by Amy Jarecki
James squared his shoulders as Robert the Bruce processed through the crowd and took his place upon the throne of Scone. The crowd fell silent as Lamberton began the Litany of Saints.
Scanning the faces of the assembly, James did his best not to glance toward the bonny lass again. Presently, he was there for one reason—to protect the king. With the breeze, torches danced, their flickers of light making some the elders appear cadaverous. A man at the back observed the proceedings from beneath a hood, the curve of his mouth grim, his eyes shaded. Was this one of the monks from Scone Abbey? Was he a spy? Whatever his purpose, he was someone to be watched.
As the chanting continued, James was unable to resist stealing a glimpse of the lass with the sable hair. She seemed to glow with rapture and clasped her hands over her heart as Robert took his sacred vows. Her face ethereal, her eyes glistened and sparkled with the same hope filling James’ heart. From whence had she come? What hardships had she endured throughout the past decade of war?
James’ view of the lass was blocked when the Countess of Buchan stepped forward holding a gilt crown. The monumental importance of the moment reflected in her proud smile as she raised it above the Earl of Carrick’s head. “I crown thee Robert Bruce, King of Scots; son of Robert Bruce; son of Robert Bruce; son of Robert Bruce; son of David, Earl of Huntington; son of Henry, Earl of Warrenne; son of David, King of Scots! With this diadem held sovereign over all Scottish subjects, may you do everything in your power to cause Law, Justice, and Mercy to be executed in all of your judgments.”
“Hear, hear,” James whispered under his breath as he watched the man with the hood take his leave.
After the blessing, the king stood from his throne and launched into an oration, swearing his life to the liberation and freedom of all of Scotland. After the applause abated, Lamberton gave him a bejeweled sword and Robert thrust it above his head. “In my first act as king, I shall knight these noble sons of Scotland.”
James watched as every last one of the candidates were called forward and kneeled before the new king. When finally he was left standing alone, he bit the inside of his cheek and shot a nervous glance to Lamberton.
The old bishop ignored him, holding up the scroll with the list of names. “Come forward James Douglas, son of Sir William Douglas, Lord of Douglas.”
James released a long breath as murmurs from the crowd swelled through the darkness. Aye, they all knew the stories of his father’s demise and how Da had met his end in the torture chamber of the Tower of London. Untrue rumors had spread, but make no bones about it, Edward had ruined James’ da and the Lord of Douglas had paid in blood.
And one day, I’ll have my due.
James boldly marched forward and kneeled. Time slowed as he bowed his head, the king’s voice resounding around him. The sword touched his left shoulder and then his right. As his chest swelled, he prayed his parents were looking down from heaven with pride. The glint of new silver spurs flashed in the corner of his eye, but when James looked up, a flash of metal of a different sort made his blood run cold.
“Nooooooo!” he bellowed. In one motion, he sprang to his feet, wrenching the sword from the king’s hands. His Grace reached for his dirk as the hooded man’s battle axe hissed through the air, aimed to sever Robert the Bruce’s head.
Gnashing his teeth, James countered with all his might, blocking with an upward strike. As the weapons connected, the axe flew from the assailant’s hands. With the fire of rage racing through James’ blood, he shoved the king aside, wedging himself between his liege and the assassin. Before his next blink, he plunged the sword through the blackguard’s heart. The man’s hood fell back, his eyes stunned as he toppled backward, his lips moving with soundless curses.
James hovered over the fiend and yanked the blade from his chest. With blood dripping from the weapon, he turned and faced at least a dozen swords drawn and ready to smite him where he stood. He quickly bowed his head and presented the hilt of the royal sword to his king. “Forgive me, Your Grace.”
“Stand down,” growled the Bruce, motioning for the knights to lower their weapons. “Smart of you to choose the sword already unsheathed, Douglas.”
James agreed, though he wouldn’t boast about it.
The king spread his arms. “To commend this act of bravery, Douglas’ first act of knighthood will be to stand guard over the royal retinue at the high table this eve.”
