Valor

by Victoria Vane

  “I cannot do it!” Malcolm replied. “I have neither the authority, nor the will to defy my grandfather.”

  “I dinna ask ye to act in any way against the king’s wishes while he lives, but I do ask for yer word that ye will free my kinsman upon the king’s death.”

  Malcolm studied Domnall with sober gray eyes. “And you will free me if I agree to this?”

  “Aye. Ye will depart this day with Brother Alexander.”

  The prince still looked wary. “No tricks?”

  “Have I e’er deceived ye?” Domnall asked.

  “Nae, but I still canna trust you,” Malcolm said.

  “Do ye trust Brother Alexander?” he asked.

  “Aye. He saved my life.”

  “Would ye accept Alexander’s vow that he will return ye safely to the king?”

  “I would,” Malcolm said.

  “Then it only remains for ye to give me yer own vow to free MacAedh.”

  “Pray give me an hour to think on this,” the prince answered.

  “As ye wish, Highness,” Domnall said with a bow. “I will send Brother Alexander to ye in an hour.”

  *

  Domnall left the prince with the hope that he’d convinced the lad of his innocence and that Malcolm would, indeed, agree to free MacAedh, but Alexander was the only one who had the prince’s trust. It seemed a great irony that the prince had more faith in the monk than Domnall ever had, at least before last night.

  He still had many questions for the secretive monk, and it was well past time he got answers. He found Alexander in the great hall with the priest and Gillecolum. Their conversation abruptly ended the moment Domnall entered.

  “How did ye fare with the prince?” Father Gregor asked.

  “I dinna ken. He listened but then he asked for an hour to consider his response.”

  “Ye canna fault the lad for suspicion,” the priest said.

  “Nae, but a great deal depends on his cooperation,” Domnall said. “He asks for an hour to deliberate. In the meantime, I would have a private word with Alexander, if ye dinna mind.”

  “Of course.” Alexander rose. “There is much to say.”

  “Let us walk the ramparts,” Domnall suggested.

  Still on alert after the events of the night before, they ascended the stone stairway. The firth was calm, stretching out for miles and blending seamlessly into the blue horizon. No breeze stirred and the hot August sun beat down on their heads. Seeking a shady corner, Domnall sat on a parapet, but kept his eyes on the sea, half-expecting a flotilla to appear. So much had happened in such a short time. He felt as if years had passed instead of mere weeks.

  “I have many questions,” Domnall finally said.

  “I understand,” Alexander said. “I willna hold back.”

  “Good,” Domnall said. “Mayhap ye can begin with how ye kent of the hidden weaponry?”

  Alexander nodded. “Do ye recall the day I challenged ye to the knife contest?”

  Domnall remembered it well. It was shortly after Alexander had arrived at Kilmuir to tutor Domnall. He’d resented the monk from the start and had refused to attend lessons. Alexander had proposed a wager over knife throwing in hope of getting Domnall to cooperate.

  “MacAedh saw my sgian-dubh that day and recognized the inscription on it,” Alexander said. “It matched that of a sacred sword. Yer uncle showed me the cache of weapons and told me about the sword, one of seven that are called Kingslayers. This particular blade once belonged to Mal Peder MacLeon, Mormaer of Mearns, the man who killed King Duncan.”

  “King Duncan was my grandfaither!” Domnall exclaimed. He stifled another surge of resentment. “Why would ye, who have nae arms training whatsoever, be given this infamous sword?”

  “Because it once belonged to my faither,” Alexander replied.

  “He was a warrior?” Domnall asked, unable to hide his surprise. “My uncle, Angus, was killed at Stracathro. Was yer faither slain as well?”

  “He was nae slain in battle but he was the reason for the great rebellion.”

  “I dinna follow ye,” Domnall said. “The rebellion was to put a true Scot back on the Scottish throne.”

  “My faither was Malcom Mac Alexander. He was the legitimate firstborn son of King Alexander of Scotland, and the rightful heir to the crown.”

  Domnall was stunned. “Yer grandfaither was King Alexander?”

