Valor

by Victoria Vane

  A sense of unreality surrounded him. How could this be happening? He’d expected imprisonment but never had he believed the king would go so far as to hang him. But the noose about his neck was very real.

  Though he fought the wave of panic, his body racked with an involuntary shudder. His raspy breathing came faster, and sweat broke from his brow, slowly dripping into his eyes. He was swiftly losing the fight to maintain his self-possession.

  Please God, if I must die today, let me face it as a warrior.

  He opened his eyes again and stared out into the crowd pressing against the pillory. Elbowing and pushing one another, they clambered for a closer view of the hanging. The spectators went silent with the appearance of a cowled priest. Domnall consoled himself that at least the king had not denied him the benefit of last rites.

  With the executioner standing at Domnall’s back like a hovering angel of death, the priest spoke, “Do ye wish to make a final confession, my son?”

  That voice! Domnall’s heart nearly burst from his chest. Duff?

  Leaning closer, as if to hear Domnall’s confession, Duff whispered, “’Tis nae executioner but Niall under that hood, and the other men stand ready with horses. The chances of escape are slim at best, but ye willna die this day if we can help it.”

  Domnall murmured a fervent prayer of thanksgiving to God and all of His saints.

  As Duff proceeded to go through the motions of the final sacrament, Domnall felt Niall behind him, whispering instructions as he sliced through the bonds. “Jock, Leith, and Quinn are standing ready. The moment the driver raises the whip to the horse, I will cut ye down. Be prepared to fight.”

  Every nerve in Domnall’s body came to life as the next few seconds unfolded.

  Duff had hardly finished with the sign of the cross before the throng began chanting for the gallows dance. Niall signaled the cart driver who raised his whip to the horse. The crushing sensation on his windpipe was sudden and intense. The mob jeered and cheered as his body jerked upward. His ears roared and vision blurred, and then came a flash of steel and he hit the ground with a thud.

  Confused and unbalanced, Domnall struggled to his feet as his friends encircled him with drawn swords. Screaming a Highland war cry, the fierce warriors quickly broke through the ranks of terrified bystanders. Amidst the confusion, Jock, Leith, and Quinn appeared on horseback. Dragging Domnall up behind him, Quinn spun his mount into a frantic gallop toward the city gate.

  “How will we get through?” Domnall asked.

  “’Tis already open,” Quinn replied.

  Domnall felt no need to inquire further. Pushing their horses to the extreme, they galloped northward at a breathless pace.

  “Are we followed?” Quinn asked.

  Domnall stole a glance over his shoulder to find the gate was already in the far distance and no riders were yet in pursuit. “Nay,” he replied in relief.

  “Good,” Quinn grunted. “We’d hoped to take them unawares. ’Twas our only hope.”

  “What now?” Domnall asked.

  Quinn glanced back with a grin. “We are going home.”

  *

  Riding at night and taking cover by the light of day, the band of Highland outlaws pressed on, avoiding contact with people until they arrived at the outskirts of Inverness. Reaching a bluff overlooking the Moray Firth, the invisible line dividing the Highlands from the Lowlands, they pulled up their panting horses. For the longest time, no man spoke. Miraculously, they were finally within reach of home.

  “The horses are nigh dead.” Duff was first to break the silence. “They need rest and we need sustenance.” Their saddlebags had long been depleted. “We have friends at Inverness, but ’twould still be unwise to enter the city together.”

  “Aye,” Niall agreed. “We needs must make ourselves less conspicuous. We are wanted men, and outlaws of the king.”

  “Though it grieves my heart to say so, ’twould be best if we part ways here,” Duff suggested.

  “I sore regret that I have endangered ye all,” Domnall said.

  “Och!” Duff exclaimed with a laugh. “We only needed ye as an excuse. We should have done this long ago. I like the Borderland nae better than I like the Normans who habit there. Now we are free of both!”

  “Only for the nonce,” Domnall said soberly. “’Tis only a matter of time until the Highlands become the new Borderlands.”

  “Dinna say so, lad!” Jock glowered. “Dinna even think it.”

  “It needs saying and thinking,” Domnall insisted. “If we are to stop it.”

  “We and whose army?” Quinn asked.

  “Our own,” Domnall said. “When the time is right.”

  Duff’s brows rose. “Ye indeed have a treasonous heart.”

  “Ye think I should have hanged, after all?” Domnall asked.

  “On the contrary,” Duff smirked. “I think we should crown ye king of the Highlands.”

  With his jest, Duff had given Domnall an unexpected opportunity to voice the question that had long plagued his heart. “When I come of age, I intend to put forth my claim to Moray. I will be in need of generals if I have to fight for it. Would ye support me in this, Duff?”

  Duff considered him for a long time before answering. Just when Domnall was beginning to think he should have held his tongue, Duff answered.

  “Aye,” he answered. “I would support ye in Moray and beyond.”

  “As would I,” Quinn said, quickly echoed by Niall and Jock.

  “Thank ye,” Domnall said, feeling both heartened and deeply humbled.

