Highland Warlord - Amy Jarecki Page 0,2
behold. Clearly a warrior, Bruce presented an imposing image, his armor immaculate, a surcoat emblazoned with the rampant lion, a cloak of black, his shoulders broad. And to add to the picture, the nostrils of his enormous steed flared.
The men flanking Bruce drew their swords. “Halt!” bellowed one.
James relaxed his knees and let his horse amble to a stop. “James Douglas, son of William, Lord of Douglas, come to pledge my fealty to a worthy man who would be king.”
“The lad’s father surrendered at Berwick,” growled the man on the right.
A shot of ire flared up James’ neck, but he bit his tongue. Damnation, he was no lad.
The Bruce brushed his beard with gauntleted fingers. “I kent his father well. Lord Douglas surrendered the burgh and his life in good faith, intending to spare those within his garrison.”
The man-at-arms smirked. “Little good that did.”
Grinding his molars, James slid from his horse. Now was not the time to debate the errs of his da. “I was but ten years of age when my father died in the Tower, his lands given to Clifford by a foreign king. My lands. My birthright.”
“I, too, have lost much at the hand of the usurper.” The Bruce urged his mount forward, though one of the men-at-arms followed. “Tell me, what news brought you to this place on this day at this time?”
James dropped to his knee and bowed his head. “My liege, since my father left this world, I have been an apprentice to Bishop Lamberton. Upon receiving your missive, he urged me to ride ahead and pledge my sword.”
“I don’t trust him,” growled the man-at-arms.
“Wheesht, Neil.” The Bruce dismounted, handed the naysayer his reins, and returned his attention to James. “You must forgive my brother. He is only looking out for my welfare.”
Giving a nod, James eyed the man before he returned his attention to His Lordship. “Very well. Though judging by his girth, I can easily best him in a battle of swords.”
“Strong words from an unproven pup. Perhaps a match can be arranged.” Bruce sauntered forward, cocking his head to one side. “Your beard is thick, though your face is that of an unblemished canvas. Pray tell, what is your age?”
As a sharp spike roiled in his gut, James clenched his fists. “I am a man of one and twenty, trained to wield a sword. I’ve not been bested by any knight in Lamberton’s court.”
“Indeed? And your claim can be substantiated by the bishop?”
“It can.” James rose. “I—”
“Watch yourself,” warned Neil.
The Bruce sliced his palm through the air but kept his eyes on James and one hand on the hilt of his sword. “Clearly, you were aware that I am headed for Scone. Why did you not wait to approach me there?”
Again demonstrating his vassalage, James spread his hands to his sides, though he didn’t kneel this time. “When news was received of Comyn’s death by your hand and the absolution granted to you by Bishop Wishart in Glasgow, I felt you needed my sword now whilst you are most vulnerable.”
“I assure you, my vulnerability will endure for months, possibly years to come.”
“Aye, until the English are expunged from Scotland once and for all.”
“I appreciate your verve, Douglas. Tell me, have you earned your spurs?”
“Not as of yet. I rather hoped being knighted would be an honor bestowed by my king.”
Chuckling, the Bruce turned toward his men. “Did you hear that? I’m liking this young man more by the moment.” He then placed a hand on James’ shoulder. “I should enjoy witnessing this sword of yours in action.”
“If I ride at your side, I pray to God you will see it raised often against our foe.”
“Then come.” The Bruce turned up his palm to catch a snowflake. “We have tarried here long enough.”
***
“If you squeeze your hands any tighter, your fingers will fall off,” said Coira in a sharp and stilted whisper.
Ailish arched an eyebrow and leveled her gaze upon her overly protective lady’s maid. Well, at one time, Coira had been Ailish’s nursemaid, but that didn’t allay the fact that Ailish was entrusted with the leadership of her clan and had been for quite some time. “My hands are fine.”
Her anxiety ratcheted up a notch as she watched yet another man exit the chamber in Scone Abbey where Robert the Bruce was hearing supplications. This morning, the vestibule had been packed shoulder to shoulder with men. Now, aside from the two women, the hall was completely empty. “I should be next.”
Ailish