by Paula Quinn
After several minutes Ailis finished her handiwork and held it out for inspection. “Sit up,” Ailis commanded and placed the garland on Sibylla’s head. She regarded her with an appreciative nod. “Yellow suits ye. It brings out the gold in yer hair.”
Ailis then unraveled her own long, dark plait to extract the blue ribbon which she wove into a second crown that she settled on her own head. With her porcelain skin and crystal blue eyes, she resembled a woodland fairy. “Now for the charm.”
Joining hands, they shut their eyes and repeated the ancient Druid ritual they’d practiced since early girlhood. “Oh wondrous herb, will ye tell me this night if the coming year shall make me a bride?”
“Do ye think ’twill work this time?” Ailis asked.
Sibylla shrugged. “It ne’er has before.”
Sibylla wasn’t sure how much she believed in the old magic and superstitions, but Ailis clung tightly to the old traditions, feeling it was all they had left of their lost heritage. It was their mutual grandmother, Olith, who had taught them the healing properties of plants, as well as their mystic lore, knowledge that had been passed down from woman to woman through the generations. The prayers and charms that mixed Christian and Pagan beliefs were part of many Pictish rituals that Ailis adamantly insisted they continue. Not that Sibylla minded. Since her father’s death, she’d embraced the old beliefs and traditions held by her mother’s family.
“But we were only girls before,” Ailis said. “’Tis different now.”
“Different how?” Sibylla asked, still skeptical.
“We’re older and ready to take a husband. Here.” She handed Sibylla a sprig of vervein. “Place this under yer pillow tonight and mayhap ye’ll receive a vision of who ye will wed.”
Sibylla accepted the flower with a cynical shake of her head. “I dinna ken yer hurry to shackle yerself to a man,” she said. “I intend to wait at least two more years.”
“Aye?” Ailis challenged. “Do ye really think ye’ll just be able to snap yer fingers and get whichever man ye want when ye finally decide?”
“How hard can it be?” Sibylla asked. While most young women her age were fixated on the idea, Sibylla had little desire to wed. Though there were many braw young men who surrounded her uncle, none had ever sparked her interest.
“How many have kissed ye?” Ailis asked.
“Well none… yet,” Sibylla replied, “but only because I havena really wanted to be kissed. What makes ye such an expert anyway?” she challenged. “Have ye ever been kissed?”
“Aye,” Ailis answered with a dreamy smile. “I’ve been kissed.”
“Ye have?” Sibylla felt a tiny stab of envy. It seemed so unfair! Then again, maybe Ailis was just trying to make her envious. “Who was it that kissed ye?” she asked.
“I dinna care to say.”
“Why nae?” Sibylla asked, immediately curious.
Ailis averted her face with a sniff. “Because he hasna done it since.”
“Then mayhap ’twas nae a good kiss,” Sibylla teasingly suggested. “Maybe ye need more practice at it?”
“Tis hardly a thing ye can do by yerself!” Ailis protested.
“Then ye should look for someone to help ye.”
“Nae!” Ailis waved away the suggestion with a snort. “There be no one else I wish to kiss.”
Ailis was growing perturbed, but Sibylla wasn’t at all ready to drop the subject. Who had Ailis kissed? And who could be persuaded to kiss Ailis again? She tapped her chin in thought. ’Twould have to be someone she could trust. “Domnall!” she declared. “My brother will surely teach ye! I hear he’s had much experience kissing the lasses.”
“Aye.” Ailis snatched the floral wreath from her head with a sob. “Just nae with me!”
Sibylla’s jaw dropped. “Domnall? ’Twas my brother that kissed ye? When?”
“Last Yuletide.”
“Did he speak of marriage when he kissed ye?” She doubted it very much.
Domnall might dally with a lass as any braw young warrior was wont to do, but he had no serious intent. His mind was fixed on only one thing—righting the wrong their father had done him.
Ailis looked away. “I dinna want to talk about it anymore.” She then snatched up her basket and stormed off toward the castle.
Sibylla watched her departure with a sigh. All this time, she’d had no idea that her cousin had fixed her marital interest on Domnall. Shame on him for toying with her! At least ’twas only a harmless kiss between them—or—was there perhaps a reason Ailis had her mind on marriage?
