by Paula Quinn
“The lands to the north have long troubled me. They will no doubt refuse to accept my grandson’s succession, as they once tried to reject my own. It took me ten years to quell the rebellion.”
Alex averted his gaze lest his own treacherous thoughts betray him. What did you do to my father once you captured him? he wanted to say. Was he tortured? Mutilated? Or just left to rot in prison? It took all his will to hold his tongue.
“My grandson is young and inexperienced,” the king continued. “I cannot allow them to exploit his vulnerability. I must resolve this issue of the Highlands once and for all.” The king fingered his beard with a faraway look. “The answer now comes to me… Perhaps it is possible to kill two birds with one stone?”
“Majesty?” Alex could almost see the king’s mind working as he formulated his plan.
“What is most needed in the north is a show of strength,” the king replied. “Prince Malcolm will arrive in a few days. I will send him and Fife north at the head of my army… and ye will accompany them.”
“Me?” Alex was stunned. “Surely there are others better suited,” he protested.
“There are few in my court with a command of the Gaelic,” the king replied. “Of those who do, most are old men who are not up to the rigors of extended travel. Ye, on the other hand, are young and fit, and have the advantage of knowing both the land and the tongue.”
“What, precisely, is the role ye would have me fill, Majesty?” Alex asked. Was this merely an opportunity to present the young prince to the people in a commanding role, or had the king something far more insidious in mind?
“Ye will act as interpreter and intermediary and serve as spiritual advisor,” the king replied. “Ye will also report back to me on the progress of the monasteries. Those who continue to defy me will be displaced.”
“Saint Columba taught us to seek to win a man’s heart and that his soul will surely follow,” Alex said. “To force conversion of the soul only leads to resistance.”
“Resistance?” the king roared. “Those who do so will soon find their heads adorning my castle walls! The Highlands will come into submission or they will be purified by fire and sword.”
Alex shut his eyes with a shudder on the gruesome image the king had evoked. Would he destroy innocent people without warning? It appeared he would also have no compunction.
The king’s eyes took on a calculating gleam as he continued, “And should he persist in his defiance, MacAedh of Kilmuir will be the first.”
“Ye would kill him?” Alex asked.
The king smiled. “Sometimes the shepherd must be sacrificed for the good of the flock.”
“Will ye give him benefit of clergy?” Alex asked, hoping for the chance at least to speak to MacAedh.
The king steepled his fingers. “Ye would be his confessor?” he asked at length.
“Aye,” Alex volunteered.
“I will grant ye access,” the king replied, “under the condition that ye report back to me all that he speaks.”
“But the rite of confession is sacrosanct,” Alex protested. “And meant for God’s ear alone.”
“Yet God Himself has placed me on this throne to rule the subjects of this kingdom. If I am to maintain the peace and promote prosperity, I have the right to know their thoughts.” The king speared Alex with a cold stare. “Do ye take issue with this, Brother Alexander?”
“Nae, Majesty.” Alex fully understood the message. The king expected him to act as a spy, a position surely intended as a test of loyalty.
“Should my mission succeed, ye will be well-rewarded for yer service.”
“I seek no reward,” Alex demurred.
“Commendable sentiments,” the king replied. “But no matter how pious, I have yet to find a man who would refuse a gift. I have long desired to grant a charter for an abbey and cathedral at Fortrose in Moray.”
“But Fortrose has been served by the monastery at Rosemarkie for centuries,” Alex replied.
“The monastery will be replaced,” the king replied. “The abbey of Fortrose will far surpass it in every way and will include extensive lands… it will also be in need of an abbot. Serve me well and the position could be yours.”
“Ye are most gracious,” Alex replied. “I hardly ken what to say.”
He was, indeed, speechless. The king offered an abbey and lands in Moray in exchange for his mortal soul. He’d come south with MacAedh in hopes of claiming something for his own, and now he had his chance. But how far was he willing to go to advance himself? Would he sell his allegiance to this man he’d vowed never to recognize as his sovereign? Alex felt almost as if he were making a deal with the devil himself.
