his eyes. He blinked in amazement at the entourage surrounding his king. “What is the meaning of this, Robert?” he asked quietly.
“Your wife knows better than I,” replied the Bruce.
“Mairi?” David’s dark eyes smiled at her across the courtyard.
It would do no good to spare him. “I am accused of sedition,” she said, making no attempt to soften the blunt words.
“That’s impossible,” replied David flatly.
“How do you know?” demanded the Bruce.
“I know my wife.”
“A woman who beds down with Edward of England is not a woman a man can know.”
David’s jaw clamped down angrily. “You lie, Robert of Carrick. My wife is true.”
A smile of triumph crossed Robert’s face. “Ask her.”
“I shall do so.” David crossed the courtyard and took Mairi’s hands in his own. From his trembling grasp, she knew how much this cost him. “You’ve never lied to me, Mairi. Speak the truth now.”
Despair tore at her heart. She wet her lips, forcing the ugly words past them. “I took Edward to my bed. But I did not betray my king or country.”
“That depends of which king you are speaking,” Robert broke in. “The charge for sedition is death.”
David turned on him. “If every woman guilty of adultery is accused of sedition, why are not the heads of your mistresses mounted on pikes throughout Scotland?”
“How dare you?” Robert growled.
“She is my wife,” David reminded him.
A burly lackey dressed in the livery of the Maxwells stepped forward. Mairi recognized him immediately. “What of the stone?” he shouted. “Ask her about the stone.”
“What of the stone, Mairi of Shiels?” Robert asked. “Scotland’s Stone of Destiny no longer rests on Moot Hill.”
Mairi stared at him, saying nothing. She had known it would come to this, but she had hoped for more time.
“Speak, Mairi,” Robert commanded her. “Speak or you sign your own death warrant.”
“Think what you will,” she cried. “I did not betray my country.”
“Mairi,” David pleaded. “Tell them the truth. Where is the Stone of Scone?”
“It is safe,” she whispered. “Ask me no more.”
His fingers dug into her shoulders. “They are going to kill you,” he whispered.
Her back stiffened. She lifted her head, her eyes flashing silver fire at the man who called himself king. “I am a Scot,” she said, centuries of dynastic pride revealed in her haughty voice. “Descended from Macus, king of the Isle of Man. My family has ruled the borders since the Picts of Dalriada. You are of Norman blood, Robert the Bruce of Carrick. I have a greater stake in this land of my ancestors than you shall ever have. Hear me now and leave me in peace. I did not betray my country.”
Robert stared down at her for a long time, ignoring the murmuring of peasant voices at his back. David held his breath. Suddenly, the crowd parted, and a tall woman, richly dressed, strode forward to stand before Mairi.
“Mother.” David’s bewilderment was obvious. “What are you doing here?”
Robert spoke first. “I asked her to come. Lady Douglas is Mairi’s accuser.” He nodded at the woman. “Tell your son what you saw.”
David gasped, and the color left his face. His mother was famous throughout Scotland for her second sight. There were some who called Grizelle Murray Douglas a witch. She had known of Mairi’s affair with Edward and had tried to dissuade her son from marrying her. Since Grizelle’s own marriage to the third earl of Douglas, she made no secret of her hatred for her son’s wife.
“I saw her,” she said, pointing at Mairi. “She took the stone from Moot Hill.”
“A woman, alone in the darkness, couldn’t possibly carry away a stone of that size,” David argued.
“She wasn’t alone,” Grizelle countered. “There were men and horses with her.”
The woman lied. Mairi knew it was a lie just as she knew her fate was sealed. There had been only one horse and one wagon that night. Everyone else was on foot. She stepped closer to Grizelle, gray eyes staring into brown. Her voice was pitched low so that only the two of them heard her words. “Why do you do this, Grizelle? If you truly have the sight, you know that I speak the truth.”
Mairi was so close that Grizelle could breathe her fear. The fear she would never show. She was a stone’s throw from death, and still she would not plead for mercy. She stood as she always had, proud and tall, with a regal poise unusual in a woman. For a moment there was a flicker of regret in Grizelle’s