“Thank ye, lad,” MacAedh said, offering a reassuring nod.
Alex met his gaze with a forced smile, though he felt nothing inside but disquiet. He felt as if he were being expelled from the only home he’d ever known.
It took only a few minutes for Alex to pack. His personal belongings were few—two black robes, a single woolen plaid, one pair of shoes for winter, and an ancient psalter. The last wasn’t actually his, but had been loaned to him by Father Gregor. He’d spent many hours reading the sacred verses and committing them to memory.
He’d recently begun the painstaking task of copying and illuminating the text for a Book of Hours. He was heartily disappointed that he wouldn’t be able to complete this work. He couldn’t understand why his whole world was suddenly being upset.
Alexander reverently caressed the worn leather volume before wrapping it back in its protective cloth. He added an inkhorn and some plummets for sketching to his collection, then tied everything up in the plaid. Then, with a heavy heart, he carried the precious book back to the abbot.
“Here is the psalter,” Alexander said, offering it to the priest. “I had hoped to finish the text with illumination.”
“Then take it with ye,” Father Gregor urged him with a smile.
“Thank ye, Faither,” Alexander murmured and tucked the book into his tunic next to his heart. “Have ye materials for teaching?” Alexander asked MacAedh.
“Aye,” he replied. “Ye’ll find no shortage for teaching. We have an entire library at Kilmuir.”
“A library?” Alexander was incredulous. Books of any kind were precious and costly. Few people owned anything but a prayer book. The Thane of Kilmuir must be a wealthy man indeed to possess so many.
“Aye,” MacAedh replied. “We often lend to those who ask. Ye may make free of it. We must be off if we are to return before sunset,” the thane urged. “’Tis a long ride back to Kilmuir.”
“Goodbye, Faither,” Alexander said.
“Godspeed, my son,” the abbot replied, taking Alex into a brief embrace. As Alex bade him farewell, he was struck by the portentous look in the abbot’s eyes.
MacAedh led him past the small cluster of buildings to the central water trough were a group of men waited, proud-looking Highlanders on horseback. “Do ye ride?” he asked Alexander.
“Nae,” Alexander shook his head. He hadn’t been on the back of a horse since he was four years old. “But I walk well enough,” he added with a grin.
“’Tis thirty miles,” MacAedh said. “Ye’ll ride.” He then inclined his head to a fair-headed youth who appeared but a few years Alex’s junior. “Domnall, meet yer tutor. Now help him onto the horse.”
MacAedh was a man of few words, but those he uttered were well-heeded.
The young man came forward with the horse and a breath of muttered curses as he gave Alexander a knee up onto the beast’s back. “I dinna need another tutor,” he mumbled.
“Ye do if ye ever wish to claim yer birthright,” his uncle called over his shoulder. “The men of Moray will ne’er follow a Sassenach.”
“They followed my faither,” he argued.
“Aye. But only to kill more Sassenachs.”
Domnall’s body visibly stiffened but he seemed to have no other rebuttal.
Who was this young man? His particular speech and mannerisms suggested that he’d been raised in the southern kingdom. Was he a Norman? Alex digested what little he knew. The lad was obviously someone of importance since his uncle had ridden thirty miles to find him a tutor. And his father must have been a soldier of some repute. Whatever his history, it was clear he resented the idea of completing his education. Domnall’s antipathy only strengthened Alexander’s qualms about leaving the monastery, but what choice had he?
Although Alex was riddled with questions, he was accustomed to holding his tongue. Surely all would be revealed in good time. He reassured himself that it was only temporary, but as he departed, he couldn’t suppress the ominous feeling that he might never return.
Chapter Two
Castle Kilmuir, Black Isle
Scottish Highlands
“HALLOWED BE THOU, Vervein, as thou grow on the ground. In the mount of Calvary was thou first found. Thou healed our Savior, Jesus Christ, and stanched his bleeding wound. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, I take thee from the ground,” Sibylla quietly murmured the ancient prayer, as she uprooted the last of the herb harvest and placed it gently into her basket.
“Are we finished?” Ailis asked.
“Aye, we have enough and some to spare,” Sibylla answered. It had taken several days and countless hours, but their harvest was now complete.
