Highland Heartbreakers: Highlander Series Starters, Volume One

by Paula Quinn

  “I fear there is naught to be done,” Father Gregor replied. “The king has his spies and MacAedh is at his mercy unless Domnall bends to his will.”

  “Domnall will nae bend,” Sibylla said. “What of Alexander?” she asked. “Ye have made no mention of him. Is he also imprisoned?”

  “Nae.” The priest rubbed his bald pate with a sigh. “But ’twould be far better for him if he were.”

  “What can ye mean?” Sibylla asked.

  “Alexander has been taken into the king’s service,” the priest replied.

  “He was taken into service? Ye mean coerced?” Sibylla said.

  “He had little choice. Alexander is to accompany the young Prince Malcolm and the Earl of Fife on a tour of the Highlands. To refuse the king’s request would have aroused both the king’s displeasure and his suspicion.”

  “A tour of the Highlands?” Sibylla’s grandmother asked. “To what purpose?”

  “The king seeks to reform the monasteries. He believes we have spread heresy,” Father Gregor stated, a scowl hanging over his brow.

  “If he is sending soldiers on this Highland crusade, slaughter will follow if any resist,” the old woman said.

  “’Tis certain some will.” The priest heaved a melancholy sigh. “At the expense of martyrdom.”

  “Would ye be among them?” Sibylla quietly asked. “Those who would resist?”

  “Nae.” The old priest shook his head with a humorless laugh. “I am no martyr. I would rather step aside as abbot of Portmahomack than be burned for a heretic.”

  “Where will ye go?” Sibylla asked.

  “Dinna fret for me,” the old priest reassured. “One does nae live as long as I without learning something of the art of survival.”

  “And Alexander?” Sibylla asked. “Surely he also risks his life staying at court.”

  “Aye,” the priest agreed.

  “Then why does he do it?” Sibylla barely choked out the question. “He promised to return!”

  “He stays because he can do more good where he is,” the priest replied. “He hopes to soften the king toward MacAedh, and hopes to gain some influence over the prince. He was most insistent that I explain to ye why he canna leave court.” The priest laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. “He cares greatly for ye all at Kilmuir, but for ye in particular, Sibylla. He begs ye to understand.”

  “I do,” Sibylla said. Could the king be persuaded to release their kinsmen? If not, what would befall them?

  “We canna place all of our faith in Alexander’s ability to influence the king,” her grandmother said. “Do ye think for a minute they will hesitate to murder Highlanders who dinna renounce their faith or swear allegiance to the heir?”

  “Nae,” Sibylla replied softly. A marching army always meant certain bloodshed. “I will go to Dunfermline and plead with the king for Uncle’s life,” Sibylla declared.

  “Nae!” her mother protested. “I will nae have ye endangered.”

  “As the daughter of Fitz Duncan, the Cenn Mór will nae mistreat her,” the old woman said. “But dinna think he will soften.”

  “If he doesna, we have nae choice but to fight,” her mother said.

  “Then we must learn more of their plans and the route they will take.” The old woman looked to the priest.

  “Me?” Father Gregor replied. “Ye wish me to act as a spy?”

  She shrugged her bony shoulders. “Would ye rather see the monasteries burned to the ground and the monks flogged to death?”

  “I wouldna, could I help it,” the priest confessed. “But I willna have blood on my hands!”

  “’Twill nae come to blood unless, the king refuses to release MacAedh,” the old woman said.

  “I will do it,” Sibylla said. “If the king refuses to negotiate with us, I will endeavor to discover the prince’s travel route in the event we must fight.”

  “What if ye are first discovered?” her mother asked.

  “I ken well how to spy,” Sibylla reassured her mother. “I have crept about this castle since the day I arrived.”

  “Even if ye were to learn anything useful, how would ye send a message?” Sibylla’s mother asked.

  Sibylla turned to Father Gregor. “Would ye be willing to act as my messenger, Faither?”

  The priest looked hesitant. “If ye swear ’twill be no bloodshed, I will return with ye to Dunfermline.”

  “I canna promise,” Sibylla replied. “But ’tis our only hope of preventing it.”

