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behind her, she exhaled. The cobblestones had recently been cleaned of debris.
    She gripped her father’s arm tighter when two pages opened the heavy double doors. Much warmer than the outside air, the Chapel of Michael the Archangel was packed shoulder to shoulder with people, all watching her cross the threshold. Rays of light streamed in from the stained-glass windows that lined the far wall.
    With the change in light, Margaret couldn’t focus. Blindly, she leaned on Father’s arm while he escorted her through the throng. Too crowded—the sickly odors of humanity mixed with heady perfumed oils turned her stomach. Clammy heat prickled her skin. She looked back. People swallowed the path to the door. Margaret had nowhere to run.
    Her heels clicked the floorboards, loud as a blaring trumpet. Courtiers parted, her train skimmed the wood as she walked. That’s right, the maid was instructed to drop it once I stepped across the threshold .
    Finery surrounded her. Every guest clad in rich velvets and silks, adorned with sparkling rubies and garish jewelry. She scanned the faces ahead and gasped. Father was leading her straight up to the king and queen’s thrones, set high upon a dais at the rear of the chapel.
    Margaret glanced toward the altar, straining for a peek at Lord Glenorchy, but the crowd blocked her view. Upon the platform, they stopped before the royal thrones. She curtseyed deeply, and Father bowed.
    The royal couple were dressed in rich gold velvet, adorned with red silk and ermine collars. The queen wore a gold embroidered hennin, more garish than the one atop Margaret’s head. The regal woman smiled with brightly rouged lips.
    With giant rings on his fingers, the king raised his hands and gave her an approving nod. What else would he do? Take one look at her and decide his earlier judgment had been ill conceived? Margaret almost wished he had.
    “Let the wedding begin,” King James boomed in a deep, authoritative voice.
    When she turned, Margaret saw him. She couldn’t make out his face beneath his helm, but a tall, broad-shouldered warrior stood beside the priest. Lord Colin Campbell waited at the far end of the chapel. An enormous, looming presence, he wore a coat of blackened ceremonial armor with a red cloak attached at his shoulders. If she weren’t terrified, and if this man weren’t about to marry her sight unseen, she might admire the craftsmanship.
    ’Tis said armor maketh the warrior .
    Father tugged Margaret’s arm, and they continued down the center of the parting crowd under the scrutiny of all eyes. As they neared, Margaret stared at Lord Glenorchy’s breastplate. It was emblazoned with a square cross—the same one she’d seen on the knight’s tunic at the fete yesterday.
    She risked a glance at his face.
    Gasp .
    He was staring at her with a stunned expression. Her stomach turned inside out. It was the same dun-haired, brown-eyed knight from the market. Oh, praises, he’s not a toothless, grey-haired miser. Goodness, at the fete he’d been so agreeable, so pleasant. How could the man standing beside the priest be Black Colin of Rome?
    They strolled past her beaming mother, and Father stopped. Margaret craned her neck and regarded the man who in the coming minutes would become her husband. His shocked expression had been replaced with a cool gaze, his lips thinning. Did she displease him?
    If she could dive behind her mother’s skirts, she would. Holy Mary, Mother of God, help me .
    Father took her right hand and placed it in the knight’s palm. Fingers covered with cold iron gauntlets closed around hers. He gave her a clipped nod, and they turned to face the priest. Margaret tried to watch Colin out the corner of her eye, but her vision was blocked by her veil. There was certainly no emotion flowing from his icy finger armor.
    The priest, clad in long black robes, chanted the ceremony in Latin. Trembling, Margaret closed her eyes and tried to concentrate on the foreign words.