  “Ye may rest assured, lad,” Duff said, laying a big hand on his shoulder. “When ye sound the call for battle, we will come.”

  PART THREE

  Chapter Sixteen

  Haddington Priory, Scottish Borderlands

  June 1152

  Davina found herself humming as she carefully extracted the invading weeds from the herb garden. She didn’t know what had brought the tune to mind. It had been ages since she’d heard anything but the monophonic chants taught by the church. She missed the livelier music she’d known as a child. As she continued to hum, she realized it was the same Highland melody that her mother used to sing to her—and the same tune that Domnall had been whistling the very first day they’d met.

  The realization jarred her. She wished she could just put him out of her mind, but thoughts of him still came unbidden at random times. Though she’d tried to bury her old memories with her old life, the ghosts of the past still had a tendency to haunt her.

  It had been more than three years since the king had sent her to the nunnery. She’d been reluctant to take her vows, stalling for the first two years. She’d held faith then in Domnall’s promises but, over time, she’d given up hope.

  The uncertainty was the worst part of it—not knowing if Domnall lived or died. The reports of his escape from hanging had enraged the king but after a few months, he had seemingly forgotten Domnall with the escalating crisis in Cumberland.

  Davina was glad of that. She hoped Domnall was somewhere safe, although she feared otherwise. Surely if he lived, she would have heard something from him in all this time. Or were all his promises and professions of love just empty words?

  Davina looked down at her little plot of earth with a feeling of satisfaction. She did meaningful work at the priory, and the gardens had become her primary responsibility. She still missed her old life at Haddington Palace, but she had learned to be content at the priory—at least that’s what she told herself. Davina of Crailing was dead. She was now sister Mary Malachy. Her new name was supposed to have signified the beginning of a new life. But deep down, she still longed for something more.

  “Sister Mary Malachy!” The abbess of Haddington Priory entered the gardens with a worried expression that signified something was very wrong. The abbess was rarely ruffled. “There are ill tidings from the palace,” the abbess said. “The prince and princess are both gravely ill.”

  “Both of them?
” Davina jumped to her feet and hastily wiped her dirty hands on the apron she wore to protect her habit. Although she was no longer directly connected to the family, the prince and princess had always dealt kindly with her. They attended worship services and the older girls came twice a sennight for lessons. Moreover, they provided the lion’s share of the convent’s support.

  “Aye. ’Tis grave enough that the king sent his personal physician,” the abbess said.

  The news was greatly troubling. Illness in itself was always a bad thing, but the princess was breeding again and very near her confinement period.

  “Does he ken what ails them?” Davina asked.

  “’Twas thought in the beginning to be merely ague, but it has worsened even with medicaments and bleedings.” The abbess’ brows drew together in a deep frown. “While I am reluctant to give credence to rumors, there are whispers of poisoning.”

  “Poisoning! The princess is carrying another child! Who would do such a thing? What of the children?” Davina asked. “Have they also taken ill?”

  “They have been spared, thus far, thanks be to God.” The abbess looked heavenward and crossed herself.

  “Is there nae cure?” Davina asked. She scanned the newly-weeded plot. Many of the herbs she grew had medicinal properties but she knew no cure for poison.

  The abbess shook her head sadly. “They have already tried herbs and St. Pauls’ potion. ’Tis beyond the help of medicaments and bleeding seems equally ineffective. ’Tis feared that only a miracle of God can heal them. ’Tis why the princess sends for you.”

  “They expect a miracle from me?” Davina wondered why anyone would imagine her capable of such a thing.

  The abbess nodded. “’Tis because you bear the name of St. Malachy.”

  “I dinna understand this,” Davina said.

  “Long ago, when he was a young lad, Prince Henry was beset with a fever that all but drained the life from him. When ’twas believed he was at death’s door, Saint Malachy came to him and prayed the night long at the prince’s bedside. In the morning, he declared that God had spared the prince’s life. That very day the prince was cured.”

  The abbess continued, “Because you have taken the surname of the saint who saved the prince’s life, the princess perceives this as a sign from God. You must go at once to the sickbed and pray for the miracle she seeks.”

  “I will pray most earnestly, but what if there is still nae cure?”

  Davina feared that if she failed to deliver a healing miracle, the prince’s death might well fall on her shoulders. She already had personal experience with the king’s wrath. How much greater would it be if he lost his only son and heir to the kingdom?

  “You must have faith if he is to be healed,” the abbess chided. “Remember you, Sister, the words of our Lord, ‘verily I say unto ye, If ye have faith as a grain of mustard seed, ye shall say unto this mountain, Remove hence to yonder place; and it shall remove; and nothing shall be impossible unto ye.’”

  “Of course,” Davina murmured. But with so many prayers in her life unanswered, her faith was much smaller than a mustard seed and unlikely to move anything the size of a mountain.

