Highland Heartbreakers: Highlander Series Starters, Volume One

by Paula Quinn

  Alex didn’t dare ask what had become of the traitor.

  While MacAedh conversed with some of the other Highlanders, Alex wandered a short distance from the noisy throng of animals. From the hilltop, he had an expansive view of Inverness, an ancient settlement that was the capital of the former Pictish kingdom of Fortrui.

  As he gazed down at the river snaking below, he could almost see the shadowy water beast that Saint Columba had banished to the depths of the River Ness centuries ago. When word of that miracle had spread to King Bridei, the king of the Picts had been so impressed that he’d sanctioned the establishment of monasteries throughout his entire kingdom. Alex’s own Portmahomack had been one of the earliest of these. Once Columba established that foothold for Christianity, it quickly spread across the land, though remnants of Paganism still remained.

  Alex spotted a flock of seagulls circling over some fishing boats, no doubt looking to steal their catch. He’d had much personal experience with such winged thieves while fishing the Tarbat Ness. He wondered if he’d ever return to that place he’d once called home. He’d grown up there, but now he felt nothing for the monastery, not the slightest pang of homesickness, or regret for leaving.

  Sibylla had asked if he believed in fate. Was it Divine Providence that had brought him to this very place where a king had been slain? Had MacBeth himself stood in this same spot contemplating the regicide of King Duncan? Generations of blood had flowed following that heinous act. His own ancestors had also shed the blood of kings. Had their actions been inspired by idealism or avarice? Were they heroes or assassins? Did the bloodlust of generations past pulse in his own veins? Was he destined to avenge his father?

  Alex glanced back to where MacAedh stood as the last of the livestock entered the pens. His expression was tense as he exchanged words with the king’s agent, who’d been marking the head counts in a ledger. Growing concerned, Alex briskly made his way back.

  “Where are the rest?” the man demanded of MacAedh.

  “The rest?” MacAedh asked. “I brought all that I owe—thirty cows with new calves, two prime young bullocks, fifty sheep, and twenty goats—all from Kilmuir.”

  “And how many men did ye bring?” the man asked.

  Alex’s skin prickled with alarm.

  “Six accompanied me,” MacAedh replied tightly.

  “Then yer six will remain and enter the king’s service.”

  MacAedh’s expression darkened. “I am only required to provide men in times of war.”

  “On the contrary. Ye are required to serve yer king in whatever capacity he deems necessary. The king’s heir was assassinated. His majesty considers this a time of heightened threat. He requires men to deal with that threat.”

  MacAedh stepped back with a mocking laugh. “So ye would conscript a one-eyed man, a monk, and four drovers who are barely off their máthairs’ teat? Is this the great Cenn Mór’s army?”

  The agent nodded to a nearby Norman soldier. “Captain De La Fontaine will be the judge of yer men.”

  “Nae,” MacAedh looked to the Norman solider with a shake of his head. “As Thane of Kilmuir it is my right and my privilege to appeal directly to the Chief Justiciar. He, alone, will decide this matter.”

  The agent looked from MacAedh to the Norman captain, then to the group of silent and watchful Highlanders, as if weighing the consequences of forcing MacAedh to give up his kinsmen.

  “Very well,” he stood down with a reluctant glower. “The Chief Justiciar has been summoned to court at Dunfermline on the king’s business. If ye insist on this appeal, ye must go to him there.”

  MacAedh turned to Alex with a triumphant smirk. “Brother Alexander, it seems we will be obliged to pay our most humble respects to the king.”

  “Nae,” the agent replied. “The monk will remain here at Inverness Castle with yer other men.”

  “He is nae one of my men,” MacAedh quickly retorted. “Brother Alexander is from Portmahomack Monastery and carries an important message for the Bishop of Dunkeld. He only joined our party for protection on the road. I would think twice before detaining him if I were ye.”

  “Is this true?” the man demanded.

  Unaccustomed to falsehoods, Alex opted for some semblance of truth. “I am, indeed, bound for Dunkeld Abbey.” When they arrived at Dunkeld, he would simply pay his respects to the bishop and seek out Father Gregor. No one would be the wiser.

