by Paula Quinn
“Nae,” Sibylla replied. “My cousin, Ailis, is the songbird.”
“Do ye dance?”
“Only a Highland jig,” she replied. “I ken naught of courtly dances.”
“Ah! ’Tis another deficiency that must be rectified. Courtly dancing teaches grace of movement. Do ye ride?” the king asked.
“I do!” Sibylla declared, excited to have finally found a common interest. “I also love to hunt.”
“Do ye, indeed?” The king lips curved in a subtle smile. “When I am well enough to sit a horse, I shall assemble a hunting party. ’Twill be good to show ye to advantage.”
“Show me to advantage? What do ye mean?”
Before he could answer, the Earl of Mearns appeared. Ruddy-faced and grim, he came barreling toward them. “Majesty, there is verra grave news!”
“Aye? What is it man!” the king demanded.
“A rider has come to notify ye that there was an attack. The Earl of Fife was mortally wounded and the prince is gone.”
“Gone? Explain yerself! What do ye mean gone?”
“He was bathing in the river when last seen. ’Tis believed he was struck by an arrow and drowned.”
“Drowned?” he gasped, all hint of color draining from his face. “I cannot breathe,” the king croaked. With his hand clutching his chest, the king fell backward, only saved from falling into the reflecting pool by the earl’s interception. “Go!” the earl commanded Sibylla. “Fetch the physician!”
Sibylla hesitated. Should the king die, her prayers might be answered. Yet, conscience moved her to act. Lifting her skirts out of the way, she ran for help.
*
Castle Kilmuir, Black Isle
Alex locked the door behind him as he left the sleeping prince. Lady Gruaid had assured him that the wounds were clean and posed no threat to his life, and had promised to keep a watchful vigil. Alex didn’t completely trust Lady Olith, but the blind woman could do little harm on her own. He only hoped Domnall didn’t return in his absence. That could prove disastrous.
As an added safeguard, Alex had taken the sword with him, concealing it on his back under his cloak. Though he feared its discovery, the risk was far greater to leave it behind.
He departed from the sea gate as the sun was rising, manning the oars of a small fishing boat, much like the ones he’d sailed in the Tarbat Ness. Though his mind was clouded with worry, he’d always found something calming in the sound of waves slapping against wood.
Once he was far enough out, he raised the sail and prayed for a favorable wind that would take him swiftly to the port town of Inverkeithing on the Firth of Forth, only a few miles from Dunfermline. Hugging the coastline and traveling by boat could cut at least three full days from his journey, let alone give his injured feet time to heal.
The wind had picked up, whipping strands of hair into his face as it propelled the vessel smoothly across the water. His thoughts finally turned back to Sibylla.
If his negotiations were fruitful, the burden of Prince Malcolm would be off their shoulders quickly and she and MacAedh would be free to go home. He was certain that Domnall would be accused by the king and it would be nearly impossible to prove his innocence without learning who was behind it.
Something stirred in the back of his mind, and slowly emerged as a face in a crowd—Ranald’s face. The day he and MacAedh had arrived, he’d seen Ranald at Dunfermline. Could he have played a part in this act of treachery? Was Domnall also involved? The timing alone suggested he wasn’t, but it would be nearly impossible to prove his innocence without learning who, precisely, was behind it. Someone close to the king had to have provided information. Who, other than Domnall Mac William, stood most to benefit by Malcolm’s death? His half-brother perhaps? Eachann of Mearns had put forth William the Atheling as successor. Could his uncle have played a part in this murder plot? Of all options, this was beginning to seem the most likely but without proof, he could say nothing… do nothing.
Alex thought of the sword on his back and the sgian-dubh hidden beneath his tunic. If he was convinced that his uncle was behind this treacherous act, did he have it within him to put a blade into Eachann’s cold, black heart? He didn’t know the answer but it seemed he was destined to find out.
