April, 1320

Six months later

Eilean Donan Castle, Scottish Highlands

 

“Jerome Munro asks admittance to the castle, Laird.”

Reid lifted his gaze to Alain, who stood in the great hall’s doorway, a broad grin on his face.

A ripple of excitement moved through those gathered in the hall. They all knew what this meant.

Peace.

He turned to the two farmers who were airing their dispute before him. “Do ye mind if we continue this later, men?”

Both nodded eagerly. They were no doubt counting themselves fortunate to have happened to be in the castle for this monumental day.

Reid glanced over to find Corinne nigh bouncing out of her chair with excitement, no small feat considering she was round with their bairn. The quill in her hands, which she’d been using to record the settling of disputes, was all but forgotten as she met his gaze, elation brimming in her eyes.

Corinne was mayhap the most excited out of everyone in the clan. Of course, she was as happy as they all were about what would shortly take place, but she had extra reason for her delight.

Robert the Bruce had officially accepted Edward II’s request for a truce before Christmas a few months past. It meant a blessed break in the seemingly endless war against the English, yet the Bruce wasn’t content to sit on his heels and wile away all he’d accomplished.

Nay, the Bruce had decided that it was time to extract another truce of sorts—this time from the Pope himself. The Pope had excommunicated the Bruce nearly fifteen years earlier for killing on holy ground.  It had meant that the Church didn’t recognize him as a legitimate King—or Scotland as a sovereign nation, but rather the property of England.

With Edward II’s truce secured, however, the Bruce had pushed to petition the Pope to acknowledge that Scotland was its own country, and he its rightful King.

Murmurs of the document declaring Scotland’s independence had swirled through the Highlands as winter had turned to spring. Then Reid had gotten word that the Bruce was asking his Lairds and noblemen to add their seals to the document, showing the Pope that Scotland’s leaders—and the people they represented—were behind the Bruce’s cause.

The document had been completed earlier that month at Arbroath Abbey in the east by an Abbot. Some had begun calling it the Declaration of Arbroath.

While a few Lairds had been able to travel to the abbey to append their seals to the document, many, including Reid, had too many duties to see to at home. So the Bruce had selected a warrior, Jerome Munro, to travel to every corner of Scotland collecting Lairds’ seals and spreading the word about the bold declaration the Bruce intended to send to the Pope.

Corinne had been thrilled at the news, along with everyone else in the clan, for it meant the chance of true freedom once and for all for Scotland.

Yet Reid knew what had her springing from her chair now was the significance of participating, even in a small way, in such an important document. She was convinced that the Declaration of Arbroath would forever change Scottish history, and to be a part of that sent her nigh into an elated frenzy that Reid guessed only another scribe could fully appreciate.

“I’ll fetch your sealing wax and the clan signet ring,” Corinne said, popping to her feet with remarkable alacrity. “And the clan records—this moment must be recorded!”

Just as she was about to fly from the dais, he caught her arm and pulled her into his lap. “Send Seanad for it,” he murmured, “and save yer feet the trip.”

Though her pregnancy had been relatively smooth so far, Corinne was round enough now that moving about overmuch made her feet ache and swell.

She sighed, some of the wind taken out of her sails, yet she seemed more than happy to remain in his lap until Seanad returned with the retrieved items.

When the double doors to the hall opened at last, those gathered were nigh abuzz with anticipation.

“Jerome Munro, Laird,” Alain said, stepping aside.

A dark-haired man strode in, his red plaid, which was slashed with yellow and green lines, a stark contrast to the Mackenzie blue and green all around.

“Laird Mackenzie,” Jerome said when he reached the dais, dipping his head in respect.

“Munro. I hear ye’ve paid visits to the MacVales and the MacDonnells already,” Reid said, nodding back. “How fare our neighbors?”

“Verra well,” Jerome replied. “Both Arthur MacDonnell and Fillan MacVale contributed their seals to the Declaration.” He lifted a dark brow. “And I have been instructed by our King to thank ye especially, for he heard ye had a hand in encouraging the MacVales to put an end to their lawlessness and join his cause.”

Reid waved a hand, but inside he warmed with pride. A slow but steadily building trust had begun to grow between the MacVales and the MacDonnells. And for his part, Reid was coming to know his smart, capable younger half-brother as both a Laird and a friend. “Credit goes to Fillan,” he said, “though I am happy to call the MacVales allies at last.”