  “Then ye may be doubly assured of safe escort,” the man replied. “Captain De La Fontaine and his men will accompany ye there.”

  Alex was rigid with tension as he and MacAedh departed Inverness flanked by armed soldiers. MacAedh appeared equally uneasy, but resolute. Were the soldiers merely escorts or jailors? It was impossible to know. MacAedh had been stripped of arms, but Alex, in his monk’s robes, was respectfully left unmolested. He was glad he’d followed his instincts and tonsured himself.

  Accustomed to hard riding, the soldiers set a jolting pace, conversing almost exclusively in Anglo-Norman, and virtually ignoring Alex and MacAedh. Although he recognized their tongue, Alex could only decipher scattered words, mostly derisive remarks about savage Scots.

  The few times they deigned to address MacAedh, they employed Latin and used Alexander to translate. Alex’s assumed role as translator also gave him the excuse to remain close to MacAedh, although he was certain, given the extensive library at Kilmuir, that MacAedh had a solid knowledge of Latin. Feigning ignorance, however, was seemingly part of his strategy.

  “What is yer intention once we arrive?” MacAedh asked after a time. “I ne’er believed for a moment that ’twas solely for my benefit that ye volunteered to accompany me.”

  “Do ye nae fear the guards will hear us?” Alex murmured.

  MacAedh looked to their escort with a snort. “They may as well be deaf. None of them ken a word of the Gaelic. ’Tis a barbaric tongue to their ears and beneath them to learn.”

  “I intend to make some inquiries about my family,” Alex answered lowly.

  “Ye realize the danger ye court should the king discover who ye are?”

  “Aye,” Alex said. “But ’tis a risk I must take. I need answers. If my faither was murdered, I will have justice one way or another.”

  “Yer uncle betrayed my brother as well,” MacAedh replied. “He has much to answer for. I dinna ken what is to come,” MacAedh said after another long silence. “The Normans already think that ye only act as translator. Mayhap when we arrive, ’twould be best if ye deny any previous association with me.”

  “I could nae do it,” Alex said, reminded at once of the weak disciple who thrice denied the Christ.

  “If it goes badly with the king, ye must be free to return to Kilmuir.”

  “But I couldna abandon ye,” Alex protested.

  “Ye must,” MacAedh replied grimly. “I count on ye to warn the others of what is to come. Domnall must be ready to act.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  After three agonizing days of hard riding, Alex and MacAedh arrived at Dunkeld Abbey, only to be informed that the bishop, and presumably Father Gregor with him, had been summoned to a meeting of the clergy at Dunfermline. It was another fortuitous turn that provided Alex the perfect excuse to continue onward with MacAedh.

  When they approached the palace gates, the soldiers pulled up their horses and indicated for Alex and MacAedh to dismount. Alex hit the ground with a stumble, feeling as if his entire body had suffered the rack.

  While the soldiers laughed, MacAedh murmured a warning beneath his breath. “Dinna forget, ye are here only to act as translator, Alexander.”

  “Who are these men?” the gatekeeper inquired in Anglo-Norman. “And what is their business?”

  “The dark one is Thane of Kilmuir,” Captain De La Fontaine answered. “He seeks an audience with the Chief Justiciar, and the monk carries a message for Faither Gregor of Portmahomack.”

  “The Chief Justiciar is away on the king’s business,” the gatekeeper replied. />
  Captain De La Fontaine looked expectantly to Alex. “Tell him,” he jerked his head to indicate MacAedh.

  Alex once more went through the motions of translating the remark into Gaelic.

  “Nae,” MacAedh hook his thumbs in his belt and responded with a scowl. “If the Chief Justiciar will nae hear my case, I demand to be heard by the king himself.”

  “Very well,” the guard replied after Alex conveyed MacAedh’s response. “Ye will both be guests of the abbey… until the king’s pleasure.”

  With a growing sense of apprehension, Alex followed the soldiers through the castle gate. Inside the heavily-fortified walls was a veritable maze of buildings thronging with people. Dunfermline, the most favored of the royal residences, was the largest, most imposing complex Alexander had ever beheld. Surrounded by seemingly impenetrable walls of thick, smooth sandstone, it was both fortification, place of worship, and Royal Palace—a burgh unto itself. The compound was also teeming with street vendors hawking everything from meat pies to stocking garters.