*
Dunfermline Palace
Dunfermline, a sober and dreary place in normal circumstances, had taken on the character of imminent mourning. The palace servants crept about in silence as if afraid even to speak. And in the abbey, the monks fasted and held all night vigils of prayer and supplication for the king’s recovery. By the third day, the Earl of Mearns had called an emergency meeting of the king’s council.
Confined to her chamber, Sibylla waited nervously for news of the king, whose death would all but guarantee her freedom. On the fourth day after his collapse, Sibylla was surprised with a summons to the king’s chamber. She entered to find the king sitting upright in bed surrounded by the Earl of Mearns and several other men she didn’t recognize.
At the king’s nod of acknowledgement, she approached and knelt by his side in a show of respect. Though she’d never seen him in robust health, his appearance was ghastly, truly on the cusp of death. Though she despised him, she still couldn’t wish for his passing. “Y-ye sent for me?” Sibylla said, wondering why he’d sent for her.
The king looked to the Earl of Mearns who came forward to answer. “His Majesty’s powers of speech have failed, but his mind is yet lucid,” the earl explained. “God forbid,” he paused to make the sign of the cross, and then continued, “he does nae fully regain his health, he has signed several decrees to insure the future succession and stability of this kingdom… one of which involves ye.”
“Me?” Sibylla replied. “How can this have anything to do with me?”
“The king is much disturbed by the recent act of treason led by yer brother in yer province of Moray. This uprising can be dealt with in one of two ways. Yer kinsmen can be hunted down and executed, or permanently banished from the kingdom.”
“B-but ye have nae proof ’twas Domnall!” Sibylla protested.
“His Majesty, in the spirit of mercy and beneficence, is willing to first consider a peaceable solution. In the interest of uniting the northern and southern kingdoms, he has proposed a betrothal be announced between ye and Prince Malcolm.”
“Prince Malcolm?” Her stomach knotted with the pronouncement. Was this what the king had in mind all along when he’d mentioned her marriage? “B-but he is a child!” she protested.
“The prince has past his twelfth summer and will be of age to wed in two years. ’Tis not an unusually lengthy betrothal for a royal marriage,” the earl argued.
“But why me?” Sibylla asked, feeling almost hysterical. At eighteen, she was a woman grown. The prince was still a child. Moreover, she loved someone else, but ’twould be useless to speak of it. They would only laugh. Love was irrelevant in royal marriages.
“Ye are the granddaughter of both Duncan Cenn Mór and Aedh of Moray. There is no other female of superior royal blood in all of this kingdom. The king once had thought to bolster the bond with England with such an alliance, but ’tis still uncertain who will wear the English crown. Thus, he seeks, instead, to unify and strengthen Scotland.”
“But I am illegitimate,” she replied, biting back the urge to add, “thanks to the king”.
After the great rebellion, he’d sent his kinsman, William Fitz Duncan, to suppress the Highlands. He’d taken her mother to wife at the king’s urging solely to claim the lands of Moray, only later to divorce her, once more at this king’s command, in favor of a Norman heiress and her English lands. In so doing, both Sibylla and Domnall had been delegitimized and disinherited.
“The marriage will erase the taint,” the earl said dismissively. “And yer offspring will wear the crown of a unified Scotland.” The earl looked to the king and then continued, “If ye wish yer kinsmen to live, ye will consent to the marriage.”
She was starkly re
minded of the sacrifice her own mother had once made for peace in the Highlands. If wedding the prince would bring reconciliation and restoration to her family, was she, also, prepared to become the sacrificial lamb?
Her heart raced. “If I agree to this, ye will free my uncle?”
“Nae,” the earl shook his head. “MacAedh will nae be free, but if ye agree, the king promises MacAedh will live… If ye dinna agree, he will die.”
“What of my brother?” Sibylla asked.
“For his treason, Domnall Mac William will be given his choice between exile or execution.”
Sibylla quaked inside as her dreams for the future crumbled to dust. She loved Alexander with all her heart and believed that they could have found happiness together in any circumstances. But a future together was hopeless.
If she refused the king, her uncle and brother would surely die. Even if it meant being with Alexander, she could never live with their deaths on her conscience. Her duty was clear.
