“’Tis a heavy-handed tactic to be sure… even for David,” Somerled remarked.
“Ye must do as he asks!” Ailis begged. “Uncle’s life depends upon it.”
Domnall turned to Somerled. “I am at a loss what to do. If I swear allegiance, I must also renounce my heritage and any hope of reclaiming what belonged to my máthair’s family. But if I dinna, MacAedh’s blood will be on my hands.”
“He could free himself at any time,” Somerled said. “It is his choice to refuse the vow.”
Domnall took a moment to digest that. “Mayhap, but I canna trust the king. What would ye do in my stead?” Domnall asked.
“I once was in yer stead,” Somerled remarked. “Come, let us talk.”
*
Somerled conducted Domnall up to his castle ramparts, where they sat and stared out upon the seemingly endlessly churning sea. After a time, Somerled pulled a wineskin from his belt and took a long draught. He then handed it to Domnall.
“Over thirty years ago,” Somerled began, “my family suffered much the same fate as yers when our ancestral lands in Morvern were seized by Vikings and we were forced to flee for our lives to kinsmen in Ireland. I grew to manhood on that Isle with one singular purpose—to recover all we lost—or die in the effort.
“When I was about yer age, I set sail from Ireland with five hundred Gallowglass mercenaries funded by my father-in-law. I returned to Morvern and took it from the Vikings who occupied it. The men of Morvern, once freed of their hated oppressors, were swift to join me. Together, we re-took Lochaber and continued onward to Northern Argyll. My force, and my reputation, grew exponentially with each small victory, until we were able to drive all the Vikings from Argyll.
“David, meantime, turned his attention to Bute, Arran and the Isle of Man, but he had nae hope of holding it. We came to a treaty and I was made Lord of Argyll. I have since lived in peace with David Cenn Mór these twenty years.” Somerled paused with a contemplative look and took another long drink. “I have nae quarrel with David.”
Domnall’s hopes sank like a battered ship.
“But Prince Henry’s death changes much for all of us,” Somerled continued almost as if to himself. “If young Malcolm claims the throne, anyone with sound strategy and fierce fighters could conquer the kingdom.”
The look of calculation in the great warlord’s eyes set Domnall on edge. Domnall was suddenly reminded of his uncle’s wariness of aligning himself with the warlord. He would, indeed, take action the very moment his own interests became compromised. But did his intentions reach further? Did Somerled himself have thoughts of conquest?
He eyed Domnall with a look of resolution. “My allegiance to David will end if he attempts to place his grandson on the throne.”
*
Domnall descended from the ramparts feeling almost giddy. Though he’d stopped short of fully committing himself, the great warlord had strongly hinted at lending Domnall his support. He was eager to seek out his cousin with the news, but Ailis was no longer in the solar with the other woman.
Mariota came to him with concern in her eyes. “I fear yer cousin is unwell.”
“She has ne’er been prone to illness,” Domnall said. “Perhaps the long journey wore her out. She is unaccustomed to hard travel.”
Mariota laid a hand on his arm. “I fear ’tis beyond fatigue.”
“Where is she?” Domnall asked.
“I will take ye to her.”
Mariota led Domnall up one more staircase to a small tower room. Mariota knocked twice. “My lady. Yer cousin wishes to speak with ye.”
“Tell him I am unwell,” Ailis croaked.
Domnall’s apprehension spiked to another level. He didn’t wait for an invitation but pushed open the door. Ailis looked up at him with a face that was ghostly pale.
“Is there something I can get for ye, Ailis?” he asked, feeling suddenly helpless.
“Nae,” she shook her head. “Ye must leave here at once, Domnall. Ye are needed at Kilmuir.
“I canna leave ye here alone!” Domnall insisted.
“Ye must!” she declared urgently. “I am nae well enough to make the journey at present. I will only slow ye down. Please go. I only need to rest for a few days and all will be well.”
“Dinna fear, I will care for her,” Mariota said.
“Dinne ye think ye should first discuss this with Lord Somerled?” Domnall asked.