Surely Domnall hadn’t… Sibylla was quick to shake off the thought. Her brother would never be so callous as to dishonor Ailis. At least not the brother she’d always known. Then again, he’d changed much over the past few months. He was restless, easily agitated, and often disappeared for days at a time. He also spent almost all of his waking hours in sword training. She prayed he didn’t plot something dangerous.
Vowing to have a strong word with her brother, Sibylla rose and shook out her grass-covered plaid. She then took up her own basket, gazed one last time at the shimmering waters of the Cromarty and Beauly Firths, and headed toward the wooded path that led back home.
As she approached the outer gates, Sibylla noticed a group of distant riders down the road. There were at least six of them, but they were too far away to identify. Were they kinsmen come to celebrate the Midsummer feast? Or, her chest tightened, could they be soldiers coming again to recruit and pillage? She shuddered at the memory.
Hugging her basket to her chest, Sibylla sprinted through the gate, her bare feet slapping the wooden planks as she crossed the bridge. She first looked for her uncle and brother but they were nowhere about. She then headed to the still room where she hoped to find her mother.
“What’s amiss?” her mother asked with a look of alarm.
“Riders,” Sibylla replied breathlessly. “Are we expecting anyone?”
Her mother rose with a frown. “How many?”
“Six? Maybe more?” Sibylla suggested.
The frown between her mother’s brows subtly softened. “Tis nae likely king’s men. They ne’er travel in Moray so light in number. They wouldna dare. ’Tis likely yer uncle returning with the new tutor.”
“A tutor?” Sibylla remarked in surprise. “For whom?”
“Mainly for Domnall,” her mother replied. “Yer uncle departed early this morn for the monastery at Portmahomack.”
Sibylla wrinkled her nose. “He’s bringing a monk to Kilmuir to school my brother?”
“Aye, but little good ’twill do. Domnall wasna inclined to studies even as a lad.”
Sibylla wondered why nothing had been said before about the tutor. Then again, her uncle often made unilateral decisions. It was one of many things Domnall was growing to resent. Though MacAedh intended only to guide him, Domnall was already chafing at the bit. How much longer would her uncle be able to keep Domnall under his thumb?
Her mother yanked off her apron. “Whoever ’tis, we’re hardly presentable to receive anyone. Off with ye now to clean yerself up, and then we’ll go to greet them.”
*
Seated as he was on the back of the horse, Alex had to fight to stay balanced. Except for Domnall who remained stiff, silent, and sullen in front of him, Alex’s other traveling companions carried on a robust exchange, peppered with taunts, lewd remarks, and laughter. Although he only caught short snatches of the dialogue, he nevertheless found their camaraderie contagious. The group of boisterous men was so unlike the monks he was accustomed to that, soon, Alex’s feelings of anxiety were supplanted by a strange sense of expectancy.
Alex soon lost himself in the changing scenery. They traveled southwest, skirting the peninsula before heading inland. The familiar rocky coastline had gradually transformed to a more pastoral scene of rolling heather-covered hills and verdant meadows with grazing sheep and cattle.
As the entourage continued their steady trek, the crofts bega
n to appear more frequently and in closer proximity to one another. The tangy air he was accustomed to was now scented subtly of heather, peat smoke, and horse sweat.
The cottagers they passed smiled and waved in recognition of their thane. Their reaction to the man eased Alex’s lingering uncertainties. MacAedh was both respected and liked by his people.
After a time, a castle came into view, a tall, proud, rectangular structure of native sandstone that commanded a strategic view of the Moray Firth. MacAedh pulled up and pointed. “’Tis Castle Kilmuir, one of the ancestral homes to the Mormaers of Moray.”
“Is that where we’re going?” Alexander asked.
“Aye. ’Tis yer new home.”
The horses whinnied and broke into a brisk trot, as if they recognized home and knew oats awaited them.
At their approach, the gatehouse opened. They entered to a hum of activity inside the defensive walls—the strike of a hammer on an anvil, the bleating of sheep, the laugher of children who darted forth to greet their kinsmen. The red-bearded giant named Fergus slid down from his mount to scoop up a pair of giggling copper-headed twins that he set on the back of his horse.
