Reckless Scotland: A Scottish Medieval Romance Bundle

by Victoria Vane

  “Aye,” Davina said. “I dinna wish to return to Haddington Priory while the princess is still mourning, but I do wish to find some small way to minister to others here at Dunfermline.”

  He steepled his fingers under his double chin and studied her in a long silence. “Do you have something particular in mind?”

  “At the priory, I tended the gardens and was responsible for the herbary,” Davina said.

  The abbot shook his head. “I’m afraid Brother Hebert would not willingly give up even a small plot in the abbey gardens. Even if he could be persuaded, we have a strict policy prohibiting fraternization between the sexes.” He released a long sigh. “I’m afraid it will be exceedingly difficult to find anything for you here.”

  “Do ye minister to the poor and needy?” she asked.

  “We feed the poor at the abbey,” Father Abbot said. “For nigh sixty years since her passing, we have carried on the ministry of Queen Margaret,” he proudly declared. “We would not exist were it not for King Malcolm and Queen Margaret.”

  At the nunnery, Davina had heard many stories of King Malcolm and Queen Margaret. Malcolm was a brutal and bloodthirsty tyrant, whose chief weaknesses were his hunger for English lands, and his passion for his saintly wife. Margaret, renowned for her devotion, spent the first half of each day on her knees in prayer and the rest feeding the poor and washing their feet. Perhaps King Malcolm believed his queen’s piety compensated for his owns sins?

  The current king, their youngest son, David, had followed both of his parents’ examples, making merciless war on his enemies while spending enormous sums on building monasteries and cathedrals. Did he also act out of fear for his own immortal soul? Could God’s favor truly be won by such works if there was no true love of humanity in one’s heart?

  “What of the sinners?” she suddenly asked. “Do ye also minister to them?”

  The abbot regarded her with a condescending look. “Are we not all sinners, Sister Mary Malachy?”

  Davina flushed. “I meant those who have been convicted of their sins in the courts of law. Do ye care for the criminals who have been imprisoned?”

  His gaze hardened. “The prisoners are tended well enough. They receive gruel twice daily from the abbey. We take it to the guardhouse prison and the captain ensures they are fed.”

  They provided such a meager sustenance? Yet, Dunfermline was said to be the largest and the richest abbey in the entire kingdom.

  “Only gruel?” Davina remarked.

  “Man does not live by bread alone,” he shrugged.

  “But surely they canna thrive on so little,” Davina insisted.

  “Thrive?” he repeated with a chuckle. “Prison is not a place to thrive, Sister. Prison is a place for penitence.”

  “Penitence? Then ye provide spiritual food to them?” she asked.

  The abbot looked suddenly uncomfortable. “Many are beyond saving,” he said, “And the rest do not live long enough to repent.”

  She was bitterly reminded of the time she visited Domnall in the king’s prison and the wretchedness of his condition. Some were surely guilty of their crimes, but she had little faith in the king’s justice. How many others were unjustly condemned and left to rot?

  “Surely there are some who are innocent of their crimes,” Davina said. “Many are incarcerated in the guardhouse jail before their guilt has even been proven.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Do you disparage the king’s justice, Sister?”

  She shook her head. “’Tis nae my place to judge, nor disparage, but it is my place to serve those in need. And by yer leave, I wish to tend the prisoners.”

  “You wish to spend your days in that filthy Godforsaken place?”

  “Aye,” she replied, suddenly certain.

  Father Abbot regarded her with a slow shake of his head. “You are a strange creature, Sister Mary Malachy, but far be it for me to deny you. If this is truly what you desire, I will take your request before the Chief Justiciar.”

  “It is what I desire,” she said with a nod.

  Davina didn’t understand how it had come about, but instead of spending a few hours a week with her hands in the dirt in a sunlit garden, she had now committed herself to tending forgotten wretches in the dank, dark confines of the jails. Yet, she knew in her heart of hearts that this was her Divine calling.

  *

  “THE PRISON?” THE princess looked shocked and appalled. “Why would you wish to go there?”