  “Aye and my faither, as Alexander’s son, should have succeeded, but David had the backing of King Henry of England. The Highlanders fought for my faither. Yer Uncle Angus died for him, but he was ultimately betrayed by his brother-in-law, imprisoned by King David, and ne’er heard from again. The true reason I accompanied MacAedh to court was to try to discover what happened to my faither.”

  “Did ye have any success?”

  “I dinna learn what I’d hoped but I did encounter the man who betrayed my faither. Eachann of Mearns is now one of the king’s closest advisors.”

  “Eachann of Mearns, the verra one who sent men to kill us, is yer uncle?”

  “Aye,” Alexander replied, “but he doesna ken that I live. My máthair sent me to the monastery when I was only four to protect me from him. She promised to send for me when it was safe. But I ne’er saw her again. I finally gave up hope. For many years now, my only aspiration has been to become a scribe, yet, here I am now, embroiled in plots, murder, and intrigue.” He released a long sigh.

  “Ye are indeed. Welcome to the family, Alexander,” Domnall added with a dry chuckle.

  “Thank ye, Brother.” Alexander grinned back. “Do ye now understand why MacAedh trusted me with his own secrets?”

  “Aye.” Domnall nodded. Everything that confused and angered Domnall was suddenly becoming clear.

  “When MacAedh was imprisoned, I found myself in a unique position to help—until Sibylla showed up at Dunfermline and complicated everything.”

  “That is typical of my sister,” Domnall remarked. “She is far too impulsive for her own good.”

  “And I love her beyond words,” Alexander said. “I will take her away from Dunfermline as soon as it is safe to do so.”

  “How?” Domnall asked.

  Alexander sighed. “I dinna yet ken. But we have an ally at the palace, a nun who brought word of Eachann’s plan to Faither Gregor. She has befriended Sibylla. Mayhap she can help.”

  “A nun?” Domnall frowned. He didn’t recall a convent at Dunfermline.

  “Faither Gregor said she came to Dunfermline with Princess Adaline.”

  Domnall’s breath seized in his chest. “Do ye ken her name?”

  “She introduced herself as Sister Mary Malachy…”

  Domnall’s chest deflated in disappointment.

  “But she said ye would ken her as Davina of Crailing.”

  *

  Hours later, Domnall stood by the seagate as Alexander and Prince Malcolm prepared to set sail for Inverkeithing. Davina was once more heavy on his mind. Alexander’s mention of her had awakened all of his suppressed dreams and desires.

  What would happen to her if Eachann discovered her duplicity? He hated that she’d endangered herself to help him, but her warning had saved their lives. Would she come if he asked her to? But should he ask?

  He ached to see her, but nothing had changed. At least not for the better. He was still a penniless outlaw with nothing to offer her. Perhaps it was even worse than before, for now they had lost their rights to Kilmuir the day MacAedh was imprisoned. They just hadn’t been evicted yet. In all likelihood, the king would send his men to seize the castle. Which meant he could give Davina no home, no security.

  He watched them until the flapping sail disappeared from view. With fair winds, they would arrive in about four days. He should have gone with them. He should have gone to her. But he finally had an advantage. He’d secured Malcolm’s promise to release MacAedh. If Domnall were now to be discovered at Dunfermline, it would all be for naught. Although his heart yearned for one thing, his brain
demanded self-discipline. His entire family’s existence depended on his actions.

  Still lost in his morose thoughts, he turned away and climbed the embankment leading back to the keep. Gillecolum met him halfway.

  “What will ye do now?” Gillecolum asked. “Surely ’tis nae safe to stay here.”

  “Nae,” Domnall agreed. “We must leave. Faither Gregor has offered us a place at the monastery in Portmahomack. I will send the women and children there for the nonce, but it will only be until I find another place for us.”

  “If ye wish to travel west, I am certain Somerled would give ye safe harbor on one of the more remote islands,” Gillecolum suggested.

  “Thank ye,” Domnall said. “But ’tis too far away. To leave Moray would mean ne’er recovering our lands. I must maintain a presence close by, near enough nae to be forgotten, but still out of reach of the king’s men.”

