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.
“I saw Ranald amongst those men.”
MacAedh’s brow furrowed. “Are ye certain?”
“Aye,” Alex said. “Verra certain. I thought he returned to Kintyre. What do ye suppose he does here? Do ye think Somerled sent him?”
“Unlikely.” MacAedh’s frown deepened. “I think he plays a double game. But the question is whether he was sent by Somerled or if he acts for his own benefit.”
“Mayhap he intends to sell his support to the highest bidder?” Alex suggested.
“Or, mayhap, he betrays his own kinsman,” MacAedh countered. “Whichever it is, I intend to find out.”
“How?” Alex asked.
“We must first discover who he meets with,” MacAedh replied. “And his motives will surely unfold.”
They had no more opportunity for discussion. The soldiers prodded them to follow a procession of monks toward the far end of the compound where a bell tower identified the cathedral and abbey.
Dunfermline Abbey was a complex of Romanesque proportions that stood in stark contrast to the humble cluster of thatched wattle and daub structures that comprised Portmahomack.
Nearly dumbstruck with wonderment, Alex took in the details and intricate craftsmanship of the cathedral. The alabaster windows that had been the pride of the old chapel on the Tarbat Ness were nothing compared to the awe-inspiring stained-glass depicting Christ’s passion. The windows alone were truly a work of art, but the structure itself revealed much of David Cenn Mór’s character. Did he truly believe that grandiose cathedrals with elaborate stained-glass windows would atone for shedding the blood of his own countrymen?
An ungentle push from the captain jolted him forward again. After progressing through seemingly miles of low arched warrens, they arrived at an antechamber outside the bishop’s quarters.
“I am Brother Alexander, come to speak with Faither Gregor, Abbot of Portmahomack,” Alex volunteered in Latin. “Is he here?”
“Aye. But he is in an important meeting of the bishops and abbots. I do nae ken how long they will be,” a young monk, close to Alex’s own age answered. “I am Brother Aubert, Assistant Prior of the Abbey,” he introduced himself. “It will be my privilege to attend to yer needs.”
“The monk is free to leave at his pleasure,” the captain said. “But this man,” he indicated MacAedh with a dark look. “Must be detained until summoned by the king. I will leave a guard for his chamber.”
“So I am to be a prisoner?” MacAedh growled.
His tone and expression seemingly required no translation.
“Ye are a guest of the crown.” The captain added with a sly smile. “For the nonce.”
*
Several hours passed before Alex was summoned to the abbot’s chambers where Father Gregor sat with the Bishop of Dunfermline. Upon entering the chamber, Alex was, once more, struck by the opulence that so starkly contrasted with the cramped and Spartan space that Father Gregor claimed at Portmahomack. This room was spacious, well-lit with expensive wax tapers, rather than rush lights. In place of the faded face of Saint Columba, the benign smile of the Virgin Mother stared down on him from the tapestry on the wall.
Alexander dropped one knee to the flagstone for the customary show of obeisance.
“Alexander?” Father Gregor acknowledged him with drawn brows. “How is it that ye come to be at Dunfermline?”
“I accompanied the Thane of Kilmuir,” Alex stated for the bishop’s edification. “He has requested an audience with the king.”
“The king is only recently risen from his sickbed,” the bishop remarked.
“Then he has recovered?” Alex asked.
“He is considerably weakened and in danger of a relapse,” the bishop answered. “His physicians have voiced the strongest protest against his conducting crown business, but the king is resolute that certain matters be quickly settled.”
Alex wondered what weighed so heavily on the king that he would go against his physician’s advice, but knew it was not his place to ask.
“Come and warm yourself,” the bishop beckoned Alexander toward a wooden bench positioned invitingly by the blazing hearth.
“I would nae impose, yer Excellency. I only seek a brief word with Faither Gregor.”
The bishop inclined his head. “Of course, my son. Ye and Faither Gregor may make free use of my chambers.”
