Reckless Scotland

by Vane, Victoria

  “What befell my faither?” Alex asked. “I ken now that he was betrayed, but what became of him?”

  “Only two people ken for certain,” the priest replied slowly. “The king and Eachann of Mearns, but no one has spoken of him these last seventeen years.”

  “And my máthair?” Alex pressed. “What do ye ken of her?”

  “She was the daughter of MacLeon of Mearns, the man who killed King Duncan. Yer faither wed her to gain the forfeited MacLeon lands but then fell in love with her and swore to make her queen of all Scotland.”

  “Do ye ken what became of her?” Alex asked. “Does she still live?”

  Father Gregor shook his head sadly. “To win favor with the king, her brother promised her in marriage to a Norman.”

  “Marriage?” Alex searched the priest’s face. “But she was already wed to my faither. Surely she wouldna have done such a thing if he lived.”

  “She was given little choice, so she chose her own destiny,” he replied softly.

  Alex’s heart raced. “What are ye saying?”

  “The anguished lass cast herself from the cliffs of Castle Dunnottar.” Father Gregor made the sign of the cross.

  Alex was dumbstruck. “She took her own life? That was why she ne’er sent for me?”

  “Aye, lad.”

  Alex turned his face to the sea, gazing out at the waves cresting and crashing on the shore. His kind, loving, and beautiful mother had come to such a state of despair that she’d thrown herself to her death? His heart wrenched as he shut his eyes on the image of his mother’s lifeless body dashed against the rocks under the dark shadow of Dunnottar. The vision that brought on a swell of emotion so great it threatened to drown him. The mixture of anger, frustration and grief were a physical pain so profound that his body shook with the effort to contain it.

  ’Twas all his uncle’s doing! God damn him! God damn him to the infernal gates of hell!

  Alex felt the abbot’s approach and then a bony hand resting on his shoulder. “Be ye assured that those who have sinned against ye will one day be accountable to God. Ye must find peace in this truth, Alexander.”

  “I canna!” Alex wrenched away. “There will be no peace for my soul until justice is done. I will see my máthair and faither avenged. I swear it.” Alex didn’t know how, or where, or when, but he would not rest until he saw Eachann of Mearns punished for his crimes.

  “Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord,” the abbot softly quoted. “I urge ye to submit to the Lord and seek His guidance in this matter.”

  “I have prayed much of late in search of His will and He answered by sending ye,” Alex replied. “Now I dinna ken what to think.”

  “Be patient,” the priest advised. “And He will reveal His will.”

  Father Gregor said nothing more as he and Alex climbed the hill back to the castle. Alex appreciated the old man’s sensitivity. Dusk had cast its long shadows over the keep by the time Alex and the abbot returned.

  “Do ye depart in the morn?” Alex asked.

  “Aye,” the abbot replied. “After Lauds.”

  “Then I will see ye in the chapel,” Alex promised.

  The priest raised a bushy brow. “Ye dinna sup with us?”

  “I have no appetite,” Alex replied. Food was the last thing on his mind. His stomach was still in knots. He also had no desire for polite conversation or merriment while his spirit was in deep mourning. It would take time to reconcile his thoughts and emotions. For now he needed silence and solitude.

  “I ken ye need time alone, lad,” the abbot said. “I’ll make yer excuses to MacAedh.”

  “Thank ye, Faither,” Alex replied. “And thank ye for finally sharing the truth.”

  “Ye must nae let the worm of vengeance eat its way into yer heart, lad,” the priest warned. “If ye do, ’twill surely destroy ye.” On those words, he turned toward the keep.

  After parting company with the abbot, Alex returned to his room but sleep eluded him. Time and again, his mind conjured the hazy memories of his mother and father. Having never closed his eyes, Alex rose hours before dawn to join Father Gregor in the chapel for Lauds. After the hour together in prayer, they returned to the keep where Father Gregor prepared to take his leave.

  “Would ye like me to send a man to accompany ye to Dunkeld?” MacAedh asked. “The roads are unsafe for a lone traveler.”

  “Nae, lad,” Father Gregor replied with a shake of his head. “’Tis safe enough for me. ’Twould be a desperate robber, indeed, to molest a penniless abbot with only a sack of day old bannocks and a skin full of ale.”

