Highland Warlord - Amy Jarecki Page 0,8

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