by Paula Quinn
“My máthair?”
“Aye.” He nodded. “In the end, ’twas my sister, Gruaid, who saved the clan.”
“Ye were then the rightful heir to Moray. Why did he nae kill ye?” Domnall asked.
“I went north into hiding. I spent the next ten years waiting for the day I would kill him.”
“Once ye were old enough to lead the clan, why did ye nae?” Domnall asked MacAedh. “Surely ye must have had the chance to do so in all of that time.” Domnall said.
“Aye,” MacAedh agreed. “I had the chance. Once. But to do so would only have put yer life in danger.”
“Me?” Domnall looked puzzled.
“Aye. Ye are his blood. If I had killed Fitz Duncan, the clan would have expected me also to kill ye, but I would nae avenge myself on my sister’s son. ’Twas but a few years later, he fell in battle. Do ye see now how sometimes it behooves a man to forbear?”
“What would ye have me do, Uncle?” Domnall asked, looking considerably less sullen.
“I would ask for patience,” MacAedh said. “Cenn Mór surely kens he’s vulnerable, but dinna underestimate him. He’s held power for five and twenty years. He’s canny enough to realize that should he die leaving only a boy to rule, the kingdom would rise up in arms. The Highlanders willna accept Cenn Mór’s grandson, and the Islanders will seek to overthrow him.” MacAedh sat and steepled his fingers in thought. “If the king wishes to keep the peace and secure his legacy, he might be persuaded to designate ye as regent to the prince. Should he do so, bloodshed would surely be avoided.”
“Ye would have me as regent to the Anglo-Norman stripling?” Domnall’s eyes once more blazed. “I have as strong a claim as he!”
“Aye, but Cenn Mór will nae see it that way. The Cenn Mór was raised with the Sassenachs. We must think as he thinks.”
“How?” Domnall asked.
“When the English kings wish to control their rivals, they make hostages of their sons and raise them in their own court, eventually earning their trust and friendship. Yer own grandfather, King Duncan, spent fifteen years in England and returned as an English vassal. David as well, pledged fealty to the English until he had the strength to break with them and reclaim his independence.”
Domnall scowled. “So ye would have me pledge a false allegiance?”
“Nae. I would have ye serve the prince and quietly build yer own support amongst the earls. ’Tis the nobles who will ultimately decide who will be king. The stripling’s claim will weaken once Cenn Mór is in his grave. Patience, Nephew, nae blood, will win yer throne.”
Domnall stood, eyes alight. “I will go to the king.”
“Ye willna,” MacAedh replied. “If anyone is to seek an audience, ’twill be me.”
Domnall responded with a scowl. “Ye willna let me speak for myself?”
“Nae.” MacAedh shook his head. “Now is when ye must understand the need for caution. ’Tis possible the king will understand the benefit of such an arrangement if he wishes to unify the north and south. If so, he will respect yer birthright and try to make a bargain, but ’tis just as likely he’ll seek to eliminate the threat of a rival to the young prince. But understand this, Nephew, the moment he perceives any opposition to his grandson, he will kill ye.”
“He can try,” Domnall defiantly repeated his uncle’s earlier words.
“Nae,” MacAedh retorted. “He will succeed. Ye are too great a threat.”
“But I’m his own kinsman!” Domnall argued.
“Blood bonds have ne’er stopped a Cenn Mór before,” MacAedh replied, slanting a covert look to Alex.
In that moment, Alex knew his chance had come. He had questions about his family that only those close to the king could answer. By going to court, he would not only be able to serve MacAedh and Domnall in some small way, but he would also have the chance to make some discreet inquiries of his own.
“I would go with ye,” Alex blurted before he’d even realized he’d spoken.
“Ye?” Domnall canted his head with a dubious look. “What has any of this to do with ye?”
“How fluent is yer Latin?” Alex countered.
“I have nae command of that tongue.”
“What of yer French?” he followed.
“I have forgotten most of it,” Domnall replied.
“Then how do ye expect to communicate?” Alex asked.
Domnall responded with a sullen stare.