“Ye are most generous, Excellency,” Father Gregor replied, “But my old bones grow stiff. I think I should avail myself of a walk in the courtyard. Come Brother Alexander,” Father Gregor urged. “I would show ye the splendid reflecting pool that has recently been constructed in honor of Saint Margaret.”
“I would much like that, Faither,” Alex replied.
With his cowl raised and eyes averted to the ground, Alex accompanied Father Gregor to the reflecting pool at the abbey’s center, a quiet place where they could be readily observed but not overheard. Alex was certain this was exactly why the old priest had led him here.
“Now that we are at a place where there are fewer eyes and ears, let us speak plainly,” Father Gregor said. “I would first ask how ye come to be tonsured? Have ye committed to taking the vows?”
“Nae,” Alex replied. “I have made no decision as yet but, given the circumstances, I thought it best to make myself inconspicuous.”
“Aye.” The priest nodded. “’Twas best. These are, indeed, dangerous times.”
“How so?” Alex asked.
“The king is said to be gravely ill and greatly fears for his legacy should he nae recover. He has sent the Earl of Fife to retrieve Prince Malcolm from Cumberland. He wants the princeling close by in the event of his passing.”
“Does he have reason for his uneasiness?” Alex asked.
“Aye. Although Prince Malcolm is his declared heir, there is already much dissent amongst the king’s advisors. The Earl of Fife supports Malcolm, but Eachann of Mearns has pressed for William of Egremont, the son of William Fitz Duncan.”
“Domnall’s half-brother?” Alex remarked in surprise. “He canna be much older than Malcolm.”
“He is nae older,” the priest replied. “Which is precisely why Eachann supports him.”
“I dinna understand,” Alex said. “Why would he nae support Domnall Mac William?”
“The king doesna acknowledge Domnall’s legitimacy. Besides, Domnall is of an age to rule for himself, while the others two are mere lads who would be in need of a regent. This, of course, has caused much speculation amongst the bishops as to who would truly rule Scotland.”
“So my uncle is amongst those who contend for power?”
“Aye. He and the Earl of Fife are bitter rivals for the king’s ear,” the priest replied. “There is also a Breton knight called Fitz Alan that the king favors, and recently named High Steward.”
Alex could only hope that MacAedh would be given direct access to the king. Otherwise, his mission was surely doomed to failure.
“If MacAedh has come to court in support of his nephew,” the priest continued, “his mission is timely, but perilous.”
“Perilous?” Alex latched on to the word. “In what way?”
“Those who vie for the regency will have no scruples about eliminating rivals.” The priest added with a meaningful look, “As ye well ken, some men will do terrible things in their lust for power. Whatever happens, it canna end well.”
“Ye think ’twill come to blood?” Alex asked.
“Aye,” the priest replied. H
e paused to gaze into the reflecting pool. “But the question is whose blood?”
Chapter Fifteen
Castle Kilmuir
“Why are they nae back yet?” Sibylla asked. “’Tis but just over a day’s walk to Inverness. They should have returned by now.”
Sibylla finally voiced the question that was on all of their minds. “How much longer are we to sit by this window watching and waiting? We canna go on like this!” Sibylla threw down her carding combs.
“Aye,” her mother heaved an anxious sigh. “I can only think the worst.”
Three days the journey to Inverness had always taken, yet five had passed since the men had left Kilmuir to pay their feu. The women spent most of their time in an unspoken vigil, by turns gazing out the solar window at the empty horizon.
Though they tried to hide it from one another with busy hands and light chatter, the women of Kilmuir had all become exceedingly fretful. Sibylla had carded a virtual mountain of wool until none remained and the spinning and weaving had continued long into the night.
“Look!” Ailis declared. Even as they spoke, a small party of men approached the castle, but it didn’t take long to discover that it was not their own men but some distant kinsmen from neighboring Dingwall.