  “I’ve ne’er seen so many people in one place,” Alex remarked, adding dryly, “or experienced such a smell.” The olfactory onslaught comprised a mixture of livestock, fish, baked goods and raw sewage. “Have ye been to court before?” Alex asked.

  “Nae,” MacAedh replied, looking just as out of his element as Alex felt. “I have ne’er been south of Inverness.”

  As they moved through the crowds, Alex compulsively scanned every face that he passed. It had been many years. Would he even recognize his kinsman if he saw him? Somehow he was certain that he would.

  “He will nae be here,” MacAedh stated, as if reading his mind. “The earl will surely be safely ensconced in the king’s solar.”

  “Safely?” Alex prompted elaboration.

  “Aye,” MacAedh added in a low tone. “Eachann of Mearns is no more loved by the Scots than is his master the king. ’Tis said he hardly dares to venture north of the Firth of Forth without a full guarde de corps.”

  A moment later, they encountered a cluster of laughing men speaking a peculiar dialect of Gaelic. Since their arrival, he’d heard nothing but Anglo-Norman and Latin spoken.

  Alex froze.

  In the center of the group was an unmistakable figure. Tall and blonde with his signature swagger, was the unmistakable figure of Ranald of the Isles. What the de’il was Ranald doing at court? Alex quickly averted his face, lest he be recognized.

  “What is it, lad?” MacAedh asked with a look of concern.

  “I saw Ranald amongst those men.”

  MacAedh’s brow furrowed. “Are ye certain?”

  “Aye,” Alex said. “Verra certain. I thought he returned to Kintyre. What do ye suppose he does here? Do ye think Somerled sent him?”

  “Unlikely.” MacAedh’s frown deepened. “I think he plays a double game. But the question is whether he was sent by Somerled or if he acts for his own benefit.”

  “Mayhap he intends to sell his support to the highest bidder?” Alex suggested.

  “Or, mayhap, he betrays his own kinsman,” MacAedh countered. “Whichever it is, I intend to find out.”

  “How?” Alex asked.

  “We must first discover who he meets with,” MacAedh replied. “And his motives will surely unfold.”

  They had no more opportunity for discussion. The soldiers prodded them to follow a procession of monks toward the far end of the compound where a bell tower identified the cathedral and abbey.

  Dunfermline Abbey was a complex of Romanesque proportions that stood in stark contrast to the humble cluster of thatched wattle and daub structures that comprised Portmahomack.

  Nearly dumbstruck with wonderment, Alex took in the details and intricate craftsmanship of the cathedral. The alabaster windows that had been the pride of the old chapel on the Tarbat Ness were nothing compared to the awe-inspiring stained-glass depicting Christ’s passion. The windows alone were truly a work of art, but the structure itself revealed much of David Cenn Mór’s character. Did he truly believe that grandiose cathedrals with elaborate stained-glass windows would atone for shedding the blood of his own countrymen?

  An ungentle push from the captain jolted him forward again. After progressing through seemingly miles of low arched warrens, they arrived at an antechamber outside the bishop’s quarters.

  “I am Brother Alexander, come to speak with Faither Gregor, Abbot of Portmahomack,” Alex volunteered in Latin. “Is he here?”

  “Aye. But he is in an important meeting of the bishops and abbots. I do nae ken how long they will be,” a young monk, close to Alex’s own age answered. “I am Brother Aubert, Assistant Prior of the Abbey,” he introduced himself. “It will be my privilege to attend to yer needs.”

  “The monk is free to leave at his pleasure,” the captain said. “But this man,” he indicated MacAedh with a dark look. “Must be detained until summoned by the king. I will leave a guard for his chamber.”

  “So I am to be a prisoner?” MacAedh growled.

  His tone and expression seemingly required no translation.

  “Ye are a guest of the crown.” The captain added with a sly smile. “For the nonce.”