“Then let us go and perform the charm.” With a smile, Ailis took Sibylla’s hand.
With baskets on their arms, the two girls trekked across the heather-covered moor to a steep forest trail leading to the promontory called Cnoc Croit na Maoile. Reaching the summit, they set their baskets down and took in the view. If the climb had not already left her breathless, the vista, stretching the length and breadth of Black Isle to the purple-hued Affric Mountains, would have done so. Every time she came here, Sibylla’s heart swelled with pride knowing her family’s long connection to this wild and beautiful land.
They continued to the circle of standing stones, ancient relicts from past ancestors, silently circling the perimeter three times, before advancing to the center where they spread their arisaids beneath the shelter of the great oak that commanded the center.
While Sibylla stretched herself out upon the makeshift blanket, Ailis plopped down cross-legged beside her and loosed the ribbons from her hair. The midsummer feast of St. John was soon approaching. It had always been Sibylla’s favorite, followed closely by Yuletide, but this year felt somehow different. For days, she’d experienced a heavy sense of foreboding she didn’t understand.
Lost in her thoughts, Sibylla stared up through the thick canopy of branches at the cloudless Highland sky. The summer was already half over and autumn would nip swiftly at her heels. Such days as this were rare and short lived, thus meant to be enjoyed while they lasted. She must make an effort to shake off this strange mood that had overtaken her.
“I miss the old days,” Ailis sighed. “When these fields were filled with grazing sheep and cattle.”
That was well before Sibylla had arrived at Kilmuir. In her experience, what little livestock they had, barely kept everyone fed. At least the land produced sufficient vegetables and herbs to meet their needs. They were fortunate to have such fertile ground in Black Isle. Their needs were met while others less fortunate still suffered.
“Back then,” Ailis continued, “hundreds gathered in this place for Beltane, Midsummer, and Samhain. But after the rebellion, the king’s men realized ’twas the easiest place to conscript new recruits. We have nae lit the banefires since. I wish ye had been with us then. Give me yer ribbon,” she said.
Sibylla unbound her plaited coronet, letting loose a cloud of riotously unruly strawberry blonde waves and handed the ribbon to her cousin who began to weave it into the stalks of St. John’s flowers they’d collected. Lying back on the sweetly-scented grass, she basked in the sensation of sunshine caressing her skin.
In silence, Sibylla watched Ailis’ nimble fingers form the stems and leaves into a garland, but she had no desire to join her in the activity. The Yuletide tradition, however, was quite another matter. Being a superior climber, Sibylla always looked forward to the harvest of mistletoe from the upper boughs of towering oaks. The tree they currently sat under was considered the most hallowed. Many times, she had scaled its height to harvest large clusters of the sacred plant. Other times, she climbed for the sheer joy of perching in the branches, much like a fairy princess gazing out of a high tower.
After several minutes Ailis finished her handiwork and held it out for inspection. “Sit up,” Ailis commanded and placed the garland on Sibylla’s head. She regarded her with an appreciative nod. “Yellow
suits ye. It brings out the gold in yer hair.”
Ailis then unraveled her own long, dark plait to extract the blue ribbon which she wove into a second crown that she settled on her own head. With her porcelain skin and crystal blue eyes, she resembled a woodland fairy. “Now for the charm.”
Joining hands, they shut their eyes and repeated the ancient Druid ritual they’d practiced since early girlhood. “Oh wondrous herb, will ye tell me this night if the coming year shall make me a bride?”
“Do ye think ’twill work this time?” Ailis asked.
Sibylla shrugged. “It ne’er has before.”
Sibylla wasn’t sure how much she believed in the old magic and superstitions, but Ailis clung tightly to the old traditions, feeling it was all they had left of their lost heritage. It was their mutual grandmother, Olith, who had taught them the healing properties of plants, as well as their mystic lore, knowledge that had been passed down from woman to woman through the generations. The prayers and charms that mixed Christian and Pagan beliefs were part of many Pictish rituals that Ailis adamantly insisted they continue. Not that Sibylla minded. Since her father’s death, she’d embraced the old beliefs and traditions held by her mother’s family.
