to duty. He supervised the Westruther estates so efficiently that, for years, Garth had paid them little heed.
Kneeling now before his King, the gratitude he felt for his birthright and the rush of pride he felt in Westruther were far greater than anything he had imagined he might feel. But at the same time, the humility he felt was overwhelming.
Awareness that he carried the requisite bit of Westruther dirt in his boot, thoughtfully sent him by his steward, gave him no courage. Instead, it was nearly the last straw, making him wonder if he could ever measure up to the men who had preceded him, and as competently fulfill all the responsibilities of his new position.
Looking up with an aching throat, he encountered a gentle, understanding smile. As if a spell had broken, the words flowed easily, his voice calm and firm:
“I, Garth Napier, Lord of Westruther in Lothian, do swear fealty for that barony, which I hold and do claim to hold of your grace, the High King of Scots, for myself and my heirs, heritably. Loyally will I do unto you the services due unto you and your heirs from said estates, God helping, now and to the end of my days.”
Falling silent, his head bowed again, he heard the King say quietly, “One feels your sincerity, Lord Westruther, and comprehends your just emotion. Scotland is blessed to have the loyalty of such men as you, and the support of your kindred.”
Warmth surged into Garth’s cheeks. Embarrassed by his blushes, he said simply, “I thank you, your grace.”
He stood then, conscious of a grim scowl on the dark, lean face of the Earl of Fife, standing behind the King to his right, and the beaming smile of young David Stewart, now High Steward of Scotland and the new Earl of Carrick.
Stepping aside for the next man, Garth drew his gloves back on and went down the hill, seeking friendly faces and idly wondering where the lass had gone.
Not until he emerged from the crowd did he spy her near a linen-draped table with Isabel’s other four ladies and Isabel herself.
As he watched the women, he sensed their impatience. Doubtless, they were hungry; yet no one could sit, let alone eat, until the fealty ceremonies had ended. It would not be long now, though. The line behind him had been short.
Twenty minutes later, the Lyon King of Arms announced in stentorian tones that the High King of Scots invited everyone to join him for feasting in the park below. Garth had been thinking of trying to coax the lass away from her little group of ladies long enough to have another talk with her. But as he braced himself to let the flood of hungry humanity sweep past, he realized he would find no opportunity for further discourse before darkness, if then. Her duty to the princess must come first. Also, as a maiden, she was unlikely to wander off alone in such a crowd.
The noisy, teeming throng still pressed close around him when a voice from behind muttered, “Himself would ha’ discourse wi’ ye anon, m’lord Westruther. Ye’re to make yourself available to him at first opportunity.”
Garth turned, got a look at the man who had spoken, and recognized him as servant to another to whom he owed his duty. Clearly, any choice of activity would not be his to make until later.
He was about to turn when, in thinning numbers from the hilltop, he spied the Governor of the Realm striding toward him. Fife had cast off his robe but was just as commanding in a gold-trimmed black velvet doublet and black silk hose. Even the man’s shoes and cap were black. Noting Fife’s purposeful look as he approached, Garth bowed and waited for him to speak.
“You may rise, Westruther,” Fife said, surprisingly affable.
“Thank you, my lord,” Garth said. “How may I serve you?”
“Such an offer gratifies me,” Fife said. “We have not yet enjoyed the pleasure of your presence at Stirling, I believe, since your father’s untimely death. Thus, I take this opportunity to extend my condolences to you, your lady mother, and others in your family. I cannot help but wonder, however, if the late Lord Westruther would have been as quick as you were to swear fealty to the new King. As I recall, he kept his distance from the royal court.”
Keeping tight rein on his grumbling temper, Garth said, “My father was ever loyal to the Crown, my lord.” Knowing that the late Lord Westruther had kept his distance from Fife rather than from the late King, and pleased that he managed not to place any awkward emphasis on “Crown,” Garth added, “I assure you that his actions, had he lived to see this day, would have mirrored mine exactly.”
“Mayhap you are right,” Fife said. “At all events, as soon as your many duties at Westruther and elsewhere permit, we would see you at Stirling.”
“I thank you again, sir,” Garth said, taking care not to commit himself.
With a slight nod, Fife passed him and continued downhill, leaving Garth to wonder if he had just received what amounted to a royal command.
Amalie had tried to devote herself to the princess Isabel as they waited to eat but also seized every opportunity to scan the crowd, insisting—if only to herself—that she hoped to see her parents or brothers before any of them could confront her.
