Muscles rippled with his every step. The power exuded by this royal warrior was palpable, yet Gwendolyn found herself unafraid.
Accounts of his intelligence, determination, and forthright way of speaking were well known, traits that had caused King Edward I, and now his son, Edward of Caernarfon, immense misery. From their first meeting, ’twould seem the claims she’d heard about Scotland’s sovereign were true.
A pace away, he paused, towered over her with a measuring look. “You are afraid of little?”
She held his gaze. Regardless of the escalating thud of her heart, she held his gaze. “I say whatis on my mind.”
An intrigued smile curved his mouth. “Indeed? I bid you, my lady, to share your thoughts. I find myself curiousto hear them.”
Aiden stiffened at her side, but Gwendolyn ignored him. Any influence he’d had in her life was past. Once she’d trusted him, no longer. As for repercussions for her words, the king could order her killed at any time. She hadlittle to lose.
“I want Latharn Castle returned to me.” She angled her jaw. “’Tismy birthright.”
The king grimaced. “One seized by the English.”
Heat swept her cheeks. “Through treachery.”
“Deceit they are well familiar with. Nor,” the Bruce said, loathing tainting his words, “was their duplicity uninvited. Edward of Caernarfon’s forces sailed to Scotland in a plot conceived with Lord Comyn. He will learn, as I did years ago, that the Sassenach canna be trusted.”
The king’s use of the disparaging term for the English indeed fit their despicable acts. “Once my liege lord discovers their betrayal, he will ensure ’tis a decision they will regret.”
“Lady Gwendolyn,” the Bruce stated, “there is little he can do to avenge their treachery. Had Lord Comyn been able to raise sufficient troops, he wouldna have sought Edward of Caernarfon’s support.”
The enormity of his statement smothered any remaining belief and forced her to face the truth. Regardless whether Latharn Castle was held by the English or the Bruce, any hope of reclaiming her ancestralhome was gone.
“With Comyn’s weakening force,” the Bruce continued, “and without England’s support, in time, all of Scotland will be beneath my rule. Which, as itsking, is my right.”
Hurt, anger, the memory of how the Bruce had murdered his rival, the Lord of Badenoch, at the church of the Greyfriars to ensure he received the crown, erupted in her mind. Then faded as quickly at the way, over the past months, since the Bruce was crowned at Scone, he had begun to unite the clans. Against the odds, he had raised an army, a growing force now methodically storming the Highlands, devastating the opposition to claim a country thatwas indeed his.
She stiffened against a surge of anger, the frustration of her country torn. Gwendolyn shot a cool glance toward Aiden before facing the king. “Aye, Sire, ’tis your right.”
“Yet,” the king said, “I am not without sympathy for your cause. Well I understand your wanting to recoup a birthright wrongly seized.”
“Indeed,” she agreed. “Your grandfather, Robert Bruce of Annandale, claimant to the crown after King Alexander III’s death, was denied the throne most believed was rightfully his.”
Though in public many would fervently disagree, in private few doubted the facts. If King Edward I hadn’t insinuated himself as an arbitrator in deciding the true claimant for the Scotland’s crown in 1292, instead of John Balliol, Bruce of Annandale would have been crowned as Scotland’s king. A title that eventually would have passed to his grandson.
For a long moment, the monarch studied her. With a sharp exhale, he strode to his wooden throne and sat. He stroked his jaw. “Rarely do I meet women of such strength, or one who dares push against my will.”
At his soft tone, she stilled. What was she thinking to challenge the king? “Sire, I—”
“Though you overstep the boundaries of convention,” he continued, “’tis from passion for your beliefs, a strength I admire.” He lifted his goblet in a silent toast, took a sip, then lowered his chalice. “Lady Gwendolyn, I have decided to entertain your request to be mistress of Latharn Castle.”
Disbelief swelled in her chest. Mary’s will, he was returning her home!
The powerful ruler narrowed his eyes, his gaze piercing, and unease twisted in her gut. A strategist…of course he wouldn’t return the significant stronghold without conditions. “What are your terms, Your Grace?”
He set aside the goblet and leaned forward, braced his elbows on the arms of his chair, and steepled his fingers.
Gwendolyn held her breath. ’Twas as if she stood upon a precipice, the Bruce offering the only hope of seeing herhome restored.
“You must agree to twostipulations.”
She swallowed hard. “They are…?”
“First, you must swearfealty to me.”
Given the situation, an unavoidable request. However she despised the king’s plotting to seize her castle, for her home, her people, she would support the Bruce.