“You honor me,” James said as the crowd applauded.
Clapping him on the shoulder, His Grace lowered his voice. “I need you to escort a woman to Lincluden Priory. ’Tis of grave importance that she arrives safely. Afterward, you will amass an army in the borderlands. We must recruit every man able to bear arms.”
“And my lands?”
“By rights, you are the Lord of Douglas, Sir James,” he said. “The lands are yours. ’Tis only a matter of how and when you take them and upon that point we must be agreed.”
James again bowed. How much longer would he need to wait? Damnation, he wanted to ride straight to West Lothian and immediately start amassing his army. Take some woman to a nunnery? Doing so was a bloody waste of time. Why not assign some monks to the task? Scone Abbey certainly had enough undernourished men to assemble a retinue. Hell, they spent half the day at worship, any number of them would jump at the chance to go on a journey, especially if it meant rubbing elbows with an entire priory full of nuns.
Lamberton shook James’ hand. “God is with you, my son.”
“Perhaps,” he said a bit too gruffly. Aye, he needed to exercise patience, but God had not seen fit to gift him with such a virtue.
When James next looked to the crowd, King Bruce and the guests were already heading for the great hall inside the walls of Scone Abbey. He started after them, craning his neck and searching for the sable-haired lass. Alas, she was nowhere to be seen.
The reward for this evening’s heroism was the honor of foregoing the festivities, keeping vigil behind the king and acting as his man-at-arms. But James wasn’t the only one. Boyd had been granted the honor as well, most likely because they were the two largest knights, and Robert the Bruce’s coronation hadn’t even ended before an attempt was made on his life.
As the scent of roasted meat wafted through the hall, James couldn’t decide whose stomach was growling the loudest. Most likely Boyd’s. Certainly, James wouldn’t own to any weakness.
His needs mattered not when he was assigned such an important task.
An honor.
And he’d starve amongst a hundred succulent legs of lamb if it pleased the king. He’d ignore the laughter filling the hall. He’d ignore the music and the dancing. He’d even ignore the sable-haired lass sitting with a woman wearing a nun’s habit at the table near the far wall.
Lamberton was right as the elderly bishop oft was—James had no time for women. Perhaps he’d been billeted to accompany a female southward, but he’d perform his duty posthaste and then amass his army. In truth, the assignment was but a small pain in the arse. His clansmen were to the south, just not as near the border as Lincluden.
“You’re twitching like a tick on a sow’s arse,” Boyd growled in his ear.
James snorted. If anyone could give a good rib it was the man on his right. “Och, a deaf mute would be on edge with the floor-shaking rumbles coming from your cavernous maw,” he countered out of the corner of his mouth.
“Aye,” Boyd surprisingly agreed. “I missed my nooning and was still riding for Scone come dawn. Haven’t slept in two days, either.”
“’Tis amazing you were able to bow your head and receive your spurs without falling on the Bruce’s feet.”
“I wouldn’t have missed this day for a king’s fortune.”
“Nor I.”
“’Twas a bloody gallant act of bravery I witnessed this eve.” Boyd snickered. “Had you not run the bastard through, I might have thought you’d staged it.”
“Never.” The corner of James’ mouth ticked up. “And thanks for the complime
nt.”
“Just let me have a swing the next time. I could stand to be in the king’s good graces.”
“Now you’re dreaming.”
Boyd gave James a prod with his elbow, but when Lamberton snapped his fingers, they both jolted back into their roles of expressionless henchmen. At least James felt a bit more at ease within the walls of the abbey than he had out in the open upon Moot Hill. With he and Boyd standing shoulder to shoulder, their hands resting on the pommels of their swords, an assassin would have to be completely mad to make an attempt on the Bruce’s life at the moment.
As the night wore on, the laughter grew more boisterous while the tankards of ale and goblets of wine emptied and refilled.
Well after the tables had been moved for the dancing, Boyd again prodded James with his elbow. “Look who’s dancing with Campbell. Isn’t that the lass you were ogling at the crowning?”