  “Nevertheless, there are those who would take it and leave ye naked by the wayside,” MacAedh warned.

  “If any man is in greater need of my possession than I, he may have them,” Father Gregor replied.

  “Ye would just give them up without a fight?” MacAedh asked.

  “Without a thought,” the old man corrected. “The Lord has always provided all of my needs.”

  Though the priest protested, MacAedh nevertheless insisted on providing a horse and a generous provision of food for the journey, but Father Gregor still refused the offer of an escort.

  “I would go with ye,” Alex volunteered. It made little sense to remain at Kilmuir. Continuing his work with Domnall seemed a fruitless pursuit. Any headway he’d made had been damaged by his growing bond with Sibylla.

  “Nae, lad,” the priest replied. “’Tis best ye remain here for the nonce. I will pass by again on my return in a fortnight. We will talk more of yer future then.”

  My future. Alex’s spirit was growing increasingly uneasy. It seemed his future, as well as that of the monastery were both uncertain, but he had no choice but to wait on the abbot’s return. Alex assisted the old man into the saddle and watched after him long after he departed through the castle gates.

  “Did ye find the answers ye seek?” MacAedh softly asked.

  “Some,” Alex replied. “But it only led to more questions. I am much unsettled by it. How did ye deal with yer brother’s death?” he asked.

  “I was much younger than he. Too young to join the fight, though I would have done so, if allowed. Angus was my hero. I mourned him. I still mourn him.”

  “Do ye ever yearn for vengeance?” Alex asked.

  “Yearn?” MacAedh’s lips formed a grim smile. “I live for the day.”

  “The scriptures tell us that vengeance belongs to God alone.”

  “That may be,” MacAedh replied, “But the Lord oft works His will through His ready servants. I have waited a long time with much patience. When the time comes, I will be both ready and willing.”

  Chapter Nine

  Sibylla awoke to a cacophony of sounds—horses whinnying and men shouting. Eager to know the source of the tumult, she leapt from bed and strode to the window where she flung open the shutter. Six men were dismounting in the stable yard below. Their horses were lathered and spent, and the riders didn’t look much better.

  Ailis and Fiona, tousled and rubbing sleep from their eyes joined her at the window. “Who are they?” Ailis asked as three of the lads materialized to take charge of the horses.

  “I dinna ken,” Sibylla answered. The men were travel-stained, but rode quality horses, and judging by the bulging saddle bags, they were men of wealth.

  “I have seen none of them before. Have ye?”

  “Nae,” Ailis answered.

  Sibylla craned out of the window for a better view but the men’s faces had turned away. She could catch only snatches of Gaelic and another dialect she couldn’t comprehend.

  “I think they must have come from the Isles,” Ailis said after a time. “I have heard their tongue afore.”

  “Do ye suppose they are just passing through on their way to the gathering at Inverness?” Sibylla asked.

  “Nae,” Ailis said. “The Lord of the Isles is no vassal of David Cenn Mór. There is no reason for Somerled to send his men to Inverness.”

  “Do ye suppose Uncle
invited them?” Sibylla continued speculating on the scene below.

  As if in answer, MacAedh himself strode out to greet the men—arms open wide. But after a few words were exchanged, the smile vanished from his face. Whatever news they carried was obviously not as well received as the messengers themselves.

  “Come back from the window, Sibylla.” Ailis tugged her cousin’s night rail. “Ye dinna want them to catch ye spying in naught but yer shift.”

  Just as Ailis spoke, one of the men looked up in their direction. He was young, maybe five and twenty summers, tall and well-built with fair hair and a golden, closely trimmed beard. His brows rose in a silent question as he eyed Sibylla in her state of undress. He acknowledged her with a wink. Heat flooded her face at the realization she’d, indeed, been caught. Sibylla pulled back with a gasp.

  “Ailis warned ye!” Fiona chuckled. “What will Uncle do when he finds out? Maybe this time he’ll ne’er let ye out of this room. Mayhap he’ll throw away the key and leave ye to rot.” Her hazel eyes gleamed. Not for the first time, Sibylla wanted to thrash her impudent little half-sister.