It was common knowledge that the king surrounded himself with Normans and priests. Few Scots were part of his inner circle, and of those few he trusted, none were Highlanders. As a monk, Alex knew he would have far better access to those close to the king than either Domnall or MacAedh.
“Alexander has a point,” MacAedh said. “The Gaelic isna spoken at court, and I trust no one there to interpret for me. I will take Alexander. As for ye,” he turned back to Domnall, “as my tanist, ye must remain here… in the event I dinna return.”
Chapter Ten
Sibylla returned to her room to find her mother and Ailis laying out their best gowns. “What is this?” she asked.
“Ye and Ailis are to wear yer finest for the feast this eve,” her mother declared.
“Why?” Sibylla demanded. Was her mother also complicit in the secret marriage scheme? She could hardly recall the last time she dressed in fine embroidered linen instead of plain homespun. Midsummer always commenced with a feast, but current activity in the castle suggested this was far more momentous than the solstice celebration.
“We have guests,” her mother answered with a dismissive shrug. “Ye must strive to make a good impression.” She eyed Sibylla with a disapproving head shake. “Ye do look a sight.” She waved impatiently to the dressing table. “Sit and I’ll fix yer hair.”
“Ouch!” Sibylla cried out as her mother yanked at a tangle. “Must ye be so rough about it?”
“I wouldna have to be if ye took more care,” her mother chided. “Do ye think to conduct yerself like a wild beast and win a husband?”
“Husband?” Sibylla hissed. “Why does everyone suddenly go on so about husbands? ’Tis tedious.”
In truth, the idea of marriage wouldn’t be half so annoying if Sibylla had any hope at all of obtaining her heart’s desire, but three days had passed since her unexpected encounter with Alexander at Cnoc Croit na Maoile. Three days followed by as many sleepless nights with Domnall’s dire threat echoing in her mind. And now the arrival of Somerled’s son had made that vague threat a looming reality.
“Tedious?” her mother repeated. “Why are ye in such an ill temper?”
“I’m nae in a temper,” Sibylla denied, then shrieked as another hunk of hair snarled in the comb. “But I’d have nae hair on my head if I let ye finish.” Sibylla turned to face her mother. In truth she’d never seen her so tense. “What is wrong, Máthair?”
Her mother tossed the comb down with a sigh. “Ye and Ailis are both of an age to wed… but I wouldna force it upon either of ye were it my decision.”
Taking up the silver comb, Sibylla began gently working at the ends of the knot. “But surely, Uncle would nae permit such a weighty matter as a betrothal without first discussing it with us.”
“Nae lass,” her mother said. “If he means to arrange a betrothal, there’s naught ye or I can say or do about it.” She looked suddenly sad. “Just as I had nothing to say in the matter of my marriage. Were ye not nobly bred, mayhap ye would have some choice, but ye have the misfortune of bearing the blood of two kings.”
“But what if I already love someone else?” Sibylla softly asked.
Her mother’s gaze flickered. “Alexander?”
“Aye,” Sibylla confessed.
“Does he return yer regard, lass?”
“I believe he does,” she replied.
“Has he spoken to MacAedh?”
“Nae,” Sibylla shook her head. “Alexander says he canna offer marriage.”
“Then ’tis a moot point. Of all men, Sibylla, why mus
t ye set yer heart on the one ye canna have?”
Sibylla considered her mother’s question. He’d made it clear that he had no thoughts of marriage but that didn’t change her feelings. “’Tis beyond my control. I didna wish to love him.” Sibylla continued even as tears threatened. “But if I canna have Alexander, I want no one.”
“Och lass,” her mother’s gaze softened with compassion. “I also loved another when I was given away in wedlock to yer faither.”
“What happened to him, the man ye loved?” Sibylla asked.
“I was told he was killed at Stracathro in the last rebellion. When I later learned that he lived, it mattered little. Our promise to one another counted for naught when compared to the needs of the clan.”
“Ye were forced to wed a man ye dinna love?”