  *

  Several hours passed before Alex was summoned to the abbot’s chambers where Father Gregor sat with the Bishop of Dunfermline. Upon entering the chamber, Alex was, once more, struck by the opulence that so starkly contrasted with the cramped and Spartan space that Father Gregor claimed at Portmahomack. This room was spacious, well-lit with expensive wax tapers, rather than rush lights. In place of the faded face of Saint Columba, the benign smile of the Virgin Mother stared down on him from the tapestry on the wall.

  Alexander dropped one knee to the flagstone for the customary show of obeisance.

  “Alexander?” Father Gregor acknowledged him with drawn brows. “How is it that ye come to be at Dunfermline?”

  “I accompanied the Thane of Kilmuir,” Alex stated for the bishop’s edification. “He has requested an audience with the king.”

  “The king is only recently risen from his sickbed,” the bishop remarked.

  “Then he has recovered?” Alex asked.

  “He is considerably weakened and in danger of a relapse,” the bishop answered. “His physicians have voiced the strongest protest against his conducting crown business, but the king is resolute that certain matters be quickly settled.”

  Alex wondered what weighed so heavily on the king that he would go against his physician’s advice, but knew it was not his place to ask.

  “Come and warm yourself,” the bishop beckoned Alexander toward a wooden bench positioned invitingly by the blazing hearth.

  “I would nae impose, yer Excellency. I only seek a brief word with Faither Gregor.”

  The bishop inclined his head. “Of course, my son. Ye and Faither Gregor may make free use of my chambers.”

  “Ye are most generous, Excellency,” Father Gregor replied, “But my old bones grow stiff. I think I should avail myself of a walk in the courtyard. Come Brother Alexander,” Father Gregor urged. “I would show ye the splendid reflecting pool that has recently been constructed in honor of Saint Margaret.”

  “I would much like that, Faither,” Alex replied.

  With his cowl raised and eyes averted to the ground, Alex accompanied Father Gregor to the reflecting pool at the abbey’s center, a quiet place where they could be readily observed but not overheard. Alex was certain this was exactly why the old priest had led him here.

  “Now that we are at a place where there are fewer eyes and ears, let us speak plainly,” Father Gregor said. “I would first ask how ye come to be tonsured? Have ye committed to taking the vows?”

  “Nae,” Alex replied. “I have made no decision as yet but, given the circumstances, I thought it best to make myself inconspicuous.”

  “Aye.” The priest nodded. “’Twas best. These are, indeed, dangerous times.”

  “How so?” Alex asked.

  “The king
is said to be gravely ill and greatly fears for his legacy should he nae recover. He has sent the Earl of Fife to retrieve Prince Malcolm from Cumberland. He wants the princeling close by in the event of his passing.”

  “Does he have reason for his uneasiness?” Alex asked.

  “Aye. Although Prince Malcolm is his declared heir, there is already much dissent amongst the king’s advisors. The Earl of Fife supports Malcolm, but Eachann of Mearns has pressed for William of Egremont, the son of William Fitz Duncan.”

  “Domnall’s half-brother?” Alex remarked in surprise. “He canna be much older than Malcolm.”

  “He is nae older,” the priest replied. “Which is precisely why Eachann supports him.”

  “I dinna understand,” Alex said. “Why would he nae support Domnall Mac William?”

  “The king doesna acknowledge Domnall’s legitimacy. Besides, Domnall is of an age to rule for himself, while the others two are mere lads who would be in need of a regent. This, of course, has caused much speculation amongst the bishops as to who would truly rule Scotland.”

  “So my uncle is amongst those who contend for power?”

  “Aye. He and the Earl of Fife are bitter rivals for the king’s ear,” the priest replied. “There is also a Breton knight called Fitz Alan that the king favors, and recently named High Steward.”

  Alex could only hope that MacAedh would be given direct access to the king. Otherwise, his mission was surely doomed to failure.

  “If MacAedh has come to court in support of his nephew,” the priest continued, “his mission is timely, but perilous.”

  “Perilous?” Alex latched on to the word. “In what way?”

  “Those who vie for the regency will have no scruples about eliminating rivals.” The priest added with a meaningful look, “As ye well ken, some men will do terrible things in their lust for power. Whatever happens, it canna end well.”

  “Ye think ’twill come to blood?” Alex asked.

  “Aye,” the priest replied. He paused to gaze into the reflecting pool. “But the question is whose blood?”