Highland Warlord - Amy Jarecki Page 0,7
iron torches impaled in the ground and burning with heady peat. He moved to his position of honor, where he stood shoulder-to-shoulder with eleven other candidates for knighthood, forming an arc around the hallowed place where Scottish kings had been crowned for centuries. He’d met a few of these men. They were all sons of chieftains and earls—Arthur Campbell and Robert Boyd were both solid Scots—men James was proud to call friends.
And everyone knew Boyd had once served as squire to the great William Wallace. But he wasn’t a lad anymore. Indeed, the candidate from Kilmarnock had nearly grown as tall and as broad as James.
Resting his hands on the pommel of his sword, he assessed the others who stood with him, those fortunate men who would be knighted this eve in the Bruce’s initial act of kingship. Most were in their prime as was James but, aside from Boyd, none came close to his height or girth. How many of them had lost their fathers in the wars? Boyd had for certain, but James wondered if the others had been tucked safely behind the walls of their father’s fortresses.
If only he had a fortress.
His blood boiled as he clenched his fingers around his pommel. Soon.
With a herald from a line of trumpeters, the crowd parted, making a pathway for the procession. Led by a cross bearer, Bishops Wishart and Lamberton processed up the hill, their regal robes surreal as the velvet flickered with the slight breeze.
James gave Lamberton a nod as the bishop took his place.
A spark from a torch caught James’ eye. As his gaze shifted toward the light, his breath stopped. Highlighted by the yellow flames, the same lass he’d seen after the sparring match stared directly at him. She was bonny, to be sure. Fine boned, small in stature, and even though it was night, her eyes reminded him of a cat…or of crystals sparkling in candlelight. She wore her tresses unbound, with a ribbon of gold plaited across her crown—a maid. The corner of his mouth twitched up, for only maidens wore their hair uncovered.
James nudged Boyd with his elbow. “Do ye ken who that is?” he whispered.
“The lass in blue?”
“Nay, the lovely on the far right, wearing gold.”
Robert snorted. “Och, they’re all lovely.”
James turned his head, pretending to peer over his shoulder. “Have ye been too long without a woman?”
His friend snorted. “Most likely not as long as you, ye monk.”
“Och, I may be a bishop’s apprentice, but I assure you I’ve taken no vows of chastity.”
As Lamberton turned with a frown, James pursed his lips. Aye, this was no time for idle chat. Besides, Boyd had been right on one count. There were a parcel of bonny women attending this eve, all in their finery. Moreover, James had far more important things on his mind than lusting after a lass.
But there is no harm in looking regardless of what the bishop says.
He shifted his gaze back to the beauty and grinned.
God save his faltering knees, the wee lassie smiled back. His stomach fluttered as if a hummingbird had taken flight. But the moment passed quickly and she glanced downward, covering her dainty lips with her fingers as if embarrassed.
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