As it was, she spied Sir Garth halfway down the hill, talking with Fife.
Grimacing, she wondered what the man was doing amid barons and other nobility swearing fealty. She wondered even more if he was Fife’s man and might tell the earl she had been eavesdropping on a conversation in the royal chamber of Abbots’ House. That last thought gave her chills.
Turning away, she saw her parents, her thirteen-year-old sister, Rosalie, and her brother Simon, still some distance away but heading toward her. Fighting an impulse to run away as fast as she could and as far as she could, she made herself wait for them, determined not to let them intimidate her.
“Do you remember what I said?” Isabel asked, stepping to her side.
“Faith, madam, I have all I can do just to keep my wits about me.”
“Aye, well, do not forget that they cannot force you to marry anyone,” Isabel said. “Hold firm if that is what they want, and mayhap I can aid you.”
Grateful but doubting that anyone who had already admitted fear of Lady Murray could help her in the situation she saw looming ahead of her, Amalie watched with a smile that was more cynical than appreciative as Isabel melted back into the crowd that waited for the King, leaving her to face her family alone.
Deciding that she wanted no one else in the princess’s party to overhear her conversation with her family, she went to meet them.
Rosalie ran ahead of the others to hug her, but Lady Murray, a stout dame with a piercing eye, fashionably plucked eyebrows, and an elegant gown of tawny figured silk, was the first to speak. “Where have you been hiding yourself, Amalie? Surely you knew we would be looking for you.”
“I serve the princess, madam,” Amalie said, straightening but leaving a hand affectionately on Rosalie’s shoulder. Pleased to think she had her voice under control, she added, “I knew I would see you here after the coronation, and since I surmised that you and my lord father must be staying in Perth—”
“Of course we are, and we assumed you would be doing so as well. But as we arrived in Perth only yestereve, we did not learn until then that the royal family and their attendants all have chambers here at Scone. Even so, I’d have thought that only the princess’s most senior ladies would attend her here today.”
“She asked us all to stay near her,” Amalie said. Turning to her father, a thickset man of medium height, graying hair, and trim beard, who had honored the occasion by wearing his most elegant suit of clothes, she said, “You look very fine today, sir.”
“Aye, lass,” he agreed. “Ye look gey splendid, too. That pink-and-green dress becomes ye well, and I see ye’re wearing the wee gold pin I gave ye on your bodice.”
“It is my favorite piece of jewelry,” she told him, fingering the engraved circlet.
&nbs
p; She would have liked to ignore Simon, standing beside him. But although she disliked Simon intensely, she generally took care not to anger him. “You are looking well, too, Simon.” Glancing toward the royal table, she added, “I can stay but a few minutes, for they will begin to serve the high table soon.”
Lady Murray said, “We shall have plenty of time to talk later, dearling, because you will be coming home with us.”
At these words, Rosalie looked beseechingly at Amalie, but Amalie ignored her, sternly suppressing a surge of guilt as she exclaimed, “Home! But why?”
“Because your father desires it. He is arranging a fine marriage for you.”
“But I don’t want to marry,” Amalie said. Hearing the shrill tremor in her voice, she drew a steadying breath. “I do not intend ever to accept a husband, madam,” she said more calmly. “I thought I had made that plain.”
“You will do as our lord father bids you,” Simon said. “As Meg did.”
“I am not Meg,” Amalie retorted, thinking he was beginning to look just as black-tempered as the Earl of Fife, albeit more colorfully garbed. “Nor need I marry if I do not want to, Simon. Scottish law—”
“What can you know of Scottish law?” Simon demanded, adding, “Not that it matters a whit what you think you know. You are not of full age and will therefore obey our father’s command.”
Forcing herself to remain calm, Amalie said, “The King and Queen are taking their places, so I must go.”
Then, as much to her surprise as to anyone else’s, she turned and walked away. If anyone tried to call her back, she did not hear them. In truth, the teeming crowd that threatened to obscure her view ahead, and her own angry thoughts, were each loud enough to drown out any single voice.
Trying to keep her eyes focused on the royal table, she stormed through the crowd unimpeded, thanks to those who saw her coming and warned others, until a startlingly strong grip on her upper left arm unexpectedly jerked her to a halt.
Whirling angrily in the assumption that no one but one of her brothers would dare to grab her so, she flashed up her right hand, only to pause and gape in shock.