  “So ye intend to raise an army?”

  “Aye,” Domnall said. “I will nae act until the king is dead. But once David is gone, I will make one last attempt to negotiate with Malcolm. If he or his regent does nae restore all of our lands I will fight for them.”

  “’Twill nae be easy,” Gillecolum said.

  “I have time to prepare,” Domnall said. “The Highlands are nae unlike Kilmuir—much easier to defend than to attack.”

  Yet, the thought of living as an outlawed rebel warlord weighed heavily on his spirit. The time was fast approaching to do what he had prepared himself for his entire life, but his heart felt strangely hollow. Something elemental to his very being was missing.

  Davina.

  Even if he were to gain everything he desired, it would all mean nothing without her.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Since Alexander’s departure from Dunfermline, a sennight past, Davina and Sibylla had met every day for devotions in the Queen’s Chapel. They had, indeed, prayed together, but they also spent much time talking. For the first time in her life, Davina had a true friend, someone she could trust and confide in. Sibylla was the sister she had always longed for, but their growing friendship endangered them both.

  “The princess desires me to sup with her again,” Sibylla said. “I dinna ken how to manage this time without rousing her suspicion.” She bit her lip.

  Having run out of credible excuses to avoid it, Sibylla had already dined with the princess twice. On the first occasion, she requested mead instead of the wine the princess served. The second time, when she “accidentally” spilled her cup, she replenished it from the same pitcher of wine that the princess drank.

  “Can ye plead yer courses?” Davina asked.

  “Nae.” Sibylla shook her head. “’Tis the first excuse I used. If only there was some other way to distract her.”

  Sibylla gazed once more at the plot she had prepared for the princess’ roses. “Mayhap I could convince her to go back to Haddington for a time? I already told ye that I will need to transplant rose bushes for her garden. Mayhap I could suggest that we transplant something with special significance to honor Prince Henry?”

  “Do ye think she would agree?”

  “I dinna ken,” Davina said. “But ’tis worth a try.”

  “Ye would go with her?” Sibylla asked.

  “I would have to,” Davina said sadly. “But ye would be safe.”

  “I fear for ye, Davina, if she learns that ye warned me. I wish Alexander would return!” Sibylla said, stifling a sob. “I hate this place!”

  “As do I,” Davina said. “Once ye are gone, I will nae remain here. I will return to Haddington Priory.”

  “Is that truly yer desire, Davina?” Sibylla asked softly, her green gaze far too probing for Davina’s comfort.

  They sat on a turf seat in the shadow of Queen Margaret’s statue. Davina gazed up at her mournful face wondering what her life had been like. She had died grief-stricken by the death of her husband and oldest son. Dunfermline had been Queen Margaret’s favorite palace. Was she happy here? It was hard to imagine anyone being happy here.

  Over time, Davina had shared much of her past with Domnall’s sister but, until now, Sibylla had never delved too deeply about Davina’s relationship with Domnall. She still loved him. She would always love him but it would never be more than a wistful yearning for what might have been.

  “We canna always have what we desire,” Davina said with a sad sigh. “Sometimes we must teach ourselves to be content.”

  Before either could say another word, the air erupted with the clamorous chiming of the cathedral bells.

  Davina listened in puzzlement. “’Tis nae the call to prayer. Do ye think they herald ill-tidings?” But the bells did not sound in slow, mournful tones. On the contrary, they were almost jubilant.

  “Nae,” Sibylla answered. “I would hazard ’tis good news.” She stood. “Let us go, Sister, and see what we can discover.”

  *

  That evening, Sibylla was spared the private supper with Princess Adaline. Instead, the king called for a public feast to celebrate the return of Prince Malcolm.

  The prince’s homecoming had seemingly worked a miracle on the king who left his bed for the first time in weeks to command his high seat. Although he had full power of his faculties, his body appeared shrunken and his complexion was sallow. His speech was also heavily slurred. Davina had no doubt that the king had not long to live.