  *

  Keeping his promise, Father Gregor left Kilmuir to warn the monks of Portmahomack of what was to come, and then returned a few days later, to accompany Sibylla to Dunfermline. For her protection, he brought the black robe of a monk. Thus disguised, the two made the long trek southward.

  “Ye must nae speak,” Father Gregor warned as they approached the city gates.

  Holding her tongue was easy enough. Sibylla was almost afraid to breathe as the gatekeeper peered out at them from behind the barred windows. He addressed Father Gregor in a tongue she recognized as Anglo-Norman, though she couldn’t understand the words. The priest’s reply was lengthy and equally incomprehensible.

  Though she kept her gaze downcast, she could sense the priest’s growing agitation as the gatekeeper’s inquiry continued. Her pulse raced. Had they done something to arouse suspicion?

  What is wrong? Why are they not opening the gate?

  “Prince Malcolm has just arrived. The king has decreed that nae strangers are to be admitted,” the priest explained.

  Nae! Nae! She wanted to scream. This could nae be happening! Should she reveal her identity and her purpose? She could do nothing to help her uncle if she could not even get inside. “What should we do?” she whispered.

  Though she kept her voice low, her whisper had caught the gatekeeper’s attention. Suddenly feeling his eyes upon her, she glanced up to see him nod to the soldiers flanking the entrance. With spears at the ready, they approached. Without warning, one of them ripped back her cowl to reveal her face.

  “Cette une fille!” the soldier declared with a look of surprise that quickly transformed to a lecherous leer. Though she didn’t understand his words, no command of his tongue was needed to know the soldier’s thoughts. He clearly had taken her for a harlot.

  The gatekeeper scowled at Father Gregor as another flurry of foreign words passed between them.

  “I told them ye came to pledge yerself as a nun, but they dinna believe my story,” the priest murmured to her in Gaelic. “They think yer my… er…” Father Gregor flushed clear to the top of his bald head.

  Believing the error was her best defense, Sibylla gazed up at the soldier with a wanton smile. But her confidence in the ruse began to waver when two armed guards flanked the priest, and crumbled altogether when another one clamped vise-like hands around her arms. “What is happening now?” Sibylla whispered.

  “I must answer to the bishop,” the priest replied, adding with a look of fearful resignation. “But ye will be taken before the justiciar.”

  “Why?” Sibylla asked as panic rose like bitter bile into her throat.

  “Because harlotry is nae tolerated at Dunfermline,” the priest answered. “If he finds ye guilty, ye will be stoned.”

  Was there nothing more he could say in her defense? Her mind raced. She could not afford to err again. “Tell them who I am!” she urged. “Tell them I must see the king at once!”

  The priest appealed to deaf ears and indifferent stares. They didn’t believe her. Worse, she had no proof to offer in her defense.

  Fear and foreboding welled inside Sibylla as the soldier tore her away from the priest and escorted her to a tiny room deep inside the gatehouse where several unsavory, genderless characters regarded her with speculation in their hollow eyes and mockery in their toothless smiles. The smells of urine, feces and unwashed bodies were enough to make her gag. Was she to be held in this common jail rife with rats and disease?

  “Nae! I must see the
king!” she shrieked and kicked in protest.

  But her words were as ineffectual as her flailing limbs. While one man opened the door, the other restrained her and then shoved her inside. Hitting the stone floor Sibylla, scuttled away from the filthy, clawing hands into the corner, where she curled into a defensive ball, hoping and praying that someone would soon come to release her.

  Her plan was so simple! How could it have failed so miserably?

  Sibylla remained in her corner until long after darkness fell, when finally giving in to hunger, exhaustion and terror, she pulled her robe tightly about her, buried her face in her hands, and wept.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Dunfermline Abbey

  Alex laid down his quill at the sound of the bells summoning all of Dunfermline to evening prayer. Though he might have dubious motives, the king himself rarely missed a prayer service, and ensured that the hours of worship were strictly observed by all who resided there.

  Alex had easily fallen back into the monastic routine, but it felt meaningless now, as if he merely went through the motions. His heart ached for Kilmuir and the girl who awaited him there. And every passing day, this hollow in his chest seemed only to expand.