“Bloody hell.” James gulped as he watched Arthur Campbell place a hand on the waist of the loveliest lass in the hall—the girl with the sable hair, of course. “Campbell has always had a way of turning ladies’ heads, the bastard.”
“If that’s the case, then why is he not yet wed?”
Clenching fist, James shrugged. “Lucky, I’d reckon.”
“Luckier than either of us.”
“Nay, the pair of us are standing behind Robert the Bruce,” said James, even though his stomach was roiling, and not from hunger.
“Do you fancy her as well?” he asked, his eyes transfixed on the woman as her silken tresses swung about her hips, her movement as graceful as a doe lightly stepping through the forest. Everything about her was perfect—except she kept looking at Campbell and smiling. If only she knew the knight’s sole purpose in his feigned kindness was to raise her skirts.
“Not likely,” Boyd replied, pulling James from his thoughts.
“Oh?” James asked, annoyed. “Why the bloody hell not?”
“Och, she’s bonny and all, but I’ve more important things to tend to than women.”
“As do I. I’ll be riding for Douglas lands as soon as the king has received the oaths of fealty on the morrow.” With a wee detour, but Boyd doesn’t need to know about that.
“Douglas? What? Are you planning to face Clifford on your own?”
“I aim to assemble my men first. Then Clifford will wish he’d never set foot in Scotland.”
“You have a pair of cods, I’ll give you that.”
“Best compliment I’ve ever had from the likes of you.”
“Do not grow accustomed to it.”
“I’m nay planning to.”
Boyd yammered on, but James tuned him out. He was too busy watching Campbell take the lass by the elbow and accompany her out the door. If only James could follow and whisper a warning in her ear.
Blast it all, why did he care?
I don’t. Only after I regain my lands and rid Scotland of Edward’s vermin will I ever allow myself to care for any woman.
3
After Ailish kneeled before the king and pledged to honor and obey his royal decrees on behalf of her brother and Clan Maxwell, she changed into her heavy woolen nun’s habit and readied the mule for the long return journey to the priory.
She tied her satchel to the saddle and patted the gelding’s hip. “I’ll walk for a time. The old nag will make it farther that way.”
Coira raised her skirts enough to reveal her booted foot. “I’m the one who ought to be walking.”
“Och aye? And annoy your rheumatism?” Ailish tugged either side of her attendant’s veil and gave a warm smile. “Ye ken you’d last but three-quarters of an hour afore your knees started swelling.”
“I am not an invalid, m’lady,” Coira replied as she turned in place. “I thought you said we were to be escorted by one of the king’s men. If I may say so, we’re all but being ignored.”
“Before I took my oath the steward told me a knight would meet us right here under this oak tree when the bell rings the tenth hour.” As Ailish spoke the words, the tower bell began to toll. “See? We’re exactly on time.”
Coira craned her neck, searching the clusters of people milling about. It seemed everyone was busy readying for their journeys. “Now all we must do is to find our escort.”
Ailish squinted, peering into the stable’s dark corridor. “I was rather hoping he and his retinue would find us. I see no other nuns about.”
“Does he ken we’re disguised as nuns?”
“I told the king we’d traveled to Scone wearing habits.”
Coira snorted as she pulled the bridle up over the mule’s nose and slid the bit into his mouth. “I’ll wager our man has no idea.”
“Patience.” A number of people came out leading their horses, but nary a one paid them a mind. Then Ailish’s breath stopped when a knight clad in full armor from head to toe led an enormous black palfry out of the stable. And once she saw him in the light, she recognized yesterday’s champion, James Douglas—the hero who had saved the king only moments after the Bruce had been crowned. Surely a man such as he would stride past without giving them a second glance. He might have offered her a wee grin at last eve’s ceremony, but the man was obviously far too important to be assigned to the ordinary task of accompanying a mere woman home.
Pretending to be unaffected by the braw Highlander, she shifted her gaze beyond him.