  “Even sinners are deserving of compassion, Highness,” Davina said. “I dinna understand why, but I ken that this is my calling.”

  The princess threw her hands in the air. “But you promised to help me!”

  “I will, Highness, perhaps in ways ye and I couldna imagine. I will now have access to the kitchens as well as the most heavily-protected area of the palace. Servants ken far more than we realize and cooks and prison guards are wont to chinwag. I will report back to ye anything of note.”

  “Be certain to check yourself for lice after you go there,” the princess advised with a shudder.

  Davina began her new routine the very next day. First, she went to the palace kitchens and introduced herself to the cooks, who regarded her with similar looks of revulsion when she requested scraps of food for the prisoners.

  “They get gruel twice daily,” the head cook replied, hands on her well-rounded hips.

  “Would ye only give gruel were it yer husband or son in the prison?” Davina asked.

  The cook glowered. “’Tis all the king allows.”

  “Yet ye feed scraps to the pigs and dogs,” Davina countered. “Surely ye can spare a few crusts of bread?”

  The cook’s eyes flickered to a table of half a dozen neatly stacked, hollowed-out loaves. “Those are two days old. They were to be used as trenchers. Take them and be gone with you!”

  Stifling a chuckle, Davina scooped the bread into her basket and departed the kitchens bound for the guardhouse where she was met by a young man-at-arms who clearly resented his new assignment. Ignoring his grumbling, Davina descended the narrow, winding stone staircase to the prison below.

  Davina had seen a prison once before when Domnall was held at Carlisle but even that experience couldn’t fully prepare her for the stench and squalor. Hands reached out to her through iron bars. Faces with hollow eyes rife with desperation and despair filled her vision.

  Davina reached into her basket and broke off pieces from the almost rock hard loaves but the supply of bread was soon depleted, leaving Davina feeling as empty as her basket. It wasn’t enough! What more could she do?

  While the captives in all the other cells were crammed together like chickens in a coop, Davina was surprised to find the last cell in the jail, watched by two men, had but a single occupant. When she peered inside, she understood why. It was little better than an oubliette, not even large enough for its occupant to lie down and sleep. He was also chained to the wall. What was this man’s crime that he would be so treated?

  “Who is this?” Davina asked the sentries.

  “He is a traitor to the crown,” the first man answered.

  Davina wondered if he was a criminal after all, or just an unfortunate fool who had displeased the king. “Does this traitor have a name?” she asked, once more peering inside.

  “MacAedh, Thane of Kilmuir,” the first guard answered.

  Kilmuir? She had heard of this place before. She was certain of it.

  The prisoner’s head abruptly jerked up at the sound of his name. “J’ai soif,” he croaked in little more than a whisper. I’m thirsty.

  But she had nothing left. “He needs water,” she said.

  “He gets nothing until the morn,” the same man replied.

  “Nothing?” she repeated aghast.

  “Une tasse d’eau s’il vous plait?” The prisoner spoke again begging for a cup of water. His French was stilted and heavily-accented. She was certain he was a Highlander… from Kilmuir. Her pulse began to race. Could he be a
kinsman to Domnall? Would he have knowledge of him?

  As she struggled to figure out how to help him, Davina noticed the wineskins each of the sentries carried on their belts. Eyeing the skin, she licked her lips. “I am also parched.”

  Guessing her thoughts, the first guard hesitated.

  “Would ye deny a drink to a servant of the Lord?” she asked.

  The sentry promptly removed the skin from his belt and handed it to her.

  “Open the door,” she commanded.

  “No one is permitted to enter his cell, save the captain,” the second guard said.

  “I am here by the authority of the Chief Justiciar,” she replied in perfect imitation of the princess at her most imperious. “If ye will nae open it for me, send for the captain!”

  The two men once more exchanged questioning looks.

  “If we let you in, the door must be locked behind you,” the first guard replied.

  “Then lock it,” Davina said. “Do ye truly believe I would be endangered by him? The man is chained hand and foot.”

  The first guard shrugged and the second released a sigh of surrender. He sorted through the keys on the chain about his waist. A moment later, he opened the door into the cell.

