The Viper (Highland Guard #4)(19)

With MacRuairi leading, the three raced across the countryside, traveling the short distance east from Scone Abbey through Scone Wood to the circle of stones. The setting chosen by Bruce for the ceremony did not surprise her. Edward had stolen Scotland’s famous Stone of Destiny, the traditional seat upon which its kings were enthroned, ten years before. The Druids’ stones were a link to Scotland’s past, and a symbol—just as she was—of the strength and continuity of the realm.

The haunting drone of the pipers drifted through the wind, stirring the soul, as they crested the hill and the stone circle came into view. Bella sucked in her breath, awed by the sight before her. Golden rays of sunlight streamed like fingers between the mysterious stones, as if the hand of God himself were reaching down from heaven to bless this sacred event.

Robert stood before the largest stone, magnificently attired in his royal vestments. Only a handful of witnesses were gathered around him. She recognized William Lamberton, Bishop of St. Andrews, at his left, but not the formidable-looking warrior to his right. As they came to a stop, she noticed Christina Fraser among the gathering of warriors lined up before him.

Ignoring MacRuairi’s attempt to help her down—and the resulting look of fury on his face—Bella hopped off her horse and hurried toward Robert. “Your Grace,” she said, with a curtsy. “I came as soon as I could. I hope I am not too late?”

She couldn’t resist the pointed look at MacRuairi, nor the resulting satisfaction when his mouth tightened.

Robert gave her the broad, brotherly smile that had earned her eternal loyalty all those years ago. “Nay, Bella, not too late. Never too late. Not when you have risked so much to be here.”

Bella smiled back at him. She might never want to see Lachlan MacRuairi again, but at least he’d done his job. He’d gotten her here in time.

A short while later Bella stood opposite Scotland’s last hope, the man she believed in with all her heart, and listened to the bishop recite his descent from the great King Kenneth MacAlpin, the first King of Scots, establishing Robert’s lineage and right to the throne. When the bishop had finished, Bella stepped forward—the MacDuff brooch displayed prominently on her cloak—to take her place in history, claiming the hereditary right held by her family: the right to crown a king.

The bishop handed her the crown. The weight of responsibility felt heavy in her hands; she knew the import of what she was about to do.

But when the moment came, Bella did not pause or hesitate. Hands steady, she lifted the circlet of gold high in the air, letting the sun catch it in a halo of blazing light before setting it upon Robert’s head. With the full force of her ancestors behind her and the absolute certainty in the righteousness of the cause for which she’d defied a husband and a king, Bella repeated the words that had been said two days earlier, “Beannachd De Righ Alban.” God Bless the King of Scotland. The words might be the same as those said at the first ceremony, but there was one important difference: this time they’d been said by a MacDuff.

Bella felt a wave of relief crash over her. It was done. There was no going back.

Her duty done, she stood to the side, watching as the witnesses came forward one by one to bow before the king. When it was Lachlan’s turn, she stiffened, instinctively bracing herself. It didn’t help. The brigand shot her a glare, then lifted a brow with a cynical smirk.

She flushed, feeling the heat of anger spread over her skin. Damn him, she knew what she was doing.

But whatever events this day set in motion, she was glad it was over. She was even more glad that she would never have to see Lachlan MacRuairi again.

Four

Strathtummel, Atholl, Late July, 1306

“Never” came four months later.

With all that had gone wrong—and so much had gone wrong—Bella could never have dreamed it would come to this. Fleeing for their lives like … outlaws. King Hood, the English called Robert. It was painfully true.

She gazed at her terrified cousin Margaret’s big blue eyes, wide in her pale face. “You’re sure, Margaret? The queen said we are to leave the king and the rest of the army?”

Margaret nodded, tears streaming down her cheeks. “She told me to gather our things. We’ll depart within the hour.”

The fear in her cousin’s face was palpable. Not for the first time, Bella regretted taking Margaret as her attendant. The timid, sweet lass wasn’t suited for this.

No one was suited for this.

Over the past month they’d seen more war, death, and blood than she wanted to see in a lifetime.

The fragile support Robert had built in the months after the coronation while Edward mobilized his forces to march against the “rebels” had collapsed after the devastating defeat at Methven. In agreeing to meet the English at Methven, Robert had been looking for vindication. Instead he’d met trickery, when Aymer de Valence set aside the rules of chivalry and attacked before the agreed-upon time for battle.

The gamble for the decisive victory that would establish Robert’s kingship had failed miserably and disastrously. The king’s remaining supporters had been sent reeling, forced to take refuge in the hills of Atholl while trying to recover and rally more men to his banner.

But few heeded the call. Before Methven, Robert’s support had been tenuous at best. More than half the country had aligned against him with her husband and many other powerful nobles. After Methven, even those sympathetic to Bruce were too scared to stand against Edward’s fury and the promise of retribution. Simon Fraser’s capture and subsequent execution in a hideous manner similar to Wallace’s reminded them all of the consequences.