This happy chaos was a whole different world compared to the controlled calm of the monastery. The scene also invoked an aching reminiscence of his almost forgotten childhood at Fettercairn, a place he hadn’t thought of in over a decade.
Alex slid from the horse and turned to find himself facing a pair of large sea green eyes that examined him with slow scrutiny. “Are ye the new tutor? Ye dinna look like a tutor.”
Alex was momentarily taken aback by both the girl and her comments. “Nae?” he replied. “What is a tutor supposed to look like?”
Her delicate brow wrinkled. “Old, I suppose. And stern. Ye dinna look verra stern nor are ye much older than Domnall and me.” She spoke the name of MacAedh’s nephew with easy familiarity. Who was she?
“And ye are?” he prompted when no introduction came.
“The Lady Sibylla,” she offered with a quick flash of white teeth and a mock curtsey. “Domnall’s sister, of course.” She wrinkled her nose. “If ye are a monk, why havena ye a shaved head? What should we call ye?”
Alex was, once more, flummoxed by the bombardment of questions. Were all females such infernally inquisitive creatures? He realized he wasn’t acquainted with enough of them to know. “I havena taken my vows… yet,” he answered carefully. “And ye can call me by my Christian name, Alexander.”
“Do ye intend to take the vows then?” she asked, eying him with open curiosity.
“I think so,” he replied, surprised once more that she’d venture onto such personal ground. “But Faither Gregor, the abbot of Portmahomack, thinks I should wait awhile. ’Tis why I’ve come here.”
“Aye? Why is that?”
“Because vows to the kirk are much like a marriage and nae to be entered into lightly,” he explained.
“Och. I suppose that makes sense.” She flashed a dimpled smile. “Welcome to Kilmuir. I hope ye will like it here.” With that, she flounced off to greet her brother, leaving Alexander feeling dazed by the exuberant exchange.
“I’m Ailis.” Another female stepped forward to greet him. “Pay no heed to Sibylla. She doesna mean to be rude. She just speaks her mind too quickly.”
He shook his head. “I dinna think her rude.” In truth, he didn’t yet know what to think of her.
“Ye’re just too good to say so,” Ailis replied. “Would ye like me to show ye around? Where are yer things?”
Alexander pulled the small plaid-wrapped bundle from his back. “Here.”
“That is all ye have?” she asked with a surprised look.
“’Tis all I need,” Alexander replied. “My life is a simple one.”
“Was,” she corrected with a grin. “Ye’ll soon find nothing is simple with the MacAedhs of Kilmuir.”
Chapter Three
“What do ye think of the new tutor,” Sibylla asked, keeping her tone casual, as she began carding the pile of newly-shorn wool. Though she hated to admit it, Alexander had become an object of the greatest curiosity to her. He was so unlike the men of Kilmuir with slate gray eyes as solemn and as unreadable as her uncle’s library.
“He’s younger than I thought he would be,” Ailis remarked, her nimble fingers working the spindle to form the combed wool into fine thread.
“Aye. I thought the same. Do ye think him comely?” Sibylla asked.
“I suppose so,” Ailis paused, then added with a mocking grin, “if ye like a man with a chin as smooth as a bairn’s bottom.”
“But monks canna wear beards,” Sibylla protested. “’Tis forbidden.”
Sibylla’s mother looked up from her spinning. “Are ye sweet on the tutor, Sibylla? I dinna think monks are allowed to wed either.”
“He hasna taken holy orders yet,” she said. “And I’m nae sweet on him… He’s just different from the others, ’tis all.”
“Aye. He’s different a’ right,” her mother, Gruaid, remarked. “Since he arrived, he’s scarce left his room except at meal time. ’Tis nae seemly for a young man to bury himself all the time in books.”
While the other men always seemed like restless animals whenever circumstances confined them indoors, Alexander, on the contrary, rarely ventured out of his rooms. The only times he left his chamber were for meals and prayer. She’d espied him every sunrise and sunset, a darkly cloaked shadow crossing the courtyard to the chapel. What did he do in there for hours at a time? Did he really prefer his solitude to their company or did he feel like an outsider here? Highlanders were known for embracing strangers. Had they been derelict in their hospitality? Had they not given him a proper welcome?