The king’s thin lips curved in a cold, calculating smile. “Before I die, I will finally expunge that viper’s nest of treachery and heresy.”
*
“MacAedh has been taken prisoner,” Alex breathlessly declared.
He’d left the king with his gut churning. Was there any way out of this? But how could he refuse? MacAedh was imprisoned and the king intended to march on Moray.
“Come, lad,” Father Gregor urged him to sit. “Ye are much agitated.” He handed him a cup of wine. “Catch yer breath, take a drink, and then tell me all.”
Alex forced himself to take in a lungful of air and then blew it out in a long, slow breath. He then gulped down the wine and began again. “MacAedh petitioned the king but the king refused to consider Domnall for the regency. He then demanded that MacAedh and Domnall both swear allegiance to Prince Malcolm.”
“And MacAedh refused?”
“Aye. Now he’s a prisoner. MacAedh is at the king’s mercy… and Cenn Mór shows no inclination to be merciful. The king has threatened to use MacAedh as an example to others if he doesna swear fealty.”
“’Tis long been the practice of kings to use hostages and coercion.”
“And to kill rivals,” Alex added grimly.
“’Tis no great surprise. A man at the end of his life who believes his legacy is imperiled will do desperate things,” the priest replied.
“He does,” Alex answered. “He intends to send Prince Malcolm at the head of an army.”
The priest shook his head sadly. “Since the time of Saint Columba, ’tis been the practice of the monasteries to win the faith of the people through love and compassion. The Catholic Church has verra different methods.”
“There is more,” Alex said. “He wishes me to accompany the prince.”
Father Gregor regarded him with surprise. “Ye?”
“Why would he choose me for this?” Alex asked.
“He must believe ye would do well to act as intermediary between the prince and the peasantry.”
“But why would he trust me?” Alex asked. “He kens nothing about me.”
“Mayhap mistrust is precisely the reason,” the priest replied.
“I dinna understand.”
“Ye arrived at Dunfermline with MacAedh, which is reason enough for the king to suspect ye. David Cenn Mór is a canny creature. Mayhap, he thinks that by keeping ye close, ye can do no mischief. The prince will surely be well-guarded and ye, undoubtedly, will be just as well watched. Mayhap, there is a chance ye could win the young prince’s favor?” the priest suggested.
“But the Highlands must be warned.” Alex lurched to his feet and began stalking the tiny chamber. “I promised MacAedh I would return to Kilmuir if things didna go well.”
“Yer departure from here would be highly suspicious,” Father Gregor warned, “but mine would go quite unnoticed. I will go back to Kilmuir,” the priest volunteered.
Father Gregor was right. Alex could not leave without provoking the king.
“A’right. I will stay,” Alex surrendered with a sigh. “But ye must be certain to explain all to Sibylla. I gave her my solemn word I would return.”
“Sibylla?” The priest cocked his head. “MacAedh’s niece?”
Alex’s face heated as the old priest’s gaze registered u
nderstanding. “Does MacAedh ken?”
“Aye, but what can come of it?” Alex asked, turning his palms in a helpless gesture. “I had hoped…” He turned his face away. “But there are too many uncertainties now… too much danger.”
“Aye,” the priest agreed. “We will have need of eyes and ears at court which places ye in the worst position of all,” the priest said. “If caught, ye will, for a certainty, be tried for treason. Do ye ken the penalty, lad?”
“Aye,” Alex replied grimly. “Hanged ’til near suffocation, emasculated, and then torn asunder by four horses.”
“Do ye willingly place yerself in harm’s way?”
Alex’s survival instincts urged him to slip away with Father Gregor to the relative safety of Kilmuir. But this would do nothing to protect the people he’d come to care for—and most especially the one he’d come to love.
On the other hand, if he were to stay at Dunfermline and accompany the prince to the Highlands, he had a far better chance of bringing about a bloodless outcome than anyone else the king might send north.