“Aye,” she replied in a choked whisper. “I will wed the prince.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Arriving at Dunfermline, Alex immediately sought out the king, only to be barred access by the High Steward, an imposing Breton knight called Alan Fitz Alan. “The king is nae well. He has lost his powers of speech. Whatever yer business, ye must take it up with either myself or the Earl of Mearns who also acts in his stead.”
“I have urgent news of Prince Malcolm,” Alex insisted.
Fitz Alan’s gaze widened. “Does the prince live?”
“Aye, he lives,” Alex said. “Now will ye let me see the king?”
Fitz Alan allowed Alex to enter and then followed him into the king’s chamber. Though the sun was high, the drapes were closed, casting most of the chamber into darkness. The only light was by the bedside where the king’s physician was preparing to bleed his royal patient. “Whatever yer concern, it can wait!” the physician snapped.
“Nae! It canna wait,” Alex insisted. “I come bearing news of Prince Malcolm.”
At this pronouncement, the king’s eyes snapped open and the Earl of Mearns materialized from the shadows. The physic threw his lancet into the bowl and rose with a huff.
“Are ye certain?” the earl asked, gaze narrowed. “’Twas reported he was wounded and drowned.”
Thus far, Alex had managed to evade direct contact with his kinsman, but now it seemed unavoidable. “Aye. Verra certain,” Alex declared, “given I was the one to save him. He is, indeed, wounded, but should soon be well enough to travel.”
The earl nodded. “I will send men at once to retrieve him. Where is he?”
“He is being held someplace safe,” Alex said.
“Held?” Fitz Alan echoed. “Do ye mean he’s been taken for ransom?”
“They seek no payment,” Alex said. “The prince will be safely returned in exchange for Lady Sibylla and Malcolm MacAedh.”
“’Tis as I suspected!” the earl declared. “Domnall Mac William was behind this treachery. ’Twas Highlanders who attacked.”
“Highlanders with Norman bows?” Alex countered. “And how did they ken the route we would take? We were betrayed.”
“Betrayed?” his uncle repeated with brows drawn. “Ye could easily have been followed.”
The earl’s arguments only convinced him further of Eachann’s involvement. Alex bit back the urge to refute him any further. He resolved to privately seek out Fitz Alan to investigate.
“In any case, I am returned to facilitate the exchange of prisoners.”
Both the earl and Fitz Alan looked to the king. A garbled sound sprang from his lips, but his answer was still clear.
“Ye will tell his captors there will be nae exchange,” the earl answered for the king.
With racing heart, Alex looked to the king for confirmation. The sovereign responded with a barely perceptible nod.
“The prince will be safely and immediately returned,” Eachann continued, “or MacAedh’s head will adorn the castle gatehouse.”
Alex fought a violent wave of nausea as he left the king’s bedchamber. He’d all but signed MacAedh’s death warrant. Their plan had failed. He must find Sibylla! He was now prepared to die to get her away from this heinous place. Where was she?
Hoping for information, Alex searched the abbey for Father Gregor.
“The king has all but banished me,” the old priest lamented. “I am nae longer allowed to see her.”
“Why nae?” Alex asked.
“The king’s mistrust,” the priest answered. “Brother Aubert has been charged with teaching her. The king doesna want her to have any further association with Highlanders.”
“He had no intention of releasing her?” Alex said.
“’Tis worse,” the priest said. “He would see her as queen consort.”
Alex was dumbfounded. “Surely he canna think to wed again on his deathbed!”
“Nae! Ye misunderstand! She is to be betrothed to Prince Malcolm.”
“Th-that soft, spoiled stripling!” Alex blurted. He might even have laughed had the truth not been so tragic. It made perfect sense for the machinating king to contrive such a match.
“Where is she?” he demanded. “I must see her!”
“I can do naught,” Father Gregor replied on a helpless sigh. “Go ye to Brother Aubert. Perhaps he can help. My work here is done, my son. There is much danger here. I must return to Portmahomack.”