Mariota raised a brow. “My brother would not refuse, but even if he did object, I have my own place where I can fend for yer cousin.”
“Go, Domnall,” Ailis insisted. “Ye must tarry here nae longer. I will be fine with Mariota.”
“I vow she will want for naught under my care,” Mariota reassured him.
Domnall regarded the two woman with uncertainty, his concern for his cousin, warring with his sense of urgency to retun home. But Ailis was right, he could tarry no longer. Every day that passed only increased his kinsman’s peril. He sighed in surrender. “So be it. I will send someone to fetch ye home as soon as I am able.”
But he wasn’t sure when that would be.
“There is nae need to fret,” Mariota said. “I will ensure her safe return when she is well enough.”
Domnall left his cousin to take his leave of Somerled, feeling only a small burden lifted off his shoulders. He still didn’t know exactly what awaited him at home.
“Yer journey would be swifter by ship,” Somerled said when Domnall went to take his leave. “Gillecolum will sail ye as far as Inverlochy. ’Twill cut yer journey by at least a day.”
“I am grateful to ye, my lord,” Domnall said.
“Have ye decided what ye will do?” Somerled asked.
“I must find the means to rescue my kinsman,” Domnall said. “He willna give David what he wants, nor will I, which puts his life at great risk.”
“And if he is killed?” Somerled asked.
“I will raise an army.”
“’Tis what I would do,” he said. “I would fight to the death to take back all that is mine.”
“Easier done when ye have men and ships at yer command,” Domnall replied dryly.
“Aye, ’tis a challenge to fight a war single-handed,” Somerled replied with a grin. His smile faded and a calculating look appeared in his blue eyes. “I wonder, if ye were given a few hundred men and two ships, what ye might do with them?”
“I would put them to verra good use,” Domnall answered. “I would set out to reclaim Scotland for the Scots—one small piece at a time, starting with Moray.”
“Would ye, indeed?” He eyed Domnall assessingly. After a time, he released a breath. “I willna fight against, David… but my wife’s kinsman to the north might well feel differently.”
“Aye? Who is he?” Domnall struggled to hide his eagerness.
“Harald, Earl of Orkney,” Somerled answered. “He harbors great resentment toward David. I think ’twould take little to rouse him to fight. Ye would have much in common with Harald Maddadsson, and might well find a great friend in him.”
“Thank ye, my lord,” Domnall replied. “I am deeply indebted to ye.”
Somerled had been cautious about outright committing himself, but he implied much. The mention of his wife’s kinsmen had a purpose, as did the question of what Domnall would do with men and ships. Nothing he said was haphazard.
“I would ken how this plays out,” Somerled said. “I will send Gillecolum with ye to Kilmuir. He will bring word back to me of yer decision regarding MacAedh.”
Domnall departed Tarbert Castle with renourished hopes that a coalition, not just with Somerled, but also with the Earl of Orkney, might well be within his reach.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Dunfermline Abbey, Fife Scotland
Davina was crossing the abbey courtyard after midday prayer when a sudden commotion caught her eye. A crumpled figure lay on the ground by the reflecting pool, surrounded by soldiers, monks, and the distinct figure of the Earl of Mearn
s.
As she drew closer, Davina’s feet faltered. It was king himself! Was he dead? She watched breathlessly as the men carried his inert body toward the palace.
A moment later, she caught Father Abbot by the sleeve. “What has happened? Is the king…” she was almost afraid to utter the word… “dead?”
“He lives,” Father Abbot said, “but barely. Ill-tidings of Prince Malcolm seem to have brought on a seizure.”
“Prince Malcolm? What has happened?” Davina asked.
“His party was attacked just north of Inverness,” the abbot declared. “The Earl of Fife was slain and the prince is believed drowned.”
Davina gasped. Even with the king’s personal guard, it seemed the princess’ fears for her son were well-founded, after all.
“Does Princess Adaline ken of this?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “I must go to her!” Hastening across the courtyard, Davina went directly to the princess’ chambers to find the Earl of Mearns already delivering the news.
