The Forbidden Highlands

by Kathryn Le Veque

  Alexander’s eyes burned. He tried to hold back, but scalding tears began leaking down his face.

  She gripped his shoulders and gave him a shake. “No more of that, my lad. Ye are from warrior stock. Ye must be brave.”

  “When will I see ye again?”

  “When it is safe, I will send for ye. Until then, no one must know where ye are … or who ye are.” Her grip tightened painfully on his shoulders. “Do ye understand me?”

  “Aye, Maither,” he replied in a choked whisper.

  “Good.” She reached inside her cloak and withdrew a silver mounted sgian-dubh. “Take this. It was your grandfather’s. Father Gregor will teach ye how to use it.”

  Alexander fingered the leather sheath and then gingerly withdrew the blade and squinted at the inscription. Veritatem, Virtutem, Vindictae. He recognized that it was Latin but at four years old, had only just begun his lessons. “What does it mean?”

  “Truth, valor, vengeance.” She knelt and took his face in both of her hands and then kissed his cheeks.

  Alexander threw both of his arms around her neck and shut his eyes but the flood still would not be dammed. She responded by pulling him into her bosom where she held him tight, her own body now racked with quiet sobs.

  After a long moment, she withdrew, pulled his woolen plaid tightly around him, and nodded to the priest.

  Chapter One

  Portmahomack Monastery,

  Northern Kingdom of Alba

  1151 A.D.

  “Ye sent for me, Faither?” Alexander entered the priest’s private chamber with trepidation. Being summoned to the abbot wasn’t usually a good thing. Had he committed some unknown trespass?

  “Come, come,” Father Gregor beckoned him impatiently inside and waved him to a chair. “There’s naught amiss. There’s someone ye must meet. This is MacHeth, Thane of Kilmuir, who’s come seeking a tutor.”

  “A tutor?” Alexander said.

  The stranger was large, proportioned much like a mountain, with a black beard and penetrating dark eyes. He greeted Alexander with a silent nod. Alex guessed he was probably only a decade older than himself, but his authoritative air made him appear much older.

  “Aye,” MacHeth replied. “My nephew has nigh come of age, yet he’s sadly ignorant.”

  “He’s had no education?” Alexander asked.

  “He’s had a Sassennach education,” MacHeth spat. It was clear he had no love of the English. “Young Domnall can barely read nor write, nor does he ken anything of our history and our ways. Father Gregor thinks ye’d be best to teach him.”

  “Ye’re my brightest pupil,” the abbot said, “And would no doubt also be a good companion for the young laird.”

  “But I’m content here,” Alexander said, suddenly filled with panic. He’d lived almost his entire life in the monastery. After sixteen years, he had only the dimmest recollection of his former life. He barely remembered his father, and even his beloved mother’s face had almost faded completely from his memory.

  “Only because ye have never known anything else,” the abbot replied.

  That much was true.

  “Soon t’will be time to take your vows,” Father Gregor continued, “I would have ye see something more of the world before ye pledge yourself to this life. Ye will go with MacHeth for six months. After that, we can discuss your future. Now go and pack your belongings.”

  “Aye, Faither,” Alexander replied.

  A large hand pressed to his shoulder as he made to leave. “Thank ye, lad,” MacHeth gave him a reassuring nod. Nevertheless, Alex felt as if he were being expelled from the only home he remembered. Since his arrival at the monastery as a child, Alex had rarely left the Tarbat ness. He’d had little exposure to outsiders, other than the few nearby crofters who attended Sabbath worship. The secluded fishing village rarely received visitors, but now he was leaving with a man he knew nothing about.

  It took only a few minutes for Alexander 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 texts and committing them to memory. 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 codex back to the abbot.

  “Here is the psalter,” Alexander said, offering it to the abbot. “I had hoped to finish the text with illumination.” Although he spent most of his time in vellum production, drawing and painting were secret passions of his. Alexander was mightily disappointed that he’d never have a chance to complete his work.

  “Then take it with ye,” Father Gregor urged him with a smile.