  Kneeling in the dirty straw, Davina offered the wineskin to the prisoner’s cracked lips. His hands shook as he grasped the skin and began to drink. Eagerness and trembling hands led to wine dribbling down his face.

  “Slowly,” she warned, speaking now in Gaelic. “Ye dinna want to waste any.”

  His eyes jerked up to hers. “Who are ye?” he inquired in his native tongue.

  “I am Sister Mary Malachy of Haddington Priory.” Her gaze searched his.

  His eyes were not the same color as Domnall’s, yet, there was something familiar in his face. “I was once Davina of Crailing,” she offered her former name, hoping for any glimmer of recognition. Her heart sank when she found none. “I once kent a lad from Kilmuir, when I was at Carlisle Castle. Perhaps ye ken him?” It was, perhaps, reckless to allude to Domnall, with guards undoubtedly listening, but she spoke in Gaelic and made a point not to say his name.

  This time his eyes flickered. “My nephew was taken to Carlisle when he was a lad.”

  “Yer nephew?” she asked, barely able to take a breath for the fierce thumping inside her chest. Could this man be Domnall’s uncle?

  “He was the son of a man called Fitz Duncan.”

  Davina’s pounding heart nearly seized. “Was the son?”

  “Aye. Fitz Duncan is dead,” MacAedh said.

  Davina swallowed hard. Willing her voice to remain steady, she asked the question that had tortured her for way too long. “And his son? Is he also dead?”

  “Nae.” He shook his head. “He is verra much alive…” He added with a hint of a grin, “And a great thorn in my side.”

  She shut her eyes as a rush of relief escaped her lungs. Domnall lived!

  But the news overwhelmed her. Davina turned her face away with a stifled sob. Was it joy or despair she felt? She hardly knew, but there was no doubt in her mind that the hand of Providence had led her to the jail.

  After a few long breaths, she managed to compose herself. “I am glad to ken it,” she replied, struggling to keep emotion from her tone, lest the sentries become suspicious.

  “I am in this cage because I refused to renounce my allegiance to my nephew and swear fealty to Prince Malcolm.”

  “The king fears greatly for his grandson’s succession,” Davina said.

  “Aye. He has threatened to kill me as a traitor.”

  “Does yer nephew ken of yer imprisonment?” she asked. Surely Domnall would do something to help his kinsman.

  “Nae. He kens naught of it,” MacAedh replied.

  “What will ye do?” Davina asked.

  “I will either put my head in the noose or my neck on the block,” he replied dryly.

  “That isna what I meant,” Davina chided.

  “There is naught I can do,” he replied with a shrug that softly rattled his chains. “My first allegiance is sworn to God and then my own kin.”

  “Surely there must be someone who could carry a message to him,” she insisted.

  He regarded her with a wary look, as if uncertain whether he could trust her. “There is a monk who arrived with me,” MacAedh finally said. “His name is Alexander. Do ye ken aught of him?”

  “Nae,” she shook her head. “I am newly arrived myself. I came with Princess Adaline.”

  His eyes flickered in recognition of the name. “Henry’s widow?”

  “Aye,” Davina said. “I served his family for many years before the king sent me to the priory. I serve her even now.”

  His guarded look returned.

  “Ye can trust me,” Davina said. “I swear on the Virgin’s name that I will nae betray yer confidences. Do ye wish me to take a message to this Brother Alexander?”

  He was thoughtful for a long moment. “’Tis too risky,” he said at last. “I will nae have ye endanger yerself.”

  He suddenly reverted back to French and handed her the now empty wineskin. “Thank ye, Sister. May ye be blessed for yer kindness.”

  Davina also reverted back to French. “’Tis my mission to tend all of the prisoners. I will come each day that I am able. Is there aught else ye need when I return?” she asked.

  “My freedom?” he suggested wryly.

  Her heart squeezed with compassion. “I regret I canna give it to ye, but I can bring ye ale on the morrow, and I can pray with ye if ’twould ease yer suffering.”