“There has been an incident, Highness,” he announced in a grave voice.
The princess paused with tapestry needle in the air. “What kind of incident?” she asked, eyes growing wide. “Is it the king?”
“The king has, indeed, been struck down with a seizure,” the earl replied, “but news of Prince Malcolm was the cause.”
“My son?” Princess Adaline dropped her tambour and rushed toward the earl. “Tell me!” She clutched his sleeve. “Tell me now! What has happened to Malcolm?”
“I’m sorry, my lady,” the earl began gruffly, “there is nae easy way to say this. They were ambushed at the River Beauly by a war party of Highlanders led by Domnall Fitz William. Fife was slain and Malcolm, who was swimming at the time, was struck by an arrow. ’Tis believed he drowned.”
Domnall? Davina was stunned. How could this be true? Davina could hardly wrap her mind around it. For certain, Domnall had good reason to hate the king, but an attempt to kill the young prince seemed so out of character for the Domnall she had known.
“Are ye quite certain ’twas Fitz William?” Davina asked.
The earl turned his cold, close-set, gray eyes up on her for the first time. The man was very large and bore many scars. He was close to the king but Davina didn’t like or trust him. “They were attacked by Highlanders within the boundaries of Moray. With MacAedh imprisoned, it could be no other.”
Why were they so quick to pin this on Domnall? Unless it was all just a convenient excuse to hunt him down. Davina refused to believe Domnall was responsible for the attack. The king had many enemies. But who among them could have done this thing and why?
“Kill him!” the princess screamed. “Kill them all! Send an army north and wipe them from the earth!”
“My lady,” the earl’s eyes widened in alarm. “I know you are distraught, but you must try to compose yourself.”
“Do you intend to do nothing?” she demanded.
“Of course not!” he thundered. “They will be hunted down and dealt with swiftly and without mercy. On this, you have my vow, but we must first consider the health of the king. His condition is dire. I go now to inquire of his status. I will also instruct the physician to send you a sleeping tonic.”
“A tonic?” her voice was choked with rage. “To hell with you and your tonics!”
“We will speak again when you have calmed,” the earl replied coldly.
The moment he departed, she crumpled to the floor in a hysterical fit of sobs that seemed to last for hours. Davina knelt beside her but could command no words of comfort. Berthe also came to offer consolation, but what was there to say to someone who had lost so much in such a short time?
Davina stayed with the princess until after she had taken her supper and the king’s physician arrived with a sleeping tonic. Once the princess retired to bed, Davina slipped out of the chamber. In truth, she knew quite well what the princess was feeling, as if her very heart had been wrenched from her chest. ’Twas the kind of pain one could never forget.
When she finally ceased weeping, the princess looked up with glassy and unfocused eyes. When she spoke, her voice was soft, flat, and eerily emotionless.
“Do you desire to take the sleeping tonic this night, milady?” Berthe softly asked.
“Nae.” The princess curled her lip in refusal. “Take it away! Fitz William killed my son. I will not rest until I see his sister and uncle hanged!”
“My lady,” Davina beseeched with a gentle hand on the princess’ arm. “I ken ye are much grieved and yer thoughts are affected by that grief, but ye mustna say such things. We are nae the judge of men. Justice is only for God and for those who rule in His name.”
“Nae!” The princess jerked away. “God’s justice failed once before when He allowed that spawn of Satan to escape! If the earl will not act now in the king’s name, then I will!”
*
Everyone at Dunfermline appeared affected by the tragic chain of events. A sober and dreary place in normal circumstances, the palace and abbey had now taken on the character of imminent mourning. The servants crept about in silence as if afraid even to speak, while secretly murmuring about a curse on the Cenn Mórs.
Three days later, however, all of the palace was abuzz with more news of the royal heir. Malcolm was very much alive! Word had come from Brother Alexander, the monk who had been traveling with the prince.
“Prince Malcolm lives, my lady,” the Earl of Mearns declared. “And the king is much recovered. God has answered our prayers.”