  “Thank ye, Faither,” Alexander murmured and tucked the codex into his tunic next to his heart. “Have ye materials for teaching?” Alexander asked MacHeth.

  “Aye,” he replied. “We have an entire library at Kilmuir.”

  Alexander was incredulous. “A private library?”

  “Aye. Though we often lend to those who ask. Ye’ll find no shortage for teaching. Come now, lad,” MacHeth urged. “We have a long ride.”

  “Good-bye, Faither,” Alexander said.

  “Godspeed, my son,” the abbot replied.

  MacHeth led Alexander 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. Ye’ll ride,” MacHeth said. He inclined his head to a fair headed youth who appeared but a few years Alex’s junior. “Domnall, meet your tutor. Now help him onto the horse.”

  MacHeth was a man of few words, but those he uttered were well-heeded. The youth came forward with the horse and a breath of muttered curses as he gave Alexander a knee up onto the beast’s back.

  “I don’t need another tutor,” he mumbled in French-accented Gaelic. Was the lad a Norman? His speech and mannerisms revealed that he’d been raised in the southern kingdom. Was he the son of a noble come to foster with MacHeth? Whatever his history, Domnall’s resentment only strengthened Alexander’ unease about leaving the monastery.

  “Ye do if ye ever wish to claim your birthright,” his uncle called over his shoulder. “The men of Moray will ne’er follow a Sassenach.”

  “They followed my father,” he argued.

  “Aye. But only to kill more Sassenachs.”

  Domnall’s body visibly stiffened but he had no other rebuttal.

  Who was this young man? Obviously someone of importance. His uncle had ridden over forty miles to find him a tutor, and his father must have been a soldier of some repute. He was riddled with questions, but Alexander was long accustomed to holding his tongue. All would surely be revealed in time.

  “Hallowed be thou, Vervein, as thou grow on the ground. In the mount of Calvary was thou first found. Thou healed our Saviour, 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,” Ailis murmured the ancient prayer as she uprooted the last of the herb harvest and placed it gently into her basket.

  “Are we finished?” Sibylla asked.

  “Aye, we have enough and some to spare,” Ailis answered. It had taken several days and countless hours, but their harvest was now complete. “Come now.” Ailis took Sibylla’s hand. “Tis time for the charm.”

  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 spectacular view that stretched the length and breadth of Black Ilse—from the C
romarty and Beauly Firths to the Affric Mountains in the west.

  They continued to the circle of standing stones, silently walking the perimeter three times before advancing to the center where they spread out their plaids 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.

  It was their grandmother, Olith, who had taught her the healing properties of plants, knowledge that had been passed down from her mother, a Pictish priestess. 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. Most of them were an odd but harmless mix of Pictish and Christian rituals.

  Sibylla largely humored her, but being a superior climber, Sibylla especially enjoyed the Yuletide gathering of mistletoe from the 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 perching in the branches, like a fairy princess gazing out of a high tower.

  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.

  “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 Kimuir. 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.

  “Back then, hundreds gathered in this place for Beltane, Midsummer, and Samhain,” Ailis said. “But after the rebellion, the king’s men realized ’twas the easiest place to conscript new recruits. We have not lit the banefires since I was a child. I wish ye had been with us then. Give me your 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. 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 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. 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 node. “Yellow suits ye. It brings out the gold in your hair.”

  Ailis then unraveled her 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.”

  “But we were only girls before,” Ailis said. “’Tis different now.”

  “Different how?” Sibylla asked.

  “We’re older and ready to take a husband. Here.” She handed Sibylla a sprig of vervain. “Place this under your pillow tonight and mayhap ye’ll receive a vision of who ye will wed.”

  “I dinna ken your hurry to shackle yourself to a man,” Sibylla said. “I intend to wait at least two more years.”

  “Aye?” Ailis challenged. “Do ye really think ye’ll just be able to snap your fingers and get whichever man ye want when ye finally decide?”

  “How hard can it be?” Sibylla asked.

  “How many have kissed ye?”

  “Well none…yet,” Sibylla replied, “but only because I haven’t really wanted to be kissed.”