  Soon, the prince would be departing for the Highlands with visits at the monasteries at Rosemarkie and Portmahomack, both within a day’s ride of Kilmuir. If only he had some way to send word to Sibylla. If there was any way possible to see her, even for a moment, he vowed he would find a way to do it.

  “Brother Alexander?” Alex felt a hand on his shoulder as he exited his tiny chamber. “The bishop wishes to see ye,” Brother Aubert said.

  “But the king will expect me at prayer,” Alex replied. In the days since he’d arrived, he’d taken great care not to rouse the king’s displeasure. “Pray tell the bishop I will come afterwards.”

  “’Tis a matter of great import,” Brother Aubert insisted. “Ye will nae be missed. The king has taken again to his sickbed.”

  Alex nodded his acknowledgement. “Thank ye, Brother Aubert. In that case, I will go now.” Alex was vitally aware of his precarious position at court. What was so urgent that the bishop would have him forgo evening prayer?

  Much like a salmon traveling upstream, Alex made his way against the current of black robed figures bound for the cathedral. The corridors were empty and eerily silent by the time he reached the bishop’s private quarters. He knocked softly and awaited the reply.

  “Enter,” a voice called.

  Alex opened the chamber door and was surprised to find Father Gregor. His expression was grim and his color ashen. “My son,” the old man rose and greeted him with a look of sheer dread that sent Alex’s heart racing.

  “Where is the bishop?” Alex asked.

  “’Twas nae the bishop but I who sent for ye,” Father Gregor explained.

  “But I thought ye had returned to Portmahomack,” Alex said.

  “I did, but I was compelled to return.”

  “Did ye see Sibylla?” Alex asked. “Is all well at Kilmuir?”

  “Lady Sibylla is the reason for my return,” Father Gregor answered. “She came to Dunfermline to plead for MacAedh.”

  “She is here?” Alex’s gaze darted expectantly about the room. “Where is she? I must see her!”

  Father Gregor drew a breath and blurted. “There was incident.”

  “An incident? What do ye mean an incident? Is she hurt?”

  “’Twas all a grave misunderstanding. I tried to tell them the truth, but they dinna believe me. ’Tis only now that I was even allowed to explain myself to the bishop, but he will nae let me see her without permission from the king.”

  “Where is she?” Alex demanded. He needed answers and the priest was sputtering nonsense!

  “In the gatehouse jail,” Father Gregor replied. “The guards mistook her for a… whore.”

  “A whore?” Alex’s confusion instantly turned to rage. He was on the verge of throttling the old man. Friend or no, the priest had led Sibylla into danger. “How the de’il could this happen?”

  “It all came about so quickly.” The old man’s shoulders slumped. “And I can do naught to fix it. If ye have the king’s ear, mayhap ye can obtain her release.”

  “I will see it done,” Alex vowed as he spun for the door.

  *

  Hours had passed, but in the darkness of the jail Sibylla found it impossible to know whether it was night or day. The bodies of her cell mates were sprawled on the floor around her, some whimpering in their sleep, and others snoring soundly, while shadows flickered on the walls like dancing demons.

  How long would she have to wait until she had her time before the Chief Justiciar? Would he even understand her Gaelic or would she be summarily sentenced for prostitution? How could she even tell them she was innocent? That she was a virgin! These thoughts continued to torment her. She’d come to beg for her uncle’s life, but now would first have to plead for her own. If only she could get word to Alexander! The prince had only recently arrived. Was Alexander still at Dunfermline?

  The scrape of metal and the sputtering light of a torch drew her attention to the door. A key turned in the lock and then a tall, black form filled the doorway.

  “Lady Sibylla of Kilmuir?” a familiar voice called her name, adding in Gaelic. “Ye are to come before the bishop and make yer confession.”

  “Alexander?” Sibylla whispered his name on a sob as she struggled to her feet. With legs cramped from hours on the hard stone, and a voice gone hoarse from weeping, Sibylla could hardly speak, let alone stand. But her very being leapt with joy.