“But we were only girls before,” Ailis said. “’Tis different now.”
“Different how?” Sibylla asked, still skeptical.
“We’re older and ready to take a husband. Here.” She handed Sibylla a sprig of vervein. “Place this under yer pillow tonight and mayhap ye’ll receive a vision of who ye will wed.”
Sibylla accepted the flower with a cynical shake of her head. “I dinna ken yer hurry to shackle yerself to a man,” she said. “I intend to wait at least two more years.”
“Aye?” Ailis challenged. “Do ye really think ye’ll just be able to snap yer fingers and get whichever man ye want when ye finally decide?”
“How hard can it be?” Sibylla asked. While most young women her age were fixated on the idea, Sibylla had little desire to wed. Though there were many braw young men who surrounded her uncle, none had ever sparked her interest.
“How many have kissed ye?” Ailis asked.
“Well none… yet,” Sibylla replied, “but only because I havena really wanted to be kissed. What makes ye such an expert anyway?” she challenged. “Have ye ever been kissed?”
“Aye,” Ailis answered with a dreamy smile. “I’ve been kissed.”
“Ye have?” Sibylla felt a tiny stab of envy. It seemed so unfair! Then again, maybe Ailis was just trying to make her envious. “Who was it that kissed ye?” she asked.
“I dinna care to say.”
“Why nae?” Sibylla asked, immediately curious.
Ailis averted her face with a sniff. “Because he hasna done it since.”
“Then mayhap ’twas nae a good kiss,” Sibylla teasingly suggested. “Maybe ye need more practice at it?”
“Tis hardly a thing ye can do by yerself!” Ailis protested.
“Then ye should look for someone to help ye.”
“Nae!” Ailis waved away the suggestion with a snort. “There be no one else I wish to kiss.”
Ailis was growing perturbed, but Sibylla wasn’t at all ready to drop the subject. Who had Ailis kissed? And who could be persuaded to kiss Ailis again? She tapped her chin in thought. ’Twould have to be someone she could trust. “Domnall!” she declared. “My brother will surely teach ye! I hear he’s had much experience kissing the lasses.”
“Aye.” Ailis snatched the floral wreath from her head with a sob. “Just nae with me!”
Sibylla’s jaw dropped. “Domnall? ’Twas my brother that kissed ye? When?”
“Last Yuletide.”
“Did he speak of marriage when he kissed ye?” She doubted it very much.
Domnall might dally with a lass as any braw young warrior was wont to do, but he had no serious intent. His mind was fixed on only one thing—righting the wrong their father had done him.
Ailis looked away. “I dinna want to talk about it anymore.” She then snatched up her basket and stormed off toward the castle.
Sibylla watched her departure with a sigh. All this time, she’d had no idea that her cousin had fixed her marital interest on Domnall. Shame on him for toying with her! At least ’twas only a harmless kiss between them—or—was there perhaps a reason Ailis had her mind on marriage?
Surely Domnall hadn’t… Sibylla was quick to shake off the thought. Her brother would never be so callous as to dishonor Ailis. At least not the brother she’d always known. Then again, he’d changed much over the past few months. He was restless, easily agitated, and often disappeared for days at a time. He also spent almost all of his waking hours in sword training. She prayed he didn’t plot something dangerous.
Vowing to have a strong word with her brother, Sibylla rose and shook out her grass-covered plaid. She then took up her own basket, gazed one last time at the shimmering waters of the Cromarty and Beauly Firths, and headed toward the wooded path that led back home.
As she approached the outer gates, Sibylla noticed a group of distant riders down the road. There were at least six of them, but they were too far away to identify. Were they kinsmen come to celebrate the Midsummer feast? Or, her chest tightened, could they be soldiers coming again to recruit and pillage? She shuddered at the memory.
Hugging her basket to her chest, Sibylla sprinted through the gate, her bare feet slapping the wooden planks as she crossed the bridge. She first looked for her uncle and brother but they were nowhere about. She then headed to the still room where she hoped to find her mother.
“What’s amiss?” her mother asked with a look of alarm.
“Riders,” Sibylla replied breathlessly. “Are we expecting anyone?”
Her mother rose with a frown. “How many?”