  They walked briskly to the palace, barely a mile from the priory. When they arrived, the castle was eerily silent. Davina and the abbess entered the keep to discover no servants in sight. Davina’s stomach knotted. The prince and princess had a plethora of servants and the keep was rarely quiet with so many young children in residence.

  Davina’s steps quickened. Darting up the stairs, she nearly collided with a maid. “The princess!” Davina asked. “Where is she?”

  The maid’s reply was drowned out by a long, ear-piercing scream.

  Was it the princess? Surely it was too soon for the birth! Fearing for both the princess and her unborn child, Davina raced up the staircase toward Princess Adaline’s bedchamber, leaving both the abbess and propriety behind.

  Her sense of dread deepened the moment she arrived at the chamber. The door was thrown open with maids scurrying frantically to and fro, weeping and wringing their hands. Princess Adaline lay in her bed, her face as white as the tangled sheets upon which she lay, while her longtime servant, Berthe, stood at her side with a swaddled bundle in her arms.

  Berthe looked up at Davina with profound sorrow in her red-rimmed eyes. “If you have come to pray, Sister, you have come too late. The babe is stillborn and Prince Henry is dead.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Castle Kilmuir

  Scottish Highlands

  “Prince Henry of Scotland is dead,” the young, golden-bearded man pronounced to the dozen men congregated in the great hall, news that set the entire table murmuring.

  Domnall stared blankly at the stranger, almost unable to comprehend the words. Prince Henry was a man in his prime, yet to see his fortieth year. How could it be that Henry was dead, yet the king, an old man in failing health, still lived?

  “Are ye certain ’tis Henry? Nae the king?” Domnall asked.

  “Aye,” Ranald Mac Somerled answered. “’Tis confirmed by reliable sources.”

  “Reliable sources” generally meant spies. For years, Somerled of the Isles and David Cenn Mór had employed a sophisticated network of spies to keep each other in check. Domnall no longer doubted the truth of it.

  “How?” Domnall demanded. “Was he murdered?”

  “’Tis only kent that he died in his sickbed,” Ranald replied. “There is nae proof of foul play, though there are whispers of poisoning.”

  Was it possible someone had murdered Prince Henry? But who? Henry was the king’s only son. The next closest in line to the throne would have been Domnall’s own father. But William Fitz Duncan also was dead by foul means. The two deaths were proof that murder and intrigue were enjoyed as much at the Scottish court as at any other. Plotting, scheming, and conspiracies always existed amongst power-hungry nobles.

  “’Tis grave news, indeed,” MacAedh remarked.

  “Aye,” Ranald nodded. “The king grows old, his health is failing, and now it seems he is without an heir.” His icy blue eyes held a glimmer that belied his sympathetic tone.

  Henry’s sons were mere lads, far from coming of age… which meant…

  Domnall’s heart raced.

  With David’s heir dead, was Somerled perhaps making the first step toward building a coalition against the king? He’d long hoped for such a day as this but, in his wildest dreams, he’d never imagined such an opportunity. Oh, he’d fantasized about it since his boyhood, but maturity, and almost dying at the end of a rope, had awakened him to reality. Yet this news changed everything. Domnall stole a covert glance at his uncle. Malcolm MacAedh was difficult to read at the best of times and, even now, he gave nothing away.

  “If Henry’s dead, now is our chance!” Domnall voiced what surely everyone at Kilmuir must be thinking.

  “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 still has a grandson, the blood of his own blood as an heir?”

  “But Prince Malcolm is a feeble stripling who’s ne’er even 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?”

  Looking for reassurance, his gaze darted around the table. Somerled’s men echoed his sentiment with murmurs and nods. It seemed there was little love lost between the men of the Isles and the King of Scotland.

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

  “’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 Prince Malcolm is crowned, I’d wager my sister’s maidenhead that he doesna rule more than a month.”

  “The king has ne’er been weaker,” Domnall said. “He’s old, feeble, and his heir is dead. And this time, the English are too busy fighting their own civil war to interfere wit
h our concerns.” Moreover, with Prince Henry’s death, David’s English lands were growing more vulnerable by the day. It would take all his efforts to keep them.

  “’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.”

  Once more, Domnall wondered why these men had come here. Was this a test of his allegiance? “Do ye speak of an alliance?” Domnall asked, fighting to hide his eagerness.

  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.”

  “A kinsman?” MacAedh asked.

  “Aye.” Ranald nodded. “Blood ties are always the strongest.” He paused. “I have several unwed cousins and ye have two maiden nieces do ye not?”

  “My sister is unwed,” Domnall blurted, tamping down the pang of guilt he felt for offering her up to gain a political alliance, but Sibylla owed as much duty to the family as he did. Although he could as easily have suggested his cousin, Ailis wasn’t in imminent danger of losing her innocence. Sibylla, on the other hand, was far too fond of the monk, Alexander, who had recently come to Kilmuir as a tutor.

  Ranald cast a slow and assessing gaze over the men seated at the table. “No doubt ye have much to discuss amongst yerselves.” He drained his tankard and rose with a nod to his men. “Let us take our leave now.”