A! Fredome is a noble thing!
—John Barbour, The Brus
Near Scone Abbey, Perthshire, March 27, 1306
The first rays of dawn broke above the horizon. As if God were raising his hand to bless the ceremony himself, beams of bright orange light shot like fingers through the circle of stones. The dramatic effect was only heightened by the eerie sound of the pipes floating through the crisp spring air. It didn’t seem to matter that the stones themselves were pagan; their haunting majesty transcended such considerations. They were a link to Scotland’s ancient past, a symbol of strength and continuity, and as mysterious as the men who were about to kneel before the newly crowned King of Scotland to pledge their service—and their lives.
As one of a handful of witnesses to the secret ceremony taking place among the pagan stones, Christina could not think of a more fitting backdrop. Her husband, of course, had hoped to keep her tucked safely away on Skye. But she would not have missed this for anything. She’d more than earned the right to be here and wouldn’t let him forget it.
Her discovery had led to the final reckoning between Bruce and Comyn, and ultimately, to this day. A little over seven weeks ago, Bruce had killed his nemesis the Red Comyn before the altar in Greyfriars church. The fiery cross had spread across the land, calling the Scots to Bruce’s banner, and just two days ago at Scone Abbey, the historic crowning place of Scotland’s kings, Robert Bruce was crowned King of Scotland—albeit without the ancient Stone of Scone stolen by King Edward ten years ago.
The witnesses to the coronation were fewer than Bruce had hoped. Three of the nine bishops were present—including the most influential, Lamberton—and of the thirteen earldoms, only the earls of Atholl, Menteith, Lennox, and Mar had answered the call. Especially noticeable was the absence of the young Earl of Fife, who had the hereditary right and duty to crown Scotland’s kings. Without Fife’s presence, some would question the validity of the ceremony. But the young earl was still in England, a ward of King Edward, and the attempt to bring him here had failed.
Bruce stood before the largest stone wearing the royal vestments and a circlet of gold around his head, the sun rising like a halo above him. “We can’t wait any longer,” he said to Tor. “We shall have to proceed without them.”
“They’ll be here,” Tor said firmly. “Give them ten more minutes.”
They needed only half that. For not five minutes later three figures appeared over a crest in the hill to the south, riding hard toward them. In a thunderous rise of pounding hooves, the three newcomers burst into the center of the circle.
Two of the figures she recognized as her husband’s men, one of whom was Lachlan MacRuairi. The third was a lady. Christina grinned, realizing their mission had been a success. The young Earl of Fife might not be here, but his sister had come in his stead.
MacRuairi moved to help her down, but the lady—in this case a countess—gave him a contemptuous look and hopped down without taking his hand. The dark look on his face chilled Christina’s blood. Sweeping regally past the menacing Highlander, the countess rushed toward the king, coming to kneel before him. The hood of her cloak slipped back, revealing long white-blond hair, a paradox of softness compared to the steely determination on her strong features. She was young, Christina realized, perhaps only a handful of years older than herself, with bold features more striking than beautiful.
“Your grace,” she said, her voice husky and proud. “I came as soon as I could. I hope I am not too late?”
Bruce gave her such a warm smile that Christina wondered whether there was truth to the rumors of a prior liaison between them. “Nay, Bella, not too late. Never too late. Not when you have risked so much to come here.”
Bruce was not alone in his awe of the young countess’s bravery. Lady Isabella MacDuff had defied both a husband and a king to be there. For she was not just the sister to the Earl of Fife, but also the wife of the Earl of Buchan, John Comyn—the Red Comyn’s cousin and a loyal supporter of King Edward. If Edward got the chance, Christina did not doubt he would make her pay for this day.
For the second time in as many days, she watched as Robert Bruce was crowned King of Scotland, but this time the circlet of gold was placed on his head by Lady Isabella. “Beannachd De Righ Alban,” the countess said when she was done. God bless the King of Scotland.
The rebel countess was whisked away afterward to join Bruce’s wife and sisters at the palace. Isabella MacDuff had made her choice by riding to Bruce and could not return to her husband or the young daughter she’d left behind. Unconsciously, Christina put her hand on her stomach, unable to imagine that kind of sacrifice. She’d had her suspicions confirmed only a few days ago, but already felt a deep attachment to the child she was carrying.
At last, it was time for the ceremony she’d been waiting for.
One by one, the warriors of Bruce’s elite Highland Guard stepped forward. Even in the daylight they were a fearsome sight. If she hadn’t come to know them all in the past two months, Christina would have thought them unreal—a figment of myth or fantasy. All in black, their identities masked by their darkened nasal helms, the secret warriors were called out by their code names to kneel below Bruce’s great sword. MacSorley was dubbed “Hawk,” MacRuairi “Viper,” MacKay “Saint,” Boyd “Raider,” Lamont “Hunter,” MacLe an “Striker,” MacGregor “Arrow,” Seton “Dragon,” and Gordon “Templar.”
The last warrior to be called out was the one she’d been waiting for. The men had refused to tell her the name they’d decided on for her husband.
“Chief,” Bruce called out.
Her chest squeezed, moved by the great honor the men had bestowed on her husband. They might have come from different clans, but Tor had bound them together into a new one: MacLeomhann. Son of the Lion. A clan based not on kinship, but on a common purpose: freedom, and, as the new lion rampant tattoo on her husband’s arm signified, the restoration of Scotland’s crown to a Scot.
She could see her husband’s eyes bright beneath the steel of his helm and knew the name had affected him, too.
Heart in her throat, Christina watched as her husband moved forward to kneel before his king. Never had she been more proud of him. She knew the danger, but what he and these men were about to embark on would change history. Keeping his involvement secret would be difficult, but they were fortunate that he had a twin brother to help cover for him when he was away.
Away. They would both sacrifice for this war.
But when Tor bowed his head, and the blade of Bruce’s sword touched his shoulder, Christina knew that she’d found something far better than the knight of her dreams. She’d found the Highlander of her heart and a love that would last a lifetime.
The ten warriors formed a circle around their king. Swords raised above his head, they cried out, “Airson an Leomhann!” For the Lion. A cry that would come to strike fear in men’s hearts.
Operation Lion Rampant had begun.