Goodness, her fingers trembled. What was it about Douglas? Several knights had already walked past, why did this one make her so self-aware? Truth be told, traveling with a man like Sir James would be distracting. And Ailish could not afford to be distracted in any way. She had protected her younger brother and sister for six years and they were her only care. Her sworn duty was to guard Harris with her life, and she must continue to do so no matter what may come.
Besides, the king was as intelligent as he was shrewd. Surely, he’d appoint an old knight—a wizened man, weary from years of battle—to see her safely returned to her kin.
“I beg your pardon, Sister,” said Sir James in a very deep-sounding brogue. He stopped beside her, though she didn’t dare meet the hard stare she sensed was boring through her veil. “You wouldn’t be the lass…er…the nuns in need of an escort to Lincluden Priory? I was told they’d be waiting here beneath this oak. Ah…an important woman?”
Coira thrust her fists onto her hips. “Och, so a pair of women dressed as nuns cannot possibly be important? Well, I’ll have ye know—”
“Enough,” Ailish said, chopping her hand through the air, glaring at the maid and willing her to hold her tongue. “We are indeed traveling to the priory,” she explained before her knees buckled.
Please not this man!
Slowly, she raised her chin, allowing her gaze to meander up to his face. As sure as she was standing, James Douglas stared down at her with a pair of piercing black eyes—eyes so dark, they were almost the color of obsidian. And the severe slash of his eyebrows demanded she take heed. By the saints, she could not help but do so. The man was even more braw up close than he’d been standing guard upon Moot Hill last eve.
His presence alone was that of power, of unquestioned strength.
“You will be our escort?” she asked, her voice losing confidence with every word.
“A nun?” He stepped back and gaped as if she were vermin. Then he shook his head and looked to the heavens. “Forgive me, Sister. Were you expecting another?”
Ailish clapped her fingers to her cheeks, positive she’d turned as red as scarlet flax petals. Of all the men at the coronation, James Douglas was the absolute last she expected to be assigned to protect her on the journey home. “Nay. I had only assumed a knight such as you would have far better things to do than accompany me and my…” She stopped herself from uttering “lady’s maid”. He obviously believed her to be a nun. Perhaps it was best if he continued to do so. “…ah…me and Sister Coira.”
Sir Douglas narrowed his eyes and stroked his fingers down his thick black beard. “Were y
ou not at the coronation?”
Ailish stood a bit taller. “I was there, of course.”
“Hmm, I do recall. And you were sitting with Sister Coira during the feast as well.”
“Perhaps I was.”
“Interesting. I did not realize that novices were permitted to dance or wear fine gowns or attend coronations without their heads covered.”
Blast him. What hadn’t he noticed last night? “I assure you, my attendance at the coronation and feast thereafter was of grave import.”
He pursed his lips. “So says the king.”
Ailish nodded as if she were the most important woman in Scone this day. “So says the king.”
“Forgive me.” He bowed. “I am Sir James Douglas at your service. His Grace, himself, asked me to escort you safely to Lincluden, and I intend to see you behind her walls with haste.”
She searched behind the man for his retinue. “Only you?”
A wee storm brewed in Sir James’ black eyes. “Perhaps the Bruce felt two nuns traveling with a knight would look less conspicuous than two nuns accompanied by an army,” he replied with a sardonic air with no hint of a smile. “Pray tell, what do I call you aside from Sister?”
“Ailish.”
“Very well.” Sir James examined the mule. “This fella’s fine for carrying your effects, but where might your horses be?”
She squared her shoulders. If she possessed nothing else, she most certainly had Maxwell dignity pulsing through her blood. If this man intended to spend the next few days traveling with them, she’d best start acting like she knew what she was about. “Sister Coira and I share the priory’s mule.”
“I beg your pardon, but that old neddy will not be able to keep pace.”
Coira smoothed her fingers down the mule’s neck. “He managed to carry us here. He mightn’t be fast, but he’s steady.”
“Agreed, unless you have another horse you’d prefer us to ride,” said Ailish, hoping he did have an alternative. It would be ever so nice to ride a real horse for a change. At one time, she’d been quite accomplished in a saddle.