  “Thank ye again, Sister,” he replied with an attempt at a smile. “Ye have, indeed, lessened my misery this day.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Tarbert Castle

  Kintyre Peninsula, Argyll

  FIVE DAYS AFTER departing Kilmuir, Domnall reached the western coastline. Although his departure from Kilmuir had been spontaneous and swift, the long journey from Black Isle to the southwest coast had given him the time he needed to think and to strategize.

  He knew Somerled, a man who had risen from relative obscurity to rule the west of Scotland and most of its islands, only by repute. A mighty warlord, he was the first to build a naval force strong enough to purge his territory of Vikings. A canny ruler, he had maintained both peace in his territory as well as relative autonomy through both his military might—and prudent political alliances.

  As Lord of Argyll, Somerled had wed the daughter of his chief rival Olaf, King of the Isles. Through this strategic alliance, Somerled had greatly expanded his power and influence. Although now at peace with the Scottish king, Somerled had fought in the great rebellion alongside Domnall’s uncle, Angus. It was Domnall’s greatest hope to forge a friendship based on his former fidelity to Domnall’s kinsman.

  Tarbert Castle, one of Somerled’s most strategic strongholds, lay on an isthmus between the eponymous East and West Tarbert sea lochs. Its position, on a strip of land barely a mile wide, allowed the seafaring warlord easy access to both the Firth of Clyde to the east and the Inner Seas to the west, while avoiding the long and hazardous passage around the Mull of Kintyre.

  His castle was heavily-garrisoned, but the men-at-arms gave Domnall little scrutiny. A lone man, particularly a Highlander, apparently posed no great threat to a fortress with walls ten feet thick. Access to the keep, however, was quite another matter.

  “Who are ye and what is yer business?” demanded a heavily-armed and equally battle-scarred sentry.

  “I am Domnall Mac William of Castle Kilmuir, Black Isle. My Uncle Angus was Mormaer of Moray and well-known to Lord Somerled. In the memory of this old friendship, I seek an audience with yer lord.”

  He pierced Domnall with a one-eyed stare, his other being covered with a patch. “Wait ye here,” he commanded after a short assessment. He departed abruptly with a terse nod to two other armed men, apparently to ensure his orders were obeyed.

  In reality, Domnall knew little about the relationship
between Somerled and his uncle, only that they had once fought as allies. He prayed the bond between them had been formed on terms of true friendship, rather than just an alliance against a mutual enemy.

  To his relief, Domnall’s period of uncertainty was short-lived.

  The captain promptly returned, now eyeing him more with curiosity than aggression. “My lord will receive ye.”

  Entering the castle, they first passed a well-stocked armory with walls adorned with various and sundry weaponry from polearms to battle axes and many varieties of swords. One wall displayed ornately engraved Highland targes and brightly painted Viking shields. The room was meant to intimidate any who entered Somerled’s realm.

  To his surprise, Domnall was not conducted to the great hall, as he’d expected but through it to a steep staircase leading to the second level, normally reserved as private quarters. They continued through a torch-lit hallway to a chamber that resonated with feminine giggles and childish squeals. The sentry opened the door to a well-lighted solar and a shockingly domestic scene.

  A man lay on the bare floor wrestling with two young lads, while an attractive blonde woman with a babe in arms observed their antics with laughter, while another darker woman looked on with a wistful expression.

  The man rose at Domnall’s entrance, looking mildly embarrassed, but the boys held tightly to their father, with one clinging to his back and the other hanging from his neck. Domnall was stunned at the display. Was this the great warlord?

  Peeling the children from his body, he strode to Domnall with outstretched arms and a warm smile. The man was large and his embrace was hearty. “Welcome ye to Kintyre, Domnall Mac William. I am Somerled, and this is my wife, Ragnhilde, my sister Mariota, he indicated the second woman, and my two youngest sons.”

  The blonde woman inclined her head with a smile. The boys were now grappling with each other.

  “Thank ye, my lord,” Domnall replied humbly. “Yer welcome overwhelms me.”

  “Come. Sit.” Somerled indicated a cushioned bench by the hearth.