“Mayhap Domnall can take him hunting?” Ailis suggested.
“I think he doesna like to hunt,” her mother remarked, biting off a thread from the spool. “He’s ne’er gone with the lads.”
“Probably because he eats no meat,” Sibylla said.
“Ne’er the meat?” Ailis remarked in surprise.
“Nae,” Sibylla answered. “Have ye nae taken notice? He eats only bread, fish, and vegetables.” She’d studied him well, covertly of course.
“’Tis his upbringing with the monks,” her grandmother, Olith, remarked. “They have peculiar notions about the eating of flesh.”
“But he’s nae at the monastery anymore,” Sibylla said. “Why canna he live like us?” Why would such a young man desire such a dull life?”
“I dinna ken his mind, Sibylla,” her grandmother replied with a shrug.
Sibylla ran her fingers idly over the soft clump of combed wool. “’Tis a fine spring day. Since he eats fish, mayhap he could be coaxed to catch some?”
“If ye think to take him to the burn, ye’d best bring Domnall,” her mother said.
Sibylla huffed. “But Domnall doesna have the patience to fish.”
“Nevertheless, ye canna go alone with a young man,” she warned.
“But he’s a monk!” Sibylla laughed.
“Not yet,” her mother said. “He’s first a young man and ye are now come into womanhood. Nature can be a formidable force when the sexes mix.”
“Then Ailis or Fiona will come with us,” Sibylla said.
“But I dinna like to bait the hooks!” Fiona protested with a shudder.
Sibylla huffed an impatient sigh. “Verra well, I’ll bait yer hook, and I’ll even take the fish off—if ye manage to catch one.”
“What if he doesna want to go fishing?” Ailis asked after a time. “How do ye think to coax him?”
“I dinna yet ken,” Sibylla replied, adding with a grin, “but I’ll think of something.”
“Ye’ll go nowhere until yer work is done,” her mother said. “There are yet three bins of wool to card.”
“A’right,” Sibylla reluctantly acquiesced and set her hands back to her task.
It had taken the men several days to shear all the sheep and now the women’s work of spinning a
nd weaving had begun. Sibylla found the work tedious, but Ailis, like her mother and grandmother, was becoming an artist at spinning and weaving. It still amazed Sibylla that her blind grandmother could still spin the finest thread.
Although she kept her fingers busy, it wasn’t long before her mind wandered back to Alexander. His black tunics were coarse and worn nearly threadbare. Many of the clan would need new plaids for the coming winter, perhaps she and Ailis could make one for him also. Would he accept the gift, or might it offend him? She really didn’t know him well enough to guess. But it was well past time she learned more about the curious stranger who’d come to stay.
*
Alex impatiently paced his chamber. It was nearly an hour past the appointed lesson time and Domnall had yet to show his face. He was growing increasingly frustrated that his first trial outside of the monastery was already a failure. He’d come to Kilmuir to teach, but for the third day straight, his pupil had neither made an appearance nor sent word that he was otherwise engaged.
As yet, Alex had said nothing about it to MacAedh. He’d hoped that Domnall would come around on his own, but it was appearing more evident by the day that his optimism was misplaced. Alex scrubbed his face with his hands and groaned in defeat. Domnall had given him no choice, he must go and discuss the matter with the Thane of Kilmuir.
Just as he put his hand on the latch, a soft rap sounded on his door. Perhaps his recalcitrant pupil had decided to appear after all? Alex’s next breath stalled in his chest as he opened the door to find Lady Sibylla standing there. He couldn’t comprehend the nervous reaction he had to her. It struck him every time he saw her. Indeed, he was so disconcerted that he’d made a conscious effort to avoid her.
“Lady Sibylla? ’Tis my chamber. Y-ye shouldna be here.”
“But ye give me little choice, seein’ that ye ne’er leave it,” she replied with a smile that made his pulse leap. “I wish to speak with ye.”
“B-but ’tis nae proper for ye to come here,” he protested.
“Why nae?” she asked. “I’ve been here many times. It was once my favorite playroom. I was always fascinated with the view from here.” Ignoring his protest, she stepped past him and moved to the window.