  “What makes ye such an expert? Have ye ever been kissed?”

  “Aye,” Ailis answered with a dreamy smile. “I’ve been kissed.”

  “Ye have?” Sibylla felt a violent 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 not?” Sibylla asked.

  Ailis averted her face with a sniff. “Because he hasn’t done it since.”

  “Then mayhap wasn’t a good kiss,” Sibylla suggested. “Maybe ye need more practice at it?”

  “Tis hardly a thing ye can do by yourself!” 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 ready to drop the subject. She tapped her chin in thought. Who could she persuade to kiss Ailis? It would 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 not 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?”

  Ailis looked away. “I dinna want to talk about it anymore.”

  Sibylla watched in bemusement as her cousin snatched up her basket and stormed off toward the castle. All this time, she’d had no idea that Ailis had fixed her interest on Domnall. Shame on him for toying with her! At least ’twas only a harmless kiss.

  Or was there perhaps a reason Ailis had suddenly fixed her mind on marriage? Surely he hadn’t… She was quick to shake off the thought. Her brother would never be so callous. 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. She prayed he didn’t plot something dangerous. Vowing to have a strong word with him, she rose and shook out her grass-covered plaid. Sibylla then took up her own basket and headed toward home.

  Taking in the view one last time, Sibylla noticed a group of distant riders. There were at least six of them, but they were too far away to identify. Were they just kinsmen come to celebrate the Midsummer feast? Or, her chest tightened, could they be soldiers come to recruit and pillage?

  Hugging her basket to her chest, Sibylla sprinted down the hill and through the bailey, her bare feet slapped the wooden planks as she crossed over the bridge. She 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.

  “Riders,” Sibylla replied breathlessly. “Are we expecting anyone?”

  Her mother rose with a frown. “Nae. How many?

  “Six? Maybe more?” she suggested.

  The frown between her mother’s brows subtly softened. “Then ’tis not likely king’s men. They never travel in Moray so light in number. They wouldn’t dare. ’Tis likely yer uncle returning with the new tutor.”

  “Tutor?” Sibylla said.

  “Aye, but if yer uncle means to civilize your brother, little good ’twill do. He wasn’t inclined to studies even as a lad.” She yanked off her apron. “Whoever ’tis, we’re hardly presentable to receive anyone. Off with ye now to clean yourself up, and then we’ll go to greet them.”

  Though his traveling companions carried on a robust exchange, peppered with taunts, lewd rem
arks, and laughter, seated as he was on the back of the horse, Alex only caught short snatches of the dialogue. He was lost in his own thoughts as he took in the changing scenery. They traveled southwest, skirting the coast of the peninsula for a few miles before heading inland. The landscape soon transformed from rocky coastline to rolling hills and grassy meadows of 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, and the cottagers smiled and waved in recognition of their thane.

  After a time, a castle came into view, a tall, proud rectangular structure of native sandstone commanding a strategic view of the Moray firth.

  MacHeth 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 your new home.”

  The horses broke into a brisk trot, as if they recognized home and knew oats awaited them. The gatehouse opened 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 scene was achingly reminiscent of his childhood home of Fettercairn, a place he hadn’t even thought of in over a decade.

  A red bearded giant named Magnus slid down from his mount to scoop up a pair of giggling twins that he set on the back of his horse. This happy chaos seemed a whole different world to Alexander after the controlled serenity of the monastery.

  As he dismounted, a female voice inquired, “Are ye the new tutor?” He spun to face a pair of large sea green eyes that looked him up and down with slow scrutiny. “Ye don’t look like a tutor.”

  “Nae? What is a tutor supposed to look like?” he asked.

  Her brow wrinkled. “Auld I suppose. And stern. Ye don’t look very stern nor are ye much older than Domnall and me.”

  “And ye are?” he asked.

  “The Lady Sibylla,” she offered with a mock curtsey. “Domnall’s sister.” She wrinkled her nose. “Are ye a priest? Why haven’t ye a shaved head? What should we call ye?” she asked.