His decision was clear. He had to gain the king’s confidence. Alex had no choice but to stay at court and play his own dangerous double game.
*
Several days passed before the king honored his word to permit Alex access to MacAedh. Guised as confessor, Alex entered the tiny cell guarded by two armed guards that clearly revealed his status as an important prisoner. Yet the size of the room, insufficient for a grown man to lie down in, was bereft of even Spartan comforts. He found MacAedh chained at the ankle like a wild beast sitting in a pile of dirty straw. His face was haggard, eyes darkly shadowed, and it appeared that nearly a stone had wasted from his large frame. His condition revealed much.
The king wanted him to suffer.
Filled with anguish at the sight, Alex dropped to his knees beside the Thane of Kilmuir. “Do they nae feed ye?” he asked.
“Gruel twice daily,” MacAedh replied.
“A man canna live on so little!” Alex protested.
“Ye think Cenn Mór doesna ken as much?” MacAedh said with a bitter laugh. “He doesna care whether my death comes fast or slow. He will see me dead either way.”
“Is allegiance to Domnall truly worth yer life?” Alex asked.
“’Tis nae just for Domnall,” MacAedh replied. “I will ne’er pledge fealty to the man who killed my brother.” His gaze narrowed accusingly. “How is it that ye are still here at Dunfermline? Ye promised me to return to Kilmuir!”
“I canna leave,” Alex said. “I sent Faither Gregor to Kilmuir.”
“Ye canna leave?” MacAedh repeated. “Why nae?”
“The king will nae permit it.”
MacAedh looked confused. “Ye are also a prisoner?”
“In a sense,” Alex said. “I have liberty of the palace and abbey, but I am nae free to leave Dunfermline… I have entered the king’s service.”
“Ye have done what?” MacAedh’s initial look of shock quickly transformed to rage.
“I had nae choice,” Alex said.
“Did he threaten to kill ye?”
“Nae,” Alex confessed.
“If I had kent ye would so easily turn traitor I would have killed ye myself! Get ye out of my sight, Alexander!”
MacAedh’s expression was, indeed, murderous. Though he knew MacAedh was not in a frame of mind to listen, Alex endeavored to explain his situation in a way that would not incriminate him, should anyone be eavesdropping. He knew very well that he was being watched, his movements closely monitored.
Choosing his words carefully, Alex said. “I will be leaving in a few days with the prince and the king’s army to tour the kingdom and visit the monasteries.” He paused for emphasis. “We will be gone for many weeks.”
MacAedh’s gaze became less fierce and more probing. “Many weeks? Ye go then to the Highlands?”
“Aye,” Alex said. “We will be certain to pay our respects at Kilmuir.” It was as much as Alex dared to say, but he hoped MacAedh would comprehend Alex’s true purpose.
MacAedh inclined his head in a silent show of acknowledgement.
“Have ye had a change of heart regarding the king’s demands?” Alex asked, certain his conversation was monitored.
“Hell will freeze before I pledge myself,” MacAedh replied between clenched teeth.
“He will likely kill ye first,” Alex softly warned. “If there is aught ye would like to confess, ’twould be best to do so now.”
“Since I might well be dead when ye return, I had best make my last confession.”
Performing the sign of the cross, MacAedh then shut his eyes and recited, “Forgive me, Faither, for I have sinned…”
Alex left MacAedh feeling fearful and frustrated. What if it was true? What if he returned to find his friend dead? MacAedh could very well starve to death if the king did not put him first to the sword. He felt so helpless that there was nothing he could do to free him. Domnall’s capitulation was MacAedh’s only hope. Would he come? Would he sacrifice his ambitions to save his kinsman’s life?
Chapter Sixteen
Castle Kilmuir
Nearly a sennight of anxious days and sleepless nights had passed since Ailis’ departure, with still no word from anyone. Was this the lot of a woman, always to be left waiting in uncertainty? Sibylla felt so restless… and so empty.
Her heart ached not just for Alex, but also for her stepfather, Fergus, and half-brother, Duncan. Would they be released? Or would they perish on some far away battlefield? She hated feeling so helpless.