  He had come! God above had heard her prayers and had sent Alexander to her! Stumbling over bodies, she found her way to the door. Only the presence of guards kept her from launching herself into his arms.

  “Come with me,” he said.

  She was momentarily taken aback by his stiff and formal demeanor until she recalled his position at the abbey. He was a monk. He could not risk touching her or showing his emotion, but she could clearly see the strain of self-control in his gray eyes.

  She followed him through the dark, dank corridors to a door leading outside where she sucked in a lungful of fresh night air. “I will ne’er forget that stench.”

  “Why did ye come here?” he demanded, his voice and body now shaking with passion. “Did ye nae ken the danger?”

  “Aye but I had nae choice but to plead for my uncle,” she said.

  “We canna speak here,” Alex replied tersely. “Raise yer cowl and come with me. We will talk in the confessional.”

  In silence, Sibylla followed him, staying close as he navigated the palace grounds to a small, private chapel.

  “’Twas built for Queen Margaret,” he explained. “Nae one else has used it since her passing. We should nae be disturbed here.”

  “How did ye find me?” she asked.

  “After Faither Gregor explained all that transpired to the bishop, he was released. He called for me and told me what happened.” He clenched his hands by his sides with a groan. “How I ache to hold ye, Sibylla. I have dreamt of ye every night.”

  “Then hold me now,” Sibylla whispered. She longed to know the comfort of his arms and the taste of his lips.

  He shut his eyes and slowly shook his head. “I canna risk it. There are spies at court. Even now, they may be watching.”

  Sibylla looked about. “But the chapel is empty.”

  “Tis too dangerous to risk,” he murmured. “We would both be imprisoned… or worse. Please Sibylla,” his gray eyes were intense and pleading as they held hers. “I beg ye to be patient. If there is any way for us to be together, I swear I will find it.”

  “Was it ye who obtained my release?” she asked.

  “I dinna,” he said. “I only got the bishop’s permission to hear yer confession. I already acted at great risk to both of us.”

  “Why is that?” she asked.

  “Because I told the king I wasna associated with MacAedh. Ye mus
t nae let on that ye ken me or the king will wonder how it is I am acquainted with MacAedh’s niece.”

  “Then ye are only my confessor,” Sibylla replied.

  “Aye, but ye will also have need of someone to speak for ye when ye appear before the Chief Justiciar. There are few here who speak the Gaelic. I will offer my services in the cause of justice.”

  “Ye mean I am nae free? I have to go back to that…” She choked back a sob. “That godforsaken place?”

  “Nae for long if I can help it,” Alexander replied. He reached for her hand and held it tightly in his. “I wish I had the power to free ye, but mayhap I can at least get ye moved to another place.”

  “Thank ye, Alexander,” Sibylla said.

  “I must take ye back now, Sibylla or there will be questions. Can ye bear it a bit longer, mo chridhe?”

  The whispered endearment rippled through her like a sunburst after a storm.

  Mo chridhe. My heart.

  “Aye,” she replied, placing their joined hands over her own heart. “With ye close by, I can bear anything.”

  *

  Alex left Sibylla feeling as if his heart had been ripped out. Though she put up a brave front, her melancholy eyes and quivering lip nearly did him in. He would have given anything to trade places with her, but he had no choice other than to return her to the jail. He had already taken a big risk in speaking with her privately. He prayed that no one had followed them to the chapel.

  It was going to be a big enough challenge to secure her release without raising questions about their previous association. Her unexpected arrival complicated everything. He was due to depart the next morn with the prince, which gave him little time to help her. Father Gregor could do nothing. As penance for bringing a lone female to the monastery, the bishop had confined him to his chamber for three days of fasting and prayer, leaving Alex to navigate the treacherous waters alone.

  He was still a relative stranger to both the palace and the politics. Royal courts were notorious for petty rivalries and intrigues. One false step could be fatal. Who could he trust to help him?

  Returning to the abbey, Alex found the assistant prior snuffing the candles. Though their acquaintance had been brief, a sense of kinship had taken root between himself and Brother Aubert. How much faith could he place in such a short friendship? But who else could he turn to?