Though nearly bursting with questions, the laws of hospitality demanded that the anxious women not press their guests for news before serving them food and drink. But once their thirst and hunger had been sated, the women surrounded the men as eagerly as vultures circling carrion.
“’Twas all premeditated,” pronounced the old Chief of Kildun as he settled in a chair by the fire. “Nae matter how many bullocks and ewes MacAedh would have brought to Inverness, his men would still have been taken as payment due.”
“Why?” Sibylla’s mother, Gruaid, asked.
“Because the king has a plan to conscript all of our Highland fighting men until none remains.”
“But we have been at peace with the king nigh on fifteen years,” she replied.
“Aye, but ’tis an uneasy peace at best and he kens it,” the old man said. “He acts to prepare the way for his grandson.” He paused for a long drink of ale and released a loud belch. “MacAedh’s petition will go nowhere with the Chief Justiciar. The men of Kilmuir will nae be released. For appearances sake, they will be held at Inverness until MacAedh’s audience, but then as surely as I breathe, they will be sent south to join the king’s army.”
Sibylla could see her mother’s face pale. Her husband and youngest son were both captives at Inverness castle.
“Then our men will ne’er come home?” Gruaid asked.
“Nae until the king is assured of Prince Malcolm’s peaceful succession.”
“MacAedh hopes to gain the king’s ear for Domnall’s sake,” Gruaid said.
“He seeks to gain favor with the king?” he asked.
“MacAedh would see Domnall appointed regent to the prince,” she replied.
“The Earls of Fife and Mearns also seek such an appointment,” the Chief of Kildun said. “The one who governs the prince will govern the land. MacAedh endangers himself for naught. He and Domnall will be forced to swear allegiance to Malcolm as will the lads at Inverness.”
“They will nae do it,” Gruaid said. “We canna let this happen! What can be done to free my husband and son?”
“There is naught to be done.” The old man opened his palms in a helpless gesture. “We are too few. We canna fight them.”
“What of the monk?” Sibylla asked. “Is Alexander also imprisoned at Inverness?”
To her dismay, the chief replied, “I dinna ken anything about the monk.”
“Someone must fetch Domnall,” Ailis said. “He kens naught of what has happened.” Domnall had ridden out only an hour after MacAedh had departed, bound for Kintyre, but had not yet returned. Nor had he sent word.
“Fetch Domnall?” The old man looked around expectantly. “Where is the lad?”
Gruaid hesitated, as if wondering how much she should reveal. “He’s gone to Somerled.”
“Ah.” The Chief of Kildun’s gaze narrowed. “Somerled is likely his only chance if he seeks the crown, but if word reaches the king, Domnall and all of his kin will be charged with treason.”
“All of us?” Ailis whispered.
“David will show nae mercy,” the chief stated bluntly.
“The time draws near,” Lady Olith broke her silence. “Domnall must be made aware of all that’s transpired. There is no time to waste.”
“But there is no one to send,” Gruaid said.
“I will go,” Ailis volunteered.
“’Tis not safe for a lass to travel alone,” her grandmother protested.
“My sword arm is nae what it once was, but my name is still respected,” the Chief of Kildun said. “I will accompany the lass. I vow she will arrive safely.”
Later that night, after Fiona had fallen asleep, Sibylla could sense that Ailis was still awake. “Is there a particular reason ye go to Kintyre?” Sibylla whispered. She’d been so preoccupied with her own concerns that she hadn’t even thought of Ailis’ secret.
Ailis went completely still beside her.
Ranald.
“Surely ’tis too soon to ken,” Sibylla insisted.
“Yet I ken in my heart,” Ailis answered. “I grow certain that I carry Ranald’s child.”
*
Dunfermline Abbey
Over the next few days, Alex was supremely thankful for Father Gregor’s solid presence in these unfamiliar surroundings. Though the old priest had spent many years in seclusion at Portmahomack, he still had a few remaining allies within the church, and made a point to bring Alex into their small circle of trust.