“Aye.” She shook her head sadly. “I could ne’er love such a cold, calculating and compassionless man as William Fitz Duncan. He was a Sassenach and a soldier first and foremost. He wed me only to keep the peace in the Highlands. ’Twas a true de’il’s bargain. My only consolation was ye and Domnall. But yer faither wronged ye both.”
“He wronged ye too,” Sibylla said. She had few memories and no warm feelings for her dead father.
“I dinna mind the dishonor,” her mother replied. “I was happy to be free of him.”
“What of the man ye loved?” Sibylla asked. “Did he ever wed?”
“Aye.” Her mother’s face broke into a slow, soft smile. “He wed… me.”
“Fergus?” Sibylla gasped. She’d had no idea of the history between her mother and her stepfather, whom she’d nicknamed “the silent giant”. “He was yer first love?”
“Aye, my first and my last. He may have lost an eye in the rebellion, but he’s twice the man that William Fitz Duncan was.” She took Sibylla’s hand in hers. “Ye have a duty to yer clan, just as I had, but if ye and Alexander are truly destined to be together, it will come about. It just may be in God’s time instead of yer own.”
*
Alex had volunteered to go with MacAedh without any real consideration of his own motives, but his thoughts turned inward as he departed the great hall. He was not the same man who’d come to tutor MacAedh’s nephew. Although he didn’t have a clue what the future would bring, his heart had changed. He could no longer passively accept his lot in life, not when he finally had the opportunity to act. He was resolved to learn what had really become of his father and mother and to see justice done, one way or another.
The monks of Dunfermline served both the church and the king. They were responsible for keeping records for posterity. Might they have recorded the events following the rebellion? Such as the names of prisoners that were taken and their sentences? He might discover nothing, but it was a chance he had to take.
If he could somehow manage to gain free access to Dunfermline Abbey, he could likely also obtain access to the royal court. Under the circumstances, it was fortunate for Alex that the monastery of Portmahomack was so well known for their work. They had often received visiting priests from the Royal Palace with special commissions for the monks to fill. A letter of introduction from Father Gregor to the abbot would be an invaluable asset. He only needed to seek out Father Gregor at Dunkeld for such a letter.
His plan had begun to take shape.
Tomorrow they would drive cattle to Inverness where MacAedh would pay his feu, and from thence, they would continue south. The monastery of Dunkeld was not far out of the way. He had no doubt Father Gregor would honor his request.
He didn’t know what he might discover or where else his decision might lead him, but he was compelled to go. He needed answers that would allow him to move on with his life. He wondered if there was any chance that life might include Sibylla. He hadn’t seen her since their fateful encounter at Cnoc Croit na Maoile. Then again, he’d been much preoccupied since Father Gregor’s arrival.
Although he had little desire to join the feast tonight, this was his last chance to see her, and probably his only opportunity to say goodbye. He had little hope of speaking privately with her, but he could not take his leave of Kilmuir without bidding her farewell.
*
At her mother’s insistence, Sibylla took particular pains with her appearance that night, but perhaps not for the expected reasons. Ailis had arranged her hair in a regal coronet, crowned with ribbon and flowers, and she’d donned her best tunic of sea green with gold embroidery at the neck, sleeves and hemline. It was a modest gown, but she thought it became her well. She completed the ensemble with a brightly woven shawl.
Arriving at the feast, her gaze searched the room full of merrymakers for Alexander. Her uncle, as usual, commanded the head of the high table, surrounded by the clan elders and his laughing guests, whose cups were kept filled as they enjoyed the full bounty of their host’s hospitality. Domnall was, once more, seated beside Ranald. The two of them appeared to be thick as thieves. Her mother, Fiona, and Ailis were at the foot of the table, but Alexander was conspicuously absent.
Ranald suddenly looked her way and nudged her brother with his elbow. The two men exchanged a few words and conspiratorial looks that raised an alarm inside her. Though the hall was warm, she pulled her shawl more tightly about her as Ranald’s gaze followed her progress toward the head table. His ice blue eyes watched her far too closely.
