squeezing her elbows at her sides. “Must they be so vicious?”
Coira chuckled. “It would hardly be a sparring match if they exchanged pleasantries afore each attack.”
Ailish’s body jolted with every single strike. She hissed and bared her teeth as Douglas advanced, hacking his blade and showing no mercy. Goodness, Robert Bruce had been wrong about the newcomer. The pair were well-matched. But just when it seemed as if the younger man would win, Lord Neil spun, aiming for Douglas’ knees.
Ailish cringed, barely able to look, positive the poor man would be crippled for life. As the blade was about to connect with sinew and bone, James Douglas countered with a mighty upswing, the clash of metal on metal almost deafening. With his follow-through, the hilt wrenched from Lord Neil’s hand, sending the sword end-over-end through the air.
The crowd erupted with applause as the Bruce grabbed the young man’s hand, raised it above their heads, and proclaimed him the victor.
Clapping, Ailish smiled, her heart thundering beneath her heavy woolen gown. Time slowed as Douglas looked her way, his eyes boring through her as if he were indeed gifted the honed sight of a falcon.
Her breath stopped.
The young man bowed her way right before he was swarmed by the crowd.
“My heavens, that was quite a match,” said Coira.
“Mm hmm,” Ailish agreed, still unable to pull her gaze from the top of the man’s head of wild black hair, which was easy to spot because he was taller than all the others.
“I suppose neither of us have seen men spar for some time. Was it too shocking? Did the fight bring back fearful memories?”
Shaking her head, Ailish regarded at her lady’s maid and blinked. “Not at all,” she said, a bit breathless, her limbs feeling feather-light as if she might be floating. “Though the match was far more vigorous than I expected.”
“I most certainly agree.” Coira tugged Ailish’s elbow. “Come, let us find a corner in the nave where I can help you prepare for the coronation.”
Chapter Two
In a private chamber above the abbey’s vestibule, James raised the thick chasuble over Bishop Lamberton’s head. “I’m looking forward to the feast after the ceremony.”
The old man shrugged into the garment, his face appearing through the neck hole with a disapproving pinch as if he’d just swallowed a bitter tonic. “The festivities should be the last thing on your mind. You may have won this day’s sparring match, but you are not yet in Robert’s confidence. Never forget he alone is the conduit for reclaiming your lands.”
James moved behind the bishop with the stole and draped it over his shoulders, ensuring the cross settled exactly in the center of his nape. “I am keenly aware that my fate lies in His Lordship’s hands and I’m doing everything I can to earn his favor. And it hasn’t been easy to gain his ear. He was sequestered in the abbey hearing supplications all day.”
“Aye.” Lamberton faced him. “But remember your actions speak louder than words. Stay close to him. Remain attentive. And most of all, do not allow your mind to be addled by the ladies.”
“I will not.” James waggled his eyebrows. “Though there’s nothing wrong with a wee peek now and again.”
The bishop smoothed his hands down the stole. “You are an insufferable lad. Pay heed to what I say or you’ll rue your actions for the rest of your days.”
“Yes, m’lord, I was merely jesting. No one thirsts for vengeance as much as I. As always, I shall maintain a close vigil as we discussed.”
“Excellent. I did not use my influence to see you assigned to Bruce’s guard for naught.”
James retrieved the bishop’s miter and held it out. “’Tis an honor I shall not take for granted.”
“Bless you, my son.” After situating the headdress in place, Lamberton placed his meaty hand on James’ shoulder. “The order of the ceremony has been decided. As we discussed, you will stand guard. Once the Bruce has been crowned, you will be among those called forward. Earning your spurs will be your greatest honor.”
James’ heart swelled. He’d been waiting for this moment his entire life. At long last, he would be knighted. And, God willing, by the hand of a Scottish king. For far too long, he’d been a landless outcast, biding his time, mulling about on the fringes of the nobility.
Well, no longer.
After he attended to the bishop’s robes, James made his way to the top of Moot Hill, following the pathway of light radiating from dozens of