  “If the man has any honor at all, he will nae speak of it.” Sibylla eyed Fiona with a menacing glare. “And neither will ye, if ye ken what’s good for ye.”

  “Should we go to greet them?” Fiona asked, undaunted by Sibylla’s threat.

  “Nae. We must wait until we are called,” Ailis answered.

  “Why would men from the Isles have come to Kilmuir?” Sibylla asked.

  “I dinna ken, but I canna like it,” Ailis sighed.

  “Why?” Sibylla asked.

  Ailis bit her lip. “There’s been talk of another rising.”

  “There is always talk,” Sibylla waved away her cousin’s concern. “It means nothing. They could have come for many other reasons.”

  “Aye? Name one,” Ailis challenged.

  Sibylla found her tongue at a loss to answer.

  “’Tis different this time,” Ailis said.

  “Different how?” Sibylla asked.

  “All these years, Somerled and the Cenn Mór have kept each other in check, but now the king grows old and his health is failing. If these are men from the Isles, Somerled may be making the first step toward building a coalition against Cenn Mór. ’Tis an alliance he seeks,” Ailis insisted. “I grow certain of it.”

  “If ’tis true, such an agreement would nae be bad for Domnall,” Sibylla remarked.

  “Aye,” Ailis agreed, her blue gaze looking increasingly fretful. “Which is why I fear what is to come.”

  “Would ye have Domnall ignore his birthright?” Sibylla asked.

  “Nae,” Ailis violently shook her head. “He wouldna be worthy of his blood if he did. For better or for ill, he must fulfill his destiny.”

  “Do ye think Uncle will join with Somerled and go to war against the Cenn Mór?” Even as she voiced the question, a knot began to form in her stomach. Though she didn’t confess it, Sibylla shared her cousin’s concerns. If Domnall and Somerled incited an uprising, suffering would follow in a wide and devastating wake.

  “Uncle is Thane of Kilmuir,” Ailis reminded her. “He will do what he deems best for the clan.”

  “That’s the great question, isna it?” Sibylla murmured. “What is best for the clan? I would ken Uncle’s mind on this.”

  “Please, Sibylla.” Ailis gripped her arm. “Dinna speak of this. He will surely suspect ye were skulking where ye dinna belong.”

  “Perhaps ye are right,” Sibylla agreed, recalling the fire she’d suffered on her backside many times for that offense. “I willna speak to Uncle.” She then added with a grin, “But there are other ways to find out.”

  *

  When Alex entered the kitchen to break his fast, he was nearly overcome by the mélange of mouth-watering aromas. Cooking fires blazed at both ends and half a dozen women were chopping vegetables, kneading dough, plucking fowl, and roasting meats on the spit. He’d never seen so much food being prepared at one time.

  “There be bannocks and parritch yon,” one of the servants nodded curtly to a corner table. “Help yerself.”

  He noted several younger lads who were eating and looking as mesmerized as he felt. Among them was Domnall’s sparring partner Kenneth. Joining them on the bench, Alex took up an oat cake and reached for the pitcher of cider.

  “MacAedh surely killed the fatted calf for Somerled’s men,” Kenneth remarked. “Canna recall the last time we prepared such a grand Midsummer feast!”

  “Somerled?” Alex asked, taking his first bite of oat cake, finding it dry and disappointing after all the tantalizing smells. He washed it down with a long and eminently more satisfying gulp of cider.

  “Aye, the King of the Isles. His men brought word the Cenn Mór’s son is dead,” Kenneth said.

  “Which son?” Alex asked.

  “Prince Henry, the heir. They say he was murdered by his English half-brother over his English lands. ’Tis believed the king will call for a meeting of the earls and demand they all swear allegiance to his grandson, Malcolm.”

  MacAedh’s antipathy for the king was no secret. What would he do if forced to bend the knee to the sovereign’s grandson? Would he be tried for treason if he refused? And what of Domnall? Would he now attempt to stake his own claim for the crown of Scotland?

  Kenneth seemed to read his mind. He continued in a lower tone, “’Tis no coincidence Somerled sent his men. The opportunity has come if Domnall has a mind to put forth his claim for the throne. I’m ready to fight.” Kenneth’s eyes gleamed. “’Tis past time my sword got blooded.”