Ailis, at least, had taken her destiny into her own hands. Only Sibylla knew the real reason she’d volunteered to go to Kintyre. She wondered if Ailis would return. Sibylla hoped that her cousin was wrong about the pregnancy, and that she could reclaim her old life at Kilmuir. But even if she returned, nothing would ever be the same.
On the morning of the thirteenth day, Sibylla went alone to Cnoc Croit na Maoile. Spreading her arisaid, she lay beneath the great oak and shut her eyes, willing herself to recall her first kiss with Alexander—a memory she’d locked away in her heart. The remembrance of it still heated her blood like a midsummer banefire.
She loved him and he’d made her a promise. But would that promise now be broken? So many unexpected things had happened—all beyond their control. Their troubles were like distant thunder, warning of the approaching storm.
She sat up and gazed down at the firth with a sigh, only to catch sight of a flicker of white, barely perceptible through the dissipating fog.
A bird or a sail?
Her heart raced as she shielded her eyes and squinted. After several breathless moments, the shape of a boat emerged. Was it just fishermen or could there finally be news from her uncle?
Sibylla’s snatched up her plaid and flew down the path. Ignoring the briars tearing at her flesh, she ran as fast as her legs could carry her. Her lungs and legs burned by the time she reached the castle gate, yet she pressed on, bolting through the bailey and scuttling down the embankment to the sea gate where, indeed, a fishing boat approached. There were two men aboard, one of whom wore the black robes of a monk.
Her heart leapt into her throat. Could it be MacAedh and Alexander?
As the vessel moored, her rising hopes were quickly dashed. She choked back tears of disappointment as they tied the vessel. The first man she didn’t recognize, and the one in the robes had the bald head and stooped form of an old man. Father Gregor?
Her steps once more quickened. Anxiously, she met him at the sea gate. “Faither, have ye news of Uncle and Alexander?”
“Aye,” he replied, “But ’tis nae good. I must speak with yer brother, Domnall, at once.”
“He is nae here,” Sibylla said.
“When do ye expect his return?” the priest asked.
“I canna say,” Sibylla answered.
“I come on a verra urgent matter,” he insisted.
“Then ye must speak with Màthair and Grandmot
her,” Sibylla replied. “Please come, both of ye, to the keep and refresh yerselves.”
Unlike their treatment of the last messenger, the women of Kilmuir did not hold back their questions until after their guests had taken their fill of food and drink. This time, Father Gregor was compelled to recount his story between sips of ale and spoonfuls of mutton stew.
“Will the king kill my brother?” her mother asked after the priest had related the tale of MacAedh’s imprisonment.
“Though the king might have ye believe it so, ’twould nae serve his purpose to kill him,” the priest replied. “So long as Domnall is free, he will try to use MacAedh to coerce Domnall to renounce his claim and swear fealty to Prince Malcolm.”
“What if Domnall refuses?” Sibylla asked. Were it in her hands, she would do all possible to save her kinsman, even if it meant begging for his life, but Domnall would never forgive the shame the king had cast upon them. Since their father’s death four years ago, Domnall had burned for the day he would reclaim what had been taken away.
“Presumably, the king will try to appease him with lands,” the priest said.
Her mother voiced Sibylla’s thoughts. “Domnall will ne’er give up his birthright without a fight.” Her brother might settle for the regency in the hope of achieving more, but he would never accept a bribe of lands and titles as their father had done. “He is even now seeking an alliance with Somerled in the event that the king refuses to acknowledge his claim.”
The priest set his cup down and stared into the fire. “If word of this alliance reaches the king, MacAedh and Domnall are both as good as dead.”
“What is to be done?” Sibylla asked.
Why didn’t her brother and uncle simply give the king what he wanted? ’Twas only words! Then again, she was a woman, not burdened with the curse of male pride. Women and men viewed the world through very different eyes. Men craved power, while women most valued protection. And at present, the men of Kilmuir were powerless and the women had no protection.