A Kingdom's Cost, a Historical Novel of Scotland by J. R. Tomlin Read Free Book Online

king,
nothing more than a golden circlet. Again the trumpets sounded. The bishop
placed the crown on the head of Robert de Bruce.
    All around him, people jumped and cheered.
    "God save the King," James roared
with everyone in the Abbey. Boyd was grinning again as he joined in the shouts.
"God save the King!"
    Someone pushed past James and a line began
to form. Soon it stretched out the door. James craned to see what was
happening. The Earl of Strathearn stood first in place and Philip de Mowbray
behind him.
    Boyd was worrying his lip with his teeth,
and James raised his eyebrows at him.
    Boyd shrugged. "Mowbray is kin to the
Comyns. Can't say I trust him, but he's here."
    Bruce took Strathearn's hands in his, but
the mumble that followed was indecipherable from where James stood. From the
look of it, the rest of the day would be homage taking. James elbowed his way
to the door with a wave to Boyd. James's homage and his loyalty, the king
already had of him.
    Below the buildings of the Abbey of Scone
where it thrust into the sapphire sky, James wandered through the tent city
that sprawled on the flats of the river. Near the slope of the hill, colorful
silken pavilions of the lords and ladies sat under flapping banners, Bruce, Mar,
Atholl, Lennox, Stewart, Hay, Lindsay, Strathearn and Campbell and the bishops
and abbots. He passed tent booths where merchants cried, hawking their wares. Meat
sizzling over braziers, sending up a scent that made his mouth water. Boys
wander through the growing crowd crying pies for sale. James stopped under a
merchant's sharp-eyed gaze to look at a brooch with a fine blue stone, but he
had no lady to give it to or money to buy it. He strolled on.
    Anyway, what was important lay ahead beyond
more flying banners. The tourney grounds stretched out to beyond his sight.
    The silver that the bishop had given him
along with a gift from the king had bought a charger after he had returned the
bishop's palfrey to the horse-master. James chuckled at the memory of the man's
glare. Earlier in the day, he'd paid for a new shield and had it painted with
the blue chief and three white stars of Douglas. Tomorrow would be the tourneys,
and he would have his first chance to show what he could do.
    * * *
    James ran a hand down the mail that covered
his chest. The new armor was a gift the king had sent along with a sword finer
than James had ever held. He'd spent hours in the night polishing them so that
they gleamed.
    The tourney had been delayed because of a
second crowning.
    The night before at the end of the homage
taking, Isabella MacDuff had ridden in on a warhorse she had stolen from her
husband, John Comyn, Earl of Buchan, with a troop of her own MacDuff men-at-arms.
She'd claimed her family's right to place the crown on the king's brow.
    She was dark-eyed and had laughed with
pleasure when the king said they'd have a second crowning. James was hard
pressed to picture her married to the doddering old Comyn of Buchan. She would
be with the queen today, for the queen had taken her as a lady-in-waiting.
Isabella had smiled at James when she'd passed him. He hoped she'd be pleased
if he won the squire's tourney. But most likely she'd be more interested in Sir
Edward Bruce. All the women seemed to watch him from the corners of their eyes.
    Even now the horns blew. A scream went up
from the stands and hooves thundered.
    The knights rode first. James would have liked
to watch, but his nerves jangled too much to be still. Anyway, hours standing
around in mail would have him sweating like a horse, hard-ridden. He intended
to show himself well to his new liege. It was worth missing the older men
pounding at each other. The king's brother Nigel, the Campbell, and many of the
lords were riding now. Everyone said that Sir Nigel would win, that he was
second only to the king in the tourney. Of course, the new king would not ride.
It wouldn't have been fair since none would dare strike him. To strike the king
was lese-majesty