  “Do they already talk of rebellion?” Alex asked. He was reminded of the thousands of Highlanders who had given their lives fighting for his father for the same cause.

  “Better said, they talk around it,” Kenneth said with a wink. “No one dares speak outright. They would ken MacAedh’s position first.”

  “And what is MacAedh’s position?” Alex asked.

  Kenneth shrugged. “MacAedh is a man who keeps his own counsel.”

  Alex felt his own allegiances subtly shifting. David Cenn Mór was no exception to past kings of his line. They were all men who would do anything to retain power, even murder their own kinsmen. MacAedh had lost his brother, title and lands. Domnall had suffered a father’s rejection and now carried the added stigma of bastardy. Alex’s own father had suffered similarly. They had all been ill-used by the king.

  Before coming to Castle Kilmuir, Alex had accepted that, for better or worse, God chose the kings of men, but now he’d begun to question where his own loyalties rested. Only a sennight ago, he would have told himself that their fight was not his fight, but many things had changed. He had changed.

  If forced to choose, would he swear an oath to Prince Malcolm, or fight for Domnall? Or would he retreat altogether to the safely of the monastery? He didn’t know, but feared that very decision might soon be thrust upon him.

  *

  Taking her skirts in hand, Sibylla stalked down the stairs intent on discovering the answers to her questions. She’d learned long ago that servants were always the best source of information whenever she wanted to know anything. Surely someone would loosen their lips with a bit of cajoling.

  As she’d presumed, both MacAedh and her brother were congregated in the great hall with their newly-arrived guests and a handful of the clan elders, about a dozen men in all. While she’d expected to find Somerled’s men drinking and enjoying the bounty of their host’s hospitality; what she hadn’t anticipated was the heated argument in progress. She froze at her brother’s raised voice, and then drew quickly out of sight.

  “But Henry’s dead!” Domnall exclaimed. “Now is my chance!”

  “If ye think to petition the king for yer birthright, think again!” MacAedh replied. “Do ye really believe he’s going to open his arms to a bastard nephew, when he has a grandson, the blood of his own blood as an heir?”

  “Malcolm is a feeble stripling who’s ne�
��er set foot in Scotland,” Domnall argued. “He’s Norman from his head to his bluidy toes! How many Highlanders would support him if I pressed my claim?”

  Somerled’s men echoed his sentiment with murmurs and nods.

  “What say ye, Ranald?” Domnall asked the man beside him.

  To her surprise, it was the same young, golden-bearded man who’d winked at her that morning. He was seated at the place of honor to her uncle’s right with Domnall flanking him on the other side. Was he the leader of the group? What was his kinship to the Lord of the Isles?

  “’Tis the way of the English to crown boys,” Ranald answered. “But nae the way of the Scots.” He added with a ribald laugh, “If crowned, I’d wager my sister’s maidenhead that he doesna rule more than a month.”

  Sibylla curled her lip in distaste. Were men always so vulgar with no women around?

  “The king has ne’er been weaker,” Domnall continued. “He’s old, feeble, and his heir is dead. And this time, the English are too busy fighting their own civil war to interfere with our concerns.”

  “’Tis true the Cenn Mór is old and his health fails,” MacAedh agreed, “but the time has nae yet come to take up arms. He still has a powerful army at his command led by Norman knights who are loyal only to him. His Norman knights will support the stripling, and dinna forget that the southern kingdom is full of Sassenachs who willna rise to a Highland standard.”

  “Cenn Mór may have his knights,” Ranald interjected, “but Somerled commands many ships.”

  Domnall’s gaze lit with interest. “Ye speak of an alliance?”

  Ranald offered a cagey smile. “I have been given leave to speak of such things. My faither is no friend of Cenn Mór. He might easily be persuaded in yer favor.”

  MacAedh’s gaze narrowed. “But what would Somerled expect in return?”

  “Peace and security,” Ranald answered. “He has fought on two fronts for a long time. ’Twould ease his mind greatly to have a friend… or better yet,” he smiled slowly, “a kinsman to the south, so he can more easily defend his lands to the north from the King of Norway.”