Chapter 1
Stirling Castle, Scotland, September 1504
No one relished the downfall of a wayward woman like a group of wealthy old men.
Lady Isla Sutherland lifted her chin against the malicious smirks and cold sneers arrowing her way from the courtiers in the lavish royal presence chamber. She had broken their rules, been caught, and now would pay the price: her greatest joys torn away. Henceforth, the blood-heating thrill of steel kissing steel as she vanquished an opponent with her longsword…forbidden. The freedom of linen shirt and woolen hose over itchy velvet gown and heavy gable hood…forbidden.
Nothing could adequately express her fury and frustration. Her despair. But a swordfighter understood the value of strategic retreat as well as advance when important decisions were to be made. Especially when standing in front of a man who held the power of life or death; their anointed sovereign, King James IV of Scotland.
“You sent for me, Your Grace?” said Isla as she sank into a deep curtsy.
James leaned back on his carved oak chair, bejeweled fingers tapping his knee as he studied her. The king wasn’t a tall man, nor brawny, his dark brown hair rested fashionably on his shoulders, and he wore well-tailored clothing made of costly fabrics from France. But foes underestimated him at their peril, for James had proven himself both a brilliant scholar with an uncommon gift for languages and a brave, ruthless warrior on the battlefield. He had to be; each day forced to wrangle a spoilt fourteen-year-old wife in Margaret Tudor, her wily father King Henry across the border in England, the changeable French, volatile Scots nobles, and clans who were ever eager to fight one another.
Right now, James looked weary. Understandable when he’d only just returned to Stirling after quelling a border rebellion. This was probably the last matter he wished to pass judgment on, but her wretched clan had demanded an audience—not even the king would risk offending the powerful Earl and Countess of Sutherland.
“Lady Isla,” he said with a faint sigh. “What am I to do with a troublemaker who tells her family she travels to the holiest place in Scotland to learn pious ways, and instead disguises herself as a lad to hone sword fighting skills under the tutelage of my champion?”
Isla bit her lip. Now was not the time for a jest about applause. Or to point out that she had been the great Sir Lachlan Ross’s best student by far, proving beyond all doubt a lass could wield a sword equal to any lad. The humiliating truth was, her grand plan to triumphantly return from St. Andrews to the north as a fierce and skilled warrior like her father and brothers, had failed. Instead, she would remain the unwanted seventh child with the strange name. The annoyance. The burden.
Worse still, she had caused strife for those who deserved it least.
Sir Lachlan had seen through her disguise, as had his sweet wife Lady Marjorie and their fiery lover Lady Janet Fraser. But all three had kept her secret, challenging her to work harder and be better, and she’d thrived. Until the fateful day a damned rabbit bounded into the ring and tripped her. Falling awkwardly had dislodged her wig and padding, and the viciousness from the lads at discovering a woman had bested them so often had been terrifying. Only Sir Lachlan’s intervention saved her life.
“Please, Your Grace,” said Isla. “Do not punish others for my deeds. There are none better than Sir Lachlan, Lady Marjorie, and Lady Janet in the realm save yourself.”
James nodded. “I know. That is why I ponder what must be done with you and not them. How old are you now? Nineteen or twenty summers?”
“Twenty,” she replied cautiously.
“Hmmm. Clearly you are ill-suited for a nunnery. But I cannot allow valuable heiresses to run wild, therefore the best solution is to find you a husband. At once.”
No!
While she’d known this would probably be the outcome, it still struck like a blow. The sound of ribald cheers, stomping feet, and gleeful chatter exploding in the presence chamber only rubbed salt into the wound. Two-faced hypocrites. These men would condemn her all day, but that wouldn’t stop a single one angling for her substantial dowry and an alliance with the Sutherlands. They would gain everything from the union and she would gain nothing; certainly not love or passion or the indulgence to continue what brought her joy.
This might have been easier to bear if she didn’t know that some marriages were happy. But she’d seen couples who were tender. Who accepted and supported each other fully, and scampered away to a bedchamber to indulge their lusts whenever they could. Saints alive, she’d even witnessed a trio who did this, so marriages could be exceedingly successful even when unconventional. Bah. In this so-called enlightened time, why did noble daughters still have to be pawns in the careless games of powerful men?
Why could she not decide her own destiny?
Her stomach roiling with hurt and anger, Isla glanced around the presence chamber, searching for a friendly face to bolster her spirits. She certainly wouldn’t get that from her family; her older brothers and sisters, and their spouses, had stayed away claiming they were too mortified by her conduct to come to court. In truth she wished her mother and father had abandoned her also, for then she wouldn’t be subjected to their icy wrath each day.
In this second painful defeat, she was truly alone.
Isla forced herself to respond. “I will obey my king and wed as you wish.”
“Good,” said James with a faint smile. “Then I say—”
“Your Grace!”
All heads turned to see Lady Janet barrel her way through the crowd and curtsy. The bold redhead was perhaps the most infamous woman in Scotland, once the king’s longtime mistress, still his beloved friend. Only she would dare to interrupt a royal decree.
James raised an imperious eyebrow. “Something to say, Jannie?”
She grinned. “Always, my king. I wonder if Lady Isla has had sufficient opportunity to meet men of suitable rank and fortune. I am a firm advocate for marital joy; and as the whole realm knows you to be a gallant, perhaps you might grant a wild but loyal subject the boon of an occasion here at court to form an attachment.”
Occasion.
The word turned over in Isla’s mind. What she indeed required was time, and a far better selection of potential husbands than the rotten weasels on offer in this chamber.
A grand feast? No. Too short.
Accompanying the king and queen on a royal progress? No. Too costly.
A tourney?
Isla’s heart leaped. Such an event would bring together many men. Strong, salt of the earth warriors who might even admire her gift with a sword. In that group, surely at least one with a good and faithful heart. And skilled at bedsport…
She took a deep breath. “Your Grace, I humbly suggest a tourney.”
Gasps echoed around the presence chamber. The stares of the courtiers grew even more disapproving. Yet Lady Janet winked and the king looked…interested.
“A tourney?” he mused as he adjusted his heavy purple mantle. “Go on.”
“If it pleases you,” Isla said slowly. “Send word to the four corners of Scotland that a great royal tourney is to be held. All who enter must be of suitable rank, with a squire to assist. The prize would be…my hand in marriage and all that entails.”
Silence greeted her announcement, surely the longest in history. But with her entire future at stake, she forced her gaze to remain on the king.