Jerome nodded, then drew a rolled piece of parchment from the pouch on his belt. “Shall I proceed?”

With Reid’s assent, Jerome lifted his voice so that it traveled throughout the hall. “These are the sentiments our King, Robert the Bruce, sends to the Pope, and which he asks Laird Mackenzie to co-sign.” He raised the scroll and began reading. “To the most Holy Father and Lord in Christ, the Lord John, by divine providence Supreme Pontiff of the Holy Roman and Universal Church…”

Though Reid knew the declaration had been written in Latin to respect the Pope’s authority, Jerome read in Gaelic for the benefit of the people gathered. He recited the atrocities committed by the English against the Scots, and of the Bruce’s noble fight for freedom. But the document also asserted that if the Bruce should ever fail the people of Scotland, it was their right as a sovereign nation to replace him with someone who would fight on their behalf.

Reid had never heard aught like it. It took a brave and confident King to make such a bold declaration to the Pope himself, and yet to acknowledge the limits of his power as a servant of the Scottish people. But Reid had to agree—a good leader, a good man, was made, not born. Reid, like the Bruce, was only as strong as the people he served.

“This declaration was given at the monastery of Arbroath in Scotland on the sixth day of the month of April in the year of grace thirteen hundred and twenty and the fifteenth year of the reign of our King aforesaid,” Jerome concluded. “Directed to our Lord the Supreme Pontiff by the community of Scotland, and endorsed by all who freely give their seal.”

He lowered the scroll, his dark eyes landing on Reid. All in the hall seemed to hold their breath, but then someone began stamping their feet. Another joined him, and another clapped until the hall was filled with the roar of voices, the pounding of hands, and the stomping of feet.

Reid held up his hand for silence, and the hall stilled.

“I, Reid Mackenzie, fourth Laird of the Mackenzies of Eilean Donan, Kintail, do freely give my seal,” he said loudly.

The crowd erupted once more into revelry. Jerome’s stony features remained unchanged, though Reid did notice a flicker of pride in his dark eyes. He tucked the scroll away and withdrew two strips of thick vellum.

Holding up both parchment strips, he stepped onto the dais. “One for the Pope’s copy, and one for the King’s,” he said, placing the slips on the table before Reid.

Carefully, Reid warmed the stick of red sealing wax in a nearby candle’s flame, then lowered the melting tip to the tab of parchment. As the glob of wax began to cool onto the parchment, he lifted the Mackenzie clan signet ring and pressed it into the wax.

He moved to do the same with the other vellum strip, but then his gaze landed on Corinne, who watched the ceremony beside him, rapt.

Reid extended the stick of wax to her. “Ye do the other,” he urged softly.

Her eyes widened so much that he feared he would drown in their sea-green depths. “Truly?”

“Aye.”

With trembling fingers, she took the wax and held it to the candle. As he had done, she dripped a blob onto the piece of parchment, then imprinted the Mackenzie seal into it.

When she raised her head, the crowd broke out into cheers again, bringing a bonny blush to her cheeks.

Jerome nodded approvingly, lifting both sealed pieces of vellum and tucking them safely into his pouch.

As the revelry died down, Reid turned to the dark-headed man. “Where are ye headed next, Munro?”

“To the Lowlands and Borderlands,” he replied. “The Bruce wants all the seals collected in the next month, though I dinnae think he realizes I cannae sprout wings and simply fly from clan to clan.” He lifted one dark brow, and Reid got the impression that this was as close to humor as the serious warrior ever got.

“Ye’re welcome to stay the night and sample our Mackenzie whisky if ye can afford the time,” Reid offered.

“Ye had me as whisky,” Jerome replied, the faintest hint of a smile touching his lips. “Many thanks.”

As Jerome stepped off the dais, Corinne’s hand slipped into Reid’s. He found her eyes, which shone with emotion. “Thank you for that.”

“Nay, lass,” he replied, pulling her onto his lap once more, uncaring that his people looked on and murmured good-natured teases for their lovesick Laird. “Thank ye—for allowing me to be the one to make ye happy.”

He coiled a finger in her flame-red hair, which had grown out past her shoulders now. “I love ye,” he murmured, gently pulling her closer by the lock of hair. “And I’m determined never to let ye forget it.”

She chuckled, low and soft. “I love you, too.”

And then there was no more need for words, for their lips sealed in a kiss.

 

The End

 

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