Alex also used his free time between the hours of prayer to learn his way about. Brother Aubert was most accommodating. Perhaps being so close in age, a friendship quickly developed between Alex and the Norman monk. Nevertheless, he was still denied access to MacAedh, who remained confined to his monastic cell.
Though Alex discreetly sought his whereabouts, he failed to locate Ranald or to learn anything more about his presence at court. Nevertheless, the discovery raised his hopes about Sibylla. For certain, MacAedh now knew Ranald for a traitor.
Several days passed before the Thane of Kilmuir was finally released and granted his hearing with the king. Haggard and unkempt, MacAedh had far more the look of a prisoner than a guest. Once more under armed escort, he remained stiff and silent as they proceeded toward the audience chamber.
The entrance to the hall was closed and flanked by more armed soldiers. As they approached, the doors swung open for another man’s exit. His thunderous expression revealed that he was not happy with whatever words he’d exchanged with the king.
Though his hair and beard were now heavily streaked with gray, Alex knew him at once. Alex reeled. He’d come to Dunfermline prepared to make inquiries. He’d hoped to gain information on this journey but had not anticipated an encounter with his kinsman.
Suddenly, he was four years old again and cowering before the battle-scarred giant who’d imprisoned him and his mother at Dunnottar Castle. “The bastard’s spawn” his uncle had called him. He was too young to understand the meaning of the words, but the venom behind them was clear even to a young child. Then and now, he both hated and feared Eachann of Mearns. He passed Alex without so much as a sideways look, but Alex still had to suppress the instinct to draw back into the shadows.
“Dinna stare so after him.” MacAedh’s murmured warning brought Alex abruptly back to the present.
“The king will see ye now,” an official came forward to announce.
Alex recognized at once that the audience chamber was intended to intimidate. Other than the religious tapestries adorning the walls, there were no other furnishings. The men who entered would be forced to stand… or to kneel. The chamber itself was long and narrow with a carpet of crimson leading to the dais where the king sat upon his throne.
“Qui est
-ce?” The king’s raspy voice was barely above a whisper, yet it echoed through the silent hall.
“Malcolm MacAedh, Thane of Kilmuir,” the official answered the king’s inquiry.
Though surely only a few years past the half century mark, David Cenn Mór appeared much older. Thin and frail with a sallow complexion and hollow cheeks, his body appeared wasted, but his mouth was firm and his eyes were steady and clear. He also commanded an air of absolute authority possessed only by those who were born to rule. With a bland expression, he gazed down his long, thin nose at MacAedh.
“Se presenter, MacAedh of Kilmuir,” the king commanded.
Alex could almost hear MacAedh’s bones protest as he made his obeisance to the king. It must have taken an extreme effort of will to force his knee to the flagstone in homage to the man who had killed his brother.
“Kilmuir?” The king’s brows met in a frown. “Est-ce situé à Moray?” He then remarked in a flippant aside to his courtiers. “Est-ce que quelque chose de bon vient de Moray?”
“Can any good thing come out of Moray?” Alex’s whispered translation was swallowed by the low chuckles that reverberated through the chamber.
“MacAedh?” The king’s gaze narrowed with suspicion. “Quelle est votre relation avec Angus Mac Aedh de Moray?”
“What relation are ye to Angus Mac Aedh of Moray?” Alex translated. Though he spoke lowly, his murmur caught the king’s attention.
“Qui est ce moine?” the king demanded. “Se presenter!”
Who is this monk? Present yourself.
Alex stepped forward and knelt before the king. “Je suis Frère Alexandre de Portmahomack. Je traduis.” He explained his role as translator.
“This barbarian of the north has no command of a civilized tongue?” the king remarked in French.
His face flushed as Alex struggled how best to translate the king’s deprecating remark. “He is… er… surprised… ye dinna speak the Norman.”
MacAedh glowered. “I understand exactly what he said. Tell him Angus was my brother.”
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