Though his words were pious, Davina could sense his lack of sincerity.
The princess, however, burst into tears of joy. “Malcolm is alive? Where is my son? I must see him!”
“The prince is, indeed, alive but he is wounded. You may rest assured he is being cared for until he can travel.”
“I will go to him!” she declared. “Berthe,” the princess called her maid. “Pack my trunk!”
“That is not possible, my lady,” the earl declared.
The princess confronted him with a frown. “Why not?”
“Because he is also being held hostage,” the earl answered. “The monk who was traveling with the prince brought word of it. He assures us, the prince is safe and will not be harmed, but they demand the release of the prisoner MacAedh, and the return of Lady Sibylla.”
“Then release them!” she cried.
“It is not so easily done, madam,” the earl explained. “MacAedh is as dangerous as his kinsman, Fitz William. We cannot allow these men to be at liberty. The king will give them nothing. He demands the prince’s immediate return or MacAedh will hang.”
“If you hang MacAedh, what is to stop them from killing my son?” she asked.
“Fear of retribution,” the earl replied. “The king’s wrath will be great.”
“But the king’s wrath will not bring back my son,” she argued, eyes flashing.
He shrugged. “You have more sons.”
Her heart raced in growing horror as Davina watched and listened to the exchange between the earl and the princess. Was the king indeed so bereft of feeling that he would sacrifice his grandson? Or was the earl intentionally baiting the princess? If so, why?
“You cold-hearted bastard!” Her hand suddenly flew up to strike his face, but the earl’s reflexes were swift.
He caught her wrist in one hand. His voice was soft but menacing. “You forget yourself, my lady.”
“I think not!” the princess spat. “I believe that power lust has gone to your head. The king would never allow such a thing!”
“On the contrary, my lady. ’Twas the king himself who named your son, William, as the new heir if Malcolm does not return.”
The princess’ jaw dropped.
The earl released her arm. “There is, however, another way this might be handled.”
“How?” the princess asked.
“The Earl of Fife was the king’s first choice for regent, but now the earl is dead and Fitz Alan seeks t
o take his place. If I secure Prince Malcolm’s safe return, would you support me as regent?”
“You promise to bring back Malcolm?” Her brow furrowed. “How can you make me such a vow?”
He smiled. “Because I have a plan. The monk leaves at first light with the king’s ultimatum. I will send my best men to follow him, and they will bring the prince home.” He continued with a smile, “They will also have instructions to… eliminate… any future threat from Moray.”
“Malcolm’s abductors will be killed? Good!” the princess declared. “What of MacAedh and Sibylla?” she asked.
“MacAedh will eventually hang. As to the girl,” the earl sighed. “The king has other plans for her. He has kept her here because he desires a betrothal between her and the prince.”
“A betrothal? ’Tis ridiculous! She is a woman grown and Malcolm is barely twelve!”
“Age matters not in these arrangements. He will be of age to wed in two years. ’Tis not an unusually lengthy betrothal for a royal marriage,” the earl argued.
“But why her?” The princess looked ready to gnash her teeth. “Why would the king wish to taint our blood with such a creature, when Malcolm could have his pick from hundreds of well-bred maids of noble Norman families?”
“Which would do nothing to quell the unrest in Scotland,” he answered. “Lady Sibylla is the granddaughter of both Duncan Cenn Mór and Aedh of Moray. There is no other female of superior royal blood in all of this kingdom.”
“Then look outside of this kingdom!” the princess angrily replied.
“The king once had thought to bolster the bond with England with a marital alliance, but ’tis still uncertain who will wear the English crown. Thus, he seeks, instead, to unify and strengthen Scotland. The king will use her to unite the northern and southern kingdoms.”
“But she is illegitimate!” the princess argued.
“A technicality,” the earl said dismissively. “A royal marriage will erase the taint and Prince Malcolm will wear the crown of a unified Scotland.”
I will not have it!” the princess raged. “I will not allow my son to be united with an accursed Highlander!”
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