“Please, will ye forestall one more day?” Alex asked, his mind desperately formulating a plan. “I seek one last boon of ye.”
*
Though she no longer met with the king since his relapse, Sibylla’s lessons with Brother Aubert had continued on. While only days ago she’d accepted her position at court, telling herself it was only temporary and that, soon, she would return home, all that had changed with the king’s decree that she wed Malcolm. Now she despised everything about this place, from the echoes of chanting monks that emanated at all hours from the cathedral to the detested Norman words that felt like poison on her tongue.
But what use was rebellion? She had no choice but to accept her fate. Yet, life in this place was no life at all. She felt as if she existed under a perpetual cloud and would never again experience the warmth and light of the sun; and like a flower deprived of sunshine, perhaps, in time, she would just wither away and die.
She was gazing out the window thinking of home when she heard the maid enter. “Mademoiselle? Frère Aubert vous attend dans l’antichambre.”
“Tell Brother Aubert I have no desire for study today,” Sibylla replied in Norman. “The king’s illness has me too distracted.” Let him interpret that however he will.
Heloise returned a moment later looking exasperated. “He insists on speaking with ye, Mademoiselle.”
Sibylla flung her long braid over her shoulder and rose with a sigh. She would tell him she was indisposed with her menses. That would surely send him fleeing from her chambers. The robed figure turned to face her. Her heart gave a painful leap as he dropped his cowl.
“Alexander! Ye have returned!” she rushed toward him. Unable to restrain her joy, she threw herself headlong into his arms. Unlike the last time they were together, he held nothing back, but pulled her tightly against his chest, raining frantic kisses on her hair, her eyes, her face, and finally… her lips. For several endless heartbeats, they clung together, desperately claiming each kiss they’d been so long denied until the sound of the maid’s return tore them apart.
“I canna stay much longer,” Alex murmured in Gaelic.
“But there is so much I must tell ye!” Sibylla blinked back tears inspired by a mix of joy and desolation.
“Faither Gregor informed me of yer betrothal,” Alex said.
“I dinna want to marry him!” she cried.
“Ye could be queen of this entire kingdom,” he said.
“What good is a kingdom, or even the whole world, if I lose my heart and soul in the bargain?” she asked. “I wil
l have nae other but ye, Alexander.”
“And I ye, Sibylla. I kent it in my heart the first I saw ye.”
Her pulse raced with panic at the anxious look in his eyes as he clasped her shoulders. “But there is something more I must tell ye. Something important I have kept from ye.” He took a deep breath, then blurted, “I am nae who ye think.”
She cocked her head. “Are ye nae Alexander of Portmahomack?”
“Aye, I am Alexander,” he replied. “But I was nae an orphan and my home was nae always the monastery.”
“’Twasna? Then where are ye from?” she asked.
“A place in Mearns called Fettercairn,” he replied. “My máthair was the daughter of the man who …” He paused as if reluctant to continue.
“Whate’er ’tis, nothing will change my feelings for ye,” she insisted.
“Ye must first hear me out,” he said. Alexander then took a breath and blurted, “She was the daughter of the man who killed yer grandfather, Duncan Cenn Mór.”
Sibylla stared at him in momentary incomprehension. Taking a moment to digest his confession, she slowly replied, “’Tis no fault of yers, and I never kent him anyway. Neither my brother nor I have any greater love for our Cenn Mór kinsmen than they have shown us.” Resting her hand on his cheek, she endeavored to set his mind at rest. “This changes nothing, Alexander.”
“There is more,” he said.
“More?” Sibylla wondered what else he felt such a great need to confess.
“My faither was Malcolm Mac Alexander.”
“Surely ye dinna mean the son of King Alexander?”
“Aye,” Alex said. “The same man who tried to claim the crown that was usurped by David Cenn Mór.”
“If this be so… then ye … ye are…” Sibylla’s voice failed her as her mind wrestled with the impossible. “As Alexander’s blood, ye would have a stronger claim to the throne of Scotland than either Domnall or Prince Malcolm!”