“Six? Maybe more?” Sibylla suggested.
The frown between her mother’s brows subtly softened. “Tis nae likely king’s men. They ne’er travel in Moray so light in number. They wouldna dare. ’Tis likely yer uncle returning with the new tutor.”
“A tutor?” Sibylla remarked in surprise. “For whom?”
“Mainly for Domnall,” her mother replied. “Yer uncle departed early this morn for the monastery at Portmahomack.”
Sibylla wrinkled her nose. “He’s bringing a monk to Kilmuir to school my brother?”
“Aye, but little good ’twill do. Domnall wasna inclined to studies even as a lad.”
Sibylla wondered why nothing had been said before about the tutor. Then again, her uncle often made unilateral decisions. It was one of many things Domnall was growing to resent. Though MacAedh intended only to guide him, Domnall was already chafing at the bit. How much longer would her uncle be able to keep Domnall under his thumb?
Her mother yanked off her apron. “Whoever ’tis, we’re hardly presentable to receive anyone. Off with ye now to clean yerself up, and then we’ll go to greet them.”
*
SEATED AS HE was on the back of the horse, Alex had to fight to stay balanced. Except for Domnall who remained stiff, silent, and sullen in front of him, Alex’s other traveling companions carried on a robust exchange, peppered with taunts, lewd remarks, and laughter. Although he only caught short snatches of the dialogue, he nevertheless found their camaraderie contagious. The group of boisterous men was so unlike the monks he was accustomed to that, soon, Alex’s feelings of anxiety were supplanted by a strange sense of expectancy.
Alex soon lost himself in the changing scenery. They traveled southwest, skirting the peninsula before heading inland. The familiar rocky coastline had gradually transformed to a more pastoral scene of rolling heather-covered hills and verdant meadows with grazing sheep and cattle.
As the entourage continued their steady trek, the crofts began to appear more frequently and in closer proximity to one another. The tangy air he was accustomed to was now scented subtly of heather, peat smoke, and horse sweat.
The cottagers they passed smiled and waved i
n recognition of their thane. Their reaction to the man eased Alex’s lingering uncertainties. MacAedh was both respected and liked by his people.
After a time, a castle came into view, a tall, proud, rectangular structure of native sandstone that commanded a strategic view of the Moray Firth. MacAedh pulled up and pointed. “’Tis Castle Kilmuir, one of the ancestral homes to the Mormaers of Moray.”
“Is that where we’re going?” Alexander asked.
“Aye. ’Tis yer new home.”
The horses whinnied and broke into a brisk trot, as if they recognized home and knew oats awaited them.
At their approach, the gatehouse opened. They entered to a hum of activity inside the defensive walls—the strike of a hammer on an anvil, the bleating of sheep, the laugher of children who darted forth to greet their kinsmen. The red-bearded giant named Fergus slid down from his mount to scoop up a pair of giggling copper-headed twins that he set on the back of his horse.
This happy chaos was a whole different world compared to the controlled calm of the monastery. The scene also invoked an aching reminiscence of his almost forgotten childhood at Fettercairn, a place he hadn’t thought of in over a decade.
Alex slid from the horse and turned to find himself facing a pair of large sea green eyes that examined him with slow scrutiny. “Are ye the new tutor? Ye dinna look like a tutor.”
Alex was momentarily taken aback by both the girl and her comments. “Nae?” he replied. “What is a tutor supposed to look like?”
Her delicate brow wrinkled. “Old, I suppose. And stern. Ye dinna look verra stern nor are ye much older than Domnall and me.” She spoke the name of MacAedh’s nephew with easy familiarity. Who was she?
“And ye are?” he prompted when no introduction came.
“The Lady Sibylla,” she offered with a quick flash of white teeth and a mock curtsey. “Domnall’s sister, of course.” She wrinkled her nose. “If ye are a monk, why havena ye a shaved head? What should we call ye?”
Alex was, once more, flummoxed by the bombardment of questions. Were all females such infernally inquisitive creatures? He realized he wasn’t acquainted with enough of them to know. “I havena taken my vows… yet,” he answered carefully. “And ye can call me by my Christian name, Alexander.”
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