“It also had an inscription on it?”
“Aye,” Sibylla answered. “’Twas written in Latin.”
“What did it say?”
Sibylla hesitated. “I canna remember exactly. Veritatem? Virtutem? I forget the last word.”
“Vindictae?” her grandmother suggested.
“Aye. I think ’twas it,” Sibylla replied.
“’Tis one of the Seven Swords of Alba,” her grandmother declared.
“I thought they were only a legend,” Ailis said.
Her grandmother shook her gray head with a cackle. “There is much legend attached to them, but the swords, themselves, are verra real. Have I ne’er told ye the tale?”
“I have nae heard it,” Sibylla said. “I surely would remember if I had.”
“Then come and sit,” she commanded. “Ye and Ailis both should ken this. ’Tis part of the history of yer own clan.”
The moment Sibylla settled on the floor at her grandmother’s feet, she felt as if she were a little girl again, hanging on every word as the old woman spoke.
“Long, long ago, in times nigh forgotten, there was a great king by the name of Cruithne, a name for which all of his people became known. ’Tis said that so great was the peace in his reign that the voices of all the people sounded as the music of the harp to one another. This Cruithne was blessed with seven braw sons. Fearing they would weaken the kingdom by making war upon one another after his death, this king divided the land into seven provinces, over which each son would independently rule.”
Olith paused for a moment. “In commemoration of this event, Cruithne ordered seven great swords to be forged, one for each of his sons. Upon their coronation, to ensure that none should seek dominion over the others, each king swore an oath by the earth and stars that, thenceforth, from the maternal nobility alone should succession occur.”
“Ye mean to say the kingdoms would pass only through the women?” Sibylla asked.
“Aye,” the old woman answered. “To prevent rival sons from slaying one another, the most worthy among the maternal offspring were elected to the high throne. But vanity and greed are powerful forces that move men to deplorable acts. Over time, the vow was broken by one who desired to glorify himself above all others and establish a lasting dynasty in his own name. By the murder of his own kinsmen, MacBeth stole the crown but he, eventually, was also slain in an act of vengeance. ’Tis also how the Seven Swords of Cruithne became known ever after as the Kingslayers. Thenceforth, the throne of Scotland has always been steeped in blood.”
“Is this all true?” Sibylla asked.
“Aye. Ye only need look to yer own family history to find the truth of it,” her grandmother replied. “’Twas Malcolm Cenn Mór who slayed my faither, Lulach, for his crown. My son, Angus, proudly carried the sword of Moray into battle against Cenn Mór’s son, David.”
“But my faither, not the king, was killed in the battle,” Ailis said.
“Aye,” the old woman replied. “Angus died by treachery, curse their black souls! But his sword was recovered and returned it to Kilmuir before it could be given to Cenn Mór. When the time is right, the sword of our ancestors will once again earn its name.”
“Where are the others?” Sibylla asked.
“Four of the seven are in David Cenn Mór’s possession. But God forbid he ever obtains the lot of them.”
An ominous shiver of foreboding crept up Sibylla’s spine. “What are ye saying, Grandmother?”
“’Tis believed that the one who possesses them all will become invincible,” the old woman replied.
“But how would Alexander have come by such a sword?” Ailis asked.
“That is a verra good question,” the old woman replied. “It seems young Alexander of Portmahomack is nae what he appears.”
“There is much we dinna ken of him,’ Sibylla said. “But I am certain he is more than just a foundling raised in the monastery.”
“He is nae a foundling,” her grandmother said. “He is blood of a king and a king’s blood will soon be shed.”
Sibylla’s heart leapt into her throat. “Alexander is in danger?”
“Aye. It has already begun and he will play a part.”
“Wh-what part?” Sibylla asked. “Ye dinna mean he will die?” Sibylla asked in a choked whisper.
“I have seen only the crimson-stained blade.” The old woman’s voice quavered and her frail body shook with passion. “But I pray I will also live to see the rightful king on the Scottish throne.” The old woman’s thin lips curled into a slow, satisfied smile. “At long last, Angus MacAedh of Moray will be avenged. I refuse to go to my grave until the last Cenn Mór falls.”
*
THOUGH ’TWAS ONLY half a day’s journey, Alex’s body felt battered by the time they arrived at the hilltop overlooking Inverness. As Alex slid down from his horse, his feet sank nearly to the ankles in the mire, a pungent mix of mud and manure.
“What is this place?” Alexander asked. The grounds had the appearance of a former stronghold, though nothing now remained but the crumbling stones that once formed a palisade.
“Old Castlehill,” MacAedh replied. ’Twas once the castle of MacBeth, but King Malcolm burned it to ashes after MacBeth killed his faither. Now it’s only used to contain cattle.” He nodded to the enclosure where makeshift livestock pens held hundreds of cows, sheep, goats, and pigs. Several of the king’s men stood by counting heads as MacAedh’s drovers began herding their beasts into the pens.
The area that once comprised the bailey was filled with men—speaking a mixture of Gaelic and Anglo-Norman. Alex noted at once that it appeared as if an invisible wall divided them. On one side of the courtyard were the Highlanders who’d come to pay their taxes, and on the other sides were the king’s men who eyed them with open contempt.
“What now?” Alex asked.
“We will wait while they count the livestock,” MacAedh answered. “I will nae depart this place without proof in hand that my feu is paid in full.”
“Ye do nae trust the king’s men?”
“I do nae. Those who work for the Cenn Mór have only gained his trust by betraying their own. There are many amongst this lot,” he cast his gaze over the Highlanders, “who would put a sword through the king’s men without a second thought.”
“Surely it must be difficult to be bound to pay tribute to a man one despises,” Alex remarked.
“We bear it only for the good of our clans,” MacAedh said. “They have suffered much. I would nae make them suffer again purely because I refuse to swallow my pride. Sadly, ’tis a lesson my nephew has yet to learn.”
Domnall could, indeed, have learned much from MacAedh’s example, but Alex feared he was already on the reckless path to destruction. Alex didn’t know whether to admire MacAedh’s loyalty to his clan or to pity him for his unenviable position. MacAedh, however, was hardly a figure to inspire pity. It took a strong man to act according to his conscience, especially when it meant sacrificing some of his self-respect.
“There is something else I dinna understand,” Alex said. “If yer brother rebelled against the king, how is it that ye were made Thane of Kilmuir?”
“By the time I came of age, the Cenn Mór had great confidence that the Highlands had been brought into submission by Domnall’s sire, Fitz Duncan. Only because there was peace, was I was allowed to return to Kilmuir, but Cenn Mór has always had his spies. The last one wore the garb of a priest.” He added with a pointed look, “’Tis why the post at Kilmuir is now vacant.”
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 b
oth 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.
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