wildly, both little boys, aged four and five, paused, giggling at her. Roger was redheaded and freckled, Donald blond. Then Donald raised his stick at her. “A Comyn!” He cried the battle call, shaking his pretend sword threateningly.
“Donald,” Mary warned.
“Clearly, you will be a great warrior like your father,” Juliana said, deftly removing his stick from his hands. “But you will soon learn you must not raise your sword—or your hand—to a lady, and especially to your aunt.”
Donald was crestfallen. “I’m sorry, Auntie,” he whispered.
“Good, you should be.” She then took Roger’s stick, as well. “If you must play like barbaric Norsemen, go outside.” Laying the sticks on the table, she sat down beside her sister. “Maybe it isn’t as dire as we think,” she said, speaking in a low tone. But it was dire and she knew it—and not just because of the close ties between their families and the Balliol family. The land was at war because the king had bequeathed his throne to his granddaughter, a mere child, and there were those who would not stand for it.
“Bruce took the royal garrisons at Wigtown and Dumfries—and now he has taken Buittle?” Mary said, ashen. She was referring to the Earl of Annandale, the powerful magnate, Robert Bruce. Last April, he had declared that he was the legitimate heir to King Alexander. It was not the first time he had stated as much. He even claimed that, decades ago, King Alexander had declared him his presumptive heir—but no one believed that.
And just a few months ago, he had taken up arms with his supporters, attacking Dumfries, Wigtown, and now Buittle. Clearly he meant to seize the throne of Scotland.
But he was not the only possible successor to King Alexander. John Balliol had also asserted his legitimate right to succeed to the throne. In fact, a dozen claims had been made from nobles across the land and even without it—and why not? No one thought, for even a moment, that a three-year-old would ever take the crown.
Scotland was, it seemed, ripe for the plucking.
And without a regent, with only six guardians to rule the realm, Scotland had so quickly become divided into bitter and ancient rivalries. The Comyns and the MacDougalls were age-old enemies of the Bruce family, even without their loyalty to the Balliol claim. And Bruce’s most ardent supporter was Angus Mor, Lord of Islay and the Isles. Two of his sons, Alexander “Alasdair” Og and Angus Og, followed him. And Clan Donald was every living MacDougall’s worst enemy. The blood feud went back centuries—when one of Juliana’s ancestors, Dougall, had been murdered by his own nephew, Donald.
Mary’s husband William Comyn had gone to war with their brother, Alexander MacDougall, along with a great many other Comyn and MacDougall kin, to keep Robert Bruce from the throne—in the hopes of one day crowning John Balliol, instead.
“Maybe the news isn’t true,” Juliana said, aware that she was grasping at straws. “Or maybe, as we speak, our forces are taking Buittle Castle back for John Balliol.”
Mary stared at her grimly. “I don’t really care who has Buittle, and I am not being disloyal! I only care to learn that William hasn’t been hurt—or worse.”
“I know,” Juliana said softly.
“I am only twenty-seven years old,” Mary whispered. “And I have already lost three husbands...I love William so, Juliana. I cannot bear it if I lose him, too.”
Juliana squeezed her hand. Her sister had been briefly married to the king of the Isle of Mann, to the Earl of Strathearn, and to another Scottish baron. War and illness had taken each of her husbands in turn. But six years ago she had fallen in love with the Earl of Buchan’s third son, William Comyn. The Comyn family was the most powerful dynasty in the north of Scotland. Their brother had been pleased to allow the match.
Juliana knew that Mary was as loyal as she was, that she cared deeply about the fortunes of their family, and that of course, she wished for Bruce to be defeated. Should Bruce ever triumph, the MacDougall and Comyn families would suffer—the loss of lands, titles and lives. But just then, her fear for her husband overrode her every other sensibility, and Juliana did not blame her.
Secretly, she admired her sister so much, not for surviving her three previous husbands, not for making such a fine fourth marriage—but for finding love. Juliana did not know of another married couple that genuinely loved one another as Mary and William did. After all, marriages were about politics and power.
“Let’s go to the cathedral and pray,” Mary said, standing. She gestured at a maid, who came forward to take the now sleeping Thomas from her. “Thank you, Elasaid. Praying will calm us both,” she added.
An hour later, the boys were all settled in their chamber, and the two women were wrapped in furs. Ian, captain of Juliana’s guard, was outside, waiting for her, as she had instructed him earlier. Four other Highlanders were also attending them.
Juliana was accustomed to having her own guard. Lismore was a portion of her dowry. It was a very fertile island, with abundant fisheries and grazing, but its true importance were Coeffin Castle, with its oversight of the Firth of Lorn, St Moluag’s Cathedral and Achanduin Castle, which was the seat of the bishop of Argyll.
Lismore was a safe haven, and it had never been attacked seriously in her lifetime. Her brother had his greatest castles just to the east and to the southwest. As a result, it wasn’t easy for another clan to control the route into Argyll from the firth. However, the MacDonalds, the MacSweens and even the MacRuaris had been fighting them over that route for as long as she could recall.
Last year, she had been about to marry one of Alan MacRuari’s sons, Lachlan. Clan Ruari could be convinced to ally itself with them, and her brother had hoped to solidify that inconstant bond. But Lachlan had died in a battle at sea last summer. No other union had yet to be put forth, and because Juliana was now eighteen, she was becoming anxious. Most women were married by the age of fifteen. She would soon be considered well past her prime, if her brother did not seriously seek a husband for her.
As they exited the castle, Ian was standing by to help her mount, and Juliana smiled at him. When both women were astride their small mares, the cavalcade set off. In spite of the cold, it was a beautiful winter day, the sun bright, the sky blue and cloudless. Snow was melting on the hilltops and on the path they traversed. Squirrels had come out to forage. Juliana glanced at Mary, saw that she was deep in thought, and decided to remain quiet.
The cathedral finally appeared ahead, surrounded by thick pine trees. It was a small square building, a century old, no larger than a village church, flanked by two gray stone towers. A large stone cross, the height of two men, rose up from a mound in front of the building. The St. Moluag monastery was below the cathedral, behind an orchard. It could not be seen from the courtyard.
Juliana slid from her mount, as did Mary. Hand in hand, they left their small group of soldiers outside and pushed open the heavy wood door, entering the vestibule. From there, they could see down the nave—two village women were standing in prayer, not far from the podium, at its far end. Bishop Alan stood before the sacristy, his back to them.
It was stunningly quiet within. Juliana glanced up at the high ceiling above. She had always found majesty and peace in St. Moluag’s Cathedral, from the first time she had ever entered its hall, as a little girl with her mother. God was there, to hear their prayers, to keep William and Alexander safe. She had no doubt.
Alan Frasier, the Bishop of Argyll, had seen them. He was a man of medium height and girth, with brown hair and kind eyes. He smiled, leaving the apse, as they approached