  The princess was also much changed but in the opposite extreme. She was almost feverishly animated. Davina still worried for her mental state. She had become increasingly volatile and unpredictable. It would do her good to leave this place, but Davina wondered if she could convince her to do so now that Malcolm had returned. Perhaps the prince would be persuaded to accompany his mother to Haddington? The king could hardly object, given their purpose was to create a living memorial to his dead son.

  Davina resolved to suggest it as soon as possible to the princess.

  The table was laden with all manner of seasoned meats and fish, enormous wheels of cheese and a variety of fruits freshly plucked from the king’s orchards. Wine, mead and strong cider flowed freely from enormous casks that had been brought into the great hall. As they supped, minstrels played in the gallery, plucking their lutes and singing Mirie it is While Sumer Ilast.

  Davina was seated at the foot of the table which gave her the advantage of a clear view of everyone who sat at the head. The Earl of Mearns and the king’s High Steward, a man called Fitz Alan, sat to the king’s left, while Prince Malcolm sat on the right in the place of honor, his mother beside him. Alexander and Sibylla were positioned across from one another a few places away from the prince. Speaking for the king, the bishop stood to offer a protracted prayer of thanksgiving for the prince’s safe return.

  At the utterance of “Amen”, the bishop yet continued, “And lastly, may God’s bountiful blessings fall upon the man who not only contrived the prince’s safe return to us, but in so doing secured the future of the throne of Scotland…”

  Davina looked to Alexander, the hero who had brought the prince home, but the bishop’s eyes were on the Earl of Mearns as he continued. “In reward for his great service to the crown, his majesty has decreed that Eachann, Earl of Mearns, will act as Regent of Scotland in the event his majesty should pass from this earth prior to the prince’s majority.”

  Davina swallowed her gasp. How could this be? Had Eachann of Mearns taken credit for Malcolm’s return? Had the villain somehow become the hero?

  Davina scanned the faces at the king’s table for their reaction to the proclamation. The prince looked dazed, Fitz Alan, the king’s High Steward, and Hugh de Morville, Constable of Scotland, exchanged a look of surprise. Eachann himself, hid his elation in victory over his rivals with a benign smile.

  But the bishop still wasn’t finished. “’Tis also with the greatest joy that the king announces this night Prince Malcolm’s betrothal of marriage to Sibylla of Kilmuir, daughter of Lord William Fitz Duncan.”

  Alexander’s f
ace suddenly flushed and his eyes blazed. Sibylla, on the other hand, appeared to go pale with shock. The princess, contrarily, betrayed no reaction at all, which caused Davina the greatest alarm. Was she not worried because she intended to take care of the matter herself? Davina feared it was so.

  The rest of the feast was an interminable affair with Davina’s stomach so unsettled that she could not bring herself to eat or drink. Just when she considered slipping away, she saw Sibylla excuse herself. A few minutes later, Alexander did the same, making his exit in the opposite direction Sibylla had taken.

  Davina guessed it was a ruse to cover an assignation. She had half a mind to follow them but feared what she might interrupt between the reunited husband and wife. A short time later, Davina also departed the great hall, and retired straight to her bed. She despised living in this tangle of plots and intrigues.

  It seemed to her a terrible irony that Dunfermline, the largest place of worship in the land, would also be the most morally corrupt. The longer she stayed, the more desperately she yearned to be free.

  *

  Just as Davina closed her eyes, a light rap sounded on her chamber door. “Davina, ’tis Sibylla. I must speak with ye.”

  Davina bolted from her bed to unlatch the door. “Sibylla! What is amiss?”

  “It must be now!” Sibylla whispered. “Too much has happened. Eachann has come into power. He is an evil man with many spies. The danger of discovery has become too great for all of us.”

  “But what of yer uncle?” Davina asked.

  “He is still a prisoner, but his life is spared!” Sibylla said. “Prince Malcolm has agreed he will be freed upon King David’s death. ’Twas the bargain he made with my brother for his own release.”

  So Domnall had negotiated for his uncle’s life after all? Davina was glad of it.

  “We must leave this night while most of the palace is drunk with wine,” Sibylla said. “We will ne’er have a better chance. