Reckless Scotland: A Scottish Medieval Romance Bundle

by Victoria Vane

“’Tis a mortal sin to take a life, Highness,” Davina offered softly. “Ye must consider yer own soul.”

  “My soul?” The princess released a short burst of manic laughter. “Do you think I will ever be at peace so long as any of them live? If I am condemned to the fires of hell, so be it! My own suffering will be much lessened by the joy of witnessing theirs.”

  The feverish look in her eyes filled Davina with outright fear. Had the princess gone stark mad in her grief? Was she truly capable of murder? Davina would never have believed it, but given Prince Henry’s unexpected death, the loss of the princess’ infant, the attack on Prince Malcolm, and the king’s collapse, anything seemed possible.

  *

  AFTER THE PRINCESS retired to her bed, Davina departed with her prayer book, ostensibly to attend the ongoing prayer vigil for the king. Brother Alexander would be departing at first light. She must somehow find a way to warn him of the danger!

  Davina wondered for the first time if Prince Malcolm was truly the intended target of this attack. Or was he merely injured by happenstance. The Earl of Fife was to have been regent, but now the earl was dead. Was the Earl of Mearns the kind of man to plot against a rival? Everything he’d said seemed to indicate he would.

  If the king were to die, who would be in control of the kingdom? She didn’t understand the hierarchy of government, but knew for a certainly that it wouldn’t be a lad who had barely seen his twelfth summer.

  The haunting sound of chanting monks carried on the breeze as she crossed the courtyard between the palace and abbey. The monks were gathered in the cathedral in all night vigils of prayer and supplication for the king’s recovery and the safe return of the prince. But when she crossed the courtyard, she bypassed the cathedral. She was bound instead for the abbot’s office. She still struggled with a credible excuse to inquire after the monk, but all of her hopes for helping Domnall and his family lay in finding and warning Brother Alexander.

  As she entered the eerily empty abbey, Davina’s lone footsteps echoed against the walls of hewn stone. She paused and prayed before rapping lightly on the door.

  “You may enter,” answered an unfamiliar voice.

  An equally unfamiliar priest looked up at her. “May I help ye?”

  “I am Sister Mary Malachy. I-I was looking for Father Abbot,” she said.

  “He is nae here at present, Sister, but perhaps I can be of service?” He spoke Norman French as they all did, but his speech was thick with a Highland brogue.

  “I dinna think ye can,” she ventured in Gaelic.

  His brows shot up in surprise. “How do ye speak the Highland tongue?”

  “My máthair was Scottish and my father was Norman, but they are both dead.”

  “Ye are an orphan?” His expression softened with sympathy. “Is this how ye came to take the vows?”

  “Nae exactly,” she said. “Or nae right away. I was a ward of the king for a time, but I displeased him when I refused to wed.”

  “Ah! So he sent ye to the nunnery?”

  “Aye. I resided at Haddington Priory for three years but came here with Princess Adaline.”

  Davina eyed the man closely. “And ye?” she asked. “How does a Highland priest come to be amongst the monks of Dunfermline?”

  “I am the abbot of Portmahomack Monastery,” he said. “I came here to aid a friend. Father Abbot was kind enough to allow me the liberty of his quarters. He is at prayer now but will soon return.”

  Davina hesitated. “This friend of yers, is it another priest?” she asked.

  “A monk,” he replied. “One who is new to his vows and still seeking his path.”

  Her pulse quickened. Could this man be speaking of the monk she sought? She was almost afraid to ask, but she had little hope of finding Alexander if she did not. “I came here in hope of finding a Highland monk named Alexander,” she said. “Do ye ken him?”

  “Aye,” he replied slowly, his bushy gray brows pulling together. “The friend I speak of calls himself Alexander, but he has ne’er spoken of any acquaintance with a nun.”

  “Because we are nae acquainted,” she explained. “We do, however, have a mutual friend in Lady Sibylla of Kilmuir.”

  “Ah!” He inclined his bald head. “’Tis the Lady Sibylla who speaks through ye?”

  “Nae exactly,” Davina said. “But I come with a private matter of a verra urgent nature that concerns both of them.”

  “Do ye, indeed?” He studied her in a long, thoughtful silence.

  “Do ye ken where I can find him?” she asked.

  “I do ken,” he said. “But I fear meeting privately with a monk would nae be a good thing for ye. ’Twould be certain to draw unwanted attention.”

  “I understand yer caution, Faither…” she suddenly realized that he had not given his name.

  “Faither Gregor,” he supplied with a smile.

  “I am willing to take the risk,” she said.

  “Ye misunderstand, I am more concerned about my friend drawing unwanted attention,” he said. “I will be seeing Brother Alexander later this evening. Perhaps ye could entrust me with a message?”

  Did she dare? But it truly was a matter of life and death. Surely Domnall’s entire family was endangered if she didn’t warn them. Was there any other way? She didn’t see one. She took a breath and murmured a brief prayer.

  “Do ye swear in the name of the Blessed Virgin that ye will tell nae one save for the monk named Alexander of what I am about to say?”

  “I swear in the name of the Blessed Virgin and all the saints,” he replied.

  “Verra well,” Davina said. “Only hours ago, I witnessed a conversation between Princess Adaline and the Earl of Mearns. The earl told the princess that her son is a hostage and this monk named Alexander would be carrying the king’s message back to the prince’s captors.”

  “Aye, ’tis true,” the priest said. “I go with him.”

  “But there is more,” she continued, her heart beating so loud she could barely hear her own voice. “The earl is sending a party of men to follow him. They are to bring the prince back, but he also ordered them to kill everyone.”

  “Why would ye risk yerself to warn them?” he asked with a puzzled look.

  “Because Domnall Mac William was the one who saved me from the unwanted marriage I spoke of.” She licked her lips. “And because he is also a man I once loved.”

  “Ah. I have my answer.” His gaze softened and his lips curved. “I have kent Domnall’s family for many years. Ye can have peace with entrusting me to deliver yer message, Sister Mary Malachy.”

  “Davina,” she whispered the name she hadn’t used in three years.

  He cocked a brow.

  “Domnall kent me as Davina of Crailing.”

  “I will be certain to convey that as well,” the priest said.

  “Thank ye, Faither.” Davina left the abbot’s office for the cathedral, where she, indeed, spent the rest of the night in fervent prayer.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Castle Kilmuir

  THEIR HORSES WERE lathered and spent by the time Domnall and Gillecolum galloped through the gates of Castle Kilmuir. Somerled’s ship had saved him considerable time, but he still worried that he might be too late to save his uncle. He had almost ridden straight to Dunfermline from Kintyre, but it would have been a foolhardy move to arrive there with no men and no plan. He’d left Kintyre in the confidence that the men and ships that the warlord mentioned could very well be his for the asking. His first priority, however, was to contrive a solid plan to save MacAedh. If he could manage that part, surely the rest would follow.

  The bailey was all but deserted as they dismounted their horses. Where were the lads who tended the stables? Were Kenneth and Duncan still held at Inverness?

  “I dinna ken where the grooms are,” he offered to Gillecolum in apology.

  “I am accustomed to tending my own,” Gillecolum replied affably, then added dryly, “make nae mistake, Somerled doesna c
oddle his sons.”

  A man of few words, Gillecolum’s conversation had been sparse, but he had nonetheless made a good companion.

  Domnall hastily unsaddled and rubbed down his own horse with a curse. They had important business to tend to but the horses were far too valuable to neglect.

  “Domnall!” his half-sister Fiona emerged from the milking shed with two full buckets. “Ye are back! Did Ailis find ye?”

  “Aye,” he replied grimly. “But she has taken ill and remains in Kintyre for the nonce. Gillecolum, this lass is my half-sister Fiona,” he offered in introduction. Domnall released the horses into a paddock and tossed them an armload of fresh hay. “Where is everyone?”

  Fiona’s lower lip quivered with her reply, “Faither and Duncan ne’er returned from Inverness, and Uncle is soon to be executed by the king.”

  “What of the monk, Alexander?” Domnall demanded with a frown.

  “Alexander brought the prince a few days hence and departed this morn for Dunfermline to try to free Uncle.”

  Domnall eyed her in puzzlement. “Alexander brought the prince? What prince?”

  “Malcolm, of course,” Fiona answered.

  “Prince Malcolm is here? At Kilmuir?” Domnall repeated incredulously.

  “Aye. And he isna happy about it. All he does is complain.” She sighed. “He doesna like our food and willna drink our mead. ’Tis why I milked the cow.”

  Domnall was growing more confused by the minute. “Where is he?”

  “In yer room,” Fiona answered. “He’s wounded. He likes to talk about that.”

  “Come, Gillecolum!” Domnall urged his companion. “I must ken what this is about!”

  The two men strode swiftly through the bailey and entered the keep. The great hall was eerily empty and the hearth was fireless. Where were the women? There was no sign of Sibylla, his mother, or grandmother? Domnall took the stairs by twos. Although he wanted to go straight to his chamber, wisdom sent him first to the solar.

  “Domnall!” his mother rose with a cry. “Thank God ye have come!” His mother looked thin and tired and troubled. He rushed toward her for a quick embrace and then bent to kiss his grandmother’s thin, papery cheek.

  “Gillecolum, this is my máthair, Lady Gruaid, and my grandmáthair, Lady Olith. Máthair, grandmáthair, Gillecolum is the eldest son of Lord Somerled.”

  “Ye are most welcome to Kilmuir,” his mother replied.

  “I saw ye in a vision,” his grandmother said, her crooked fingers plucking at the fur rug on her lap. “Ye stood on the prow of a great ship that was in danger of being pulled into a maelstrom.”

  Gillecolum eyed Domnall with a questioning look.

  “My grandmáthair has visions,” Domnall explained. “Did ye see anything beyond that?” he asked, hoping his grandmother would offer a hint of things to come.

  “Nae more concerning ye,” she answered. “But I fear for MacAedh. I saw his neck stretched beneath a sword.”

  “Nae if I can help it,” Domnall said.

  His mother’s brows arched in inquiry as she searched behind him. “Where is Ailis?”

  “She took ill,” Domnall replied, keeping to his vow not to say anything more of her condition. “But she is in good hands. Somerled’s sister, Mariota, cares for her. Now tell me, please, what has come to pass!”

  “Sit,” his mother commanded. “Ye both look half-dead. I will fetch refreshment and tell ye all.”

  The two men sat in stunned silence between sips of mead, as Domnall’s mother quickly relayed the catastrophic events that had occurred since he’d departed Kilmuir barely over a fortnight ago. “Ailis told ye that yer uncle and Alexander went to see the king?” she asked.

  “Aye, and that MacAedh was imprisoned for his efforts on my behalf. But what of Alexander?” he asked.

  “Alexander was conscripted into the king’s service,” she replied.

  “So he betrays us!” Domnall hissed.

  “He does nae such thing,” she reassured. “He was given nae choice in the matter, but it has served to our advantage.”

  “How?” Domnall demanded.

  “’Twas Alexander who saved the prince’s life and Alexander who goes now to negotiate for my brother’s and Sibylla’s return.”

  “Sibylla?” Domnall asked. His anxiety rose as he noticed his sister’s absence from the solar. “What has any of this to do with her?”

  “She went to court a sennight ago to plead for yer uncle’s life. She was unsuccessful and now the king refuses to let her go.”

  Domnall clawed a hand through his hair with a groan. “Bluidy, bluidy hell! What is to be done?”

  “We can do naught but wait until Alexander returns with the king’s reply,” she answered.

  “But what is all this about the prince?” Domnall asked. “How, exactly, does he come to be here?”

  “Mayhap he should tell ye himself,” his mother suggested. “He is bored for company and loves to recount the tale, now that his life is nae longer in peril. He fancies himself quite the warrior.”

  “I remember the lad,” Domnall said.

  “Ye ken Prince Malcolm?” his mother asked.

  “Aye, when he was a wee lad. He always fancied the knights.”

  “Aye? We dinna need another Norman on the Scottish throne,” his grandmother said. “Take yer sword with ye and kill him. The crown is yers by right.”

  “I will do nae such thing!” Domnall protested.

  His grandmother’s unadulterated hatred for the Cenn Mórs was legendary and probably what kept her alive for so long. She’d sworn not to go to her grave before their defeat. Domnall had made a similar vow to himself, but murdering a child was not part of the bargain.