Rather than joining them, she purposely made her way toward the foot, only to be called to the table’s head by her brother. “Sibylla! Come and sit with us. I fear our friends feel neglected by our womenfolk.”
“’Tis true,” Ranald grinned. “We have been sorely deprived of genteel company since our arrival.”
“Mayhap yer reputation precedes ye and they’ve hidden their women,” one of his men taunted.
Sibylla looked to her uncle who answered with a slight inclination of his head. Her duty was clear, but why must she act as hostess to their guests? ’Twas her mother’s normal role. Her dismay increased when she found herself seated between Domnall and Ranald. This was all clearly her brother’s design, but her uncle was also complicit. A match with Ranald was surely the kind both her uncle and brother would desire for her.
Ranald was a particularly well-made man from a powerful clan. Many a lass would fantasize about such a husband. Perhaps, she even would have favored it in other circumstances, but Sibylla’s heart yearned only for Alexander. Why had he not come to the feast? Had Domnall warned him off? Or threatened him in some way?
Straight backed and tense, Sibylla forced a smile and made inane small talk as she sipped heather ale.
“The women of the Isles are famed for their music as well as their beauty,” Ranald boasted. “Though beauty abounds at Kilmuir,” he raised his cup to Sibylla and Ailis, “I wonder if ye also have songbirds amongst ye?”
“Aye,” Domnall said, looking down the table to Ailis. “My cousin, Ailis, has both the nimblest fingers on the strings and the sweetest voice ye will ever hear. The angels in heaven weep with envy when she plays.”
“Is this so?” Ranald sat back in his chair, eyeing Ailis.
“Nae,” Ailis replied with a maidenly blush. “But I am much gratified that my cousin believes it so.”
“Tis true!” Domnall adamantly insisted.
“I say, let our guest be the judge,” MacAedh declared.
At MacAedh’s bidding, Ailis rose from the table to take her place at the clàrsach. Her movements were soft and graceful and everything that Sibylla was not. Sibylla often envied Ailis for her quiet grace. The moment she began plucking the strings, the entire hall went still. But when she began to sing a haunting Highland melody, it was as if everyone forgot to breathe.
“She is verra good, indeed,” Ranald murmured as the song ended.
“Aye,” Sibylla agreed. “Ailis has many talents.”
“Do ye also play, Lady Sibylla?” he asked, adding softly for her ear alone, “I promised I would ken yer name.”
“Nae,” she replied. “I have ne’er master
ed the instrument.”
“Then perhaps ye would favor us with a song?”
Sibylla laughed. “I would only offend yer ears—unless ye happen to find the call of ducks appealing.”
After a few cups of ale, she’d found herself beginning to relax. Ranald was a conceited and boastful man, but he didn’t lack for charm when he sought to use it.
“Surely ye are too modest.”
“Nae. I assure ye, I have no musical talent.”
“Yet yer brother sings yer praises.”
“Does he?” She turned to him with a grin. “I hope he doesna sing them too loud, for Domnall is even more tone deaf than I am.”
He laughed, a full throated chuckle. “I do like a lass with a quick wit.” He reached out to claim a lock of her hair that he gently wound around his finger. “Yer cousin indeed sings like an angel, but there are some men who prefer a bit of she-devil.”
His touch was an unexpected liberty and innuendo filled his words.
Had she encouraged this? She looked to her brother who was either oblivious or simply chose to ignore the increasing familiarity. Growing more uncomfortable, Sibylla shifted a few inches on the bench in hope of reclaiming a more decorous distance from him, but Ranald seemed equally intent on closing the gap.
Feeling trapped, Sibylla waited and watched for an opportunity to make her escape. Ranald had been drinking heavily. It was only a matter of time, before he would have to go and relieve himself. The moment he did, she would sneak away. Happily, it wasn’t long before he turned to her with a sloppy smile and a murmured excuse.
The moment he left the hall, she rose.
Domnall laid a hand on her arm. “Where are ye going?”
“I dinna feel well.”
“Ye canna leave,” Domnall scowled. “’Tis rude.”