  He set his cup down and pushed to his feet. “I will speak with the lad.”

  “I will await ye here,” Gillecolum said. “We will talk after ye have seen the prince.”

  *

  PRINCE MALCOLM WAS sitting up in Domnall’s bed drinking a cup of fresh milk when Domnall arrived.

  “Highness? How do ye fare?” Domnall asked, noting his heavily-bandaged shoulder.

  “As well as can be expected I suppose.” The prince set the cup down and searched Domnall’s face with a furrowed brow. “We have met before, have we not?”

  “Aye, yer Highness,” Domnall replied. “At Haddington. We played a game in the rose garden. ’Twas some time ago.”

  “Ah! I recall now!” the prince exclaimed. “You are my cousin, Domnall.” His frown quickly returned. “They say you murdered a man.”

  “Is self-defense murder?” Domnall asked. “He was about to take my life.”

  “’Tis not the way I heard it,” the boy replied. “They say you ripped out his testicles and ate them! It is true?”

  Domnall somehow managed a stern reply. “Norman bollacks are a Highland delicacy, dinna ye ken?”

  The prince’s eyes grew impossibly wide. He replied in a hoarse voice. “I-I need mine. Kings are expected to breed.”

  It was a still a struggle for Domnall to maintain a straight face. “Yer bollacks are quite safe, Highness.”

  “How is it that you live?” the lad asked. “The king sentenced you to hang.”

  “I dinna relish the idea verra much,” Domnall answered with a shrug.

  “And now you are an outlaw. Was it you who attacked me?” the prince asked.

  “Nae, Highness,” Domnall shook his head. “I have been away and only learned of this an hour ago. What precisely happened?”

  The prince’s entire demeanor became animated as he began his narrative. “About a sennight ago, I departed Dunfermline to commence a grand tour of the kingdom, accompanied by the Earl of Fife and the king’s honor guard, of two hundred knights. After a brief sojourn at Inverness, we were on our way north to Rosemarkie when we were ambushed by Highlanders at the River Beauly. Hundreds of men were lying in wait for us—in the trees, and ditches, and hiding in the forest. There was a great horn blast and then they attack
ed! ’Twas a sudden and merciless assault with arrows raining like hailstones. I was swimming in the river when an arrow pierced clean through my shoulder. But I knew I must escape, so I swam the river all the way to the Beauly Firth.”

  “With a shoulder wound?” Domnall could barely conceal his skepticism. He couldn’t help feeling that there was far more to the escape story than the prince let on. “Ye must be quite an excellent swimmer.”

  “I am!” declared the prince. “I excel at many athletic endeavors.”

  “The Beauly Firth is almost ten miles away. How did ye come to Kilmuir?”

  “Brother Alexander was with me. ’Twas he who brought me here.”

  “Ah!” That explained it. “He must also be an excellent swimmer,” Domnall remarked dryly.

  “Are you holding me for ransom?” Malcolm asked. “The king will not like it. He despises abductions.”

  “We ask nae ransom,” Domnall said. “We only desire the safe return of our own kin.”

  “An exchange of prisoners then? That is what the English did with King Stephen and the Duke of Gloucester. ’Twas a foolish move,” the prince remarked. “Empress Matilda never should have let the king go. It may well have cost her the crown of England.”

  “Are ye saying we shouldna let ye go?” Domnall asked.

  “I would not if I were you, but then again, my grandfather will surely kill your kinsmen if you do not let me go. You must ask yourselves which is more important to you,” the prince said. “Holding me captive or your kinsmen’s lives?”

  “Ye dinna wonder which is more important to the king?” Domnall countered. “Would he rather hold them captive than see ye returned safely?”

  The prince cocked his head as if considering this angle for the first time. “Forsooth, you are damned either way. If you kill me, your kinsmen are dead. If you hold me, they are also dead. You cannot win this.”

  Cocky little bastard. Nevertheless, the prince had a point. Alexander had gone to negotiate with the king, but not from a true position of strength. The king had men and arms to enforce his will. They had only Malcolm.

  “We will await the king’s reply,” Domnall said, offering the prince nothing further of his thoughts. Domnall rose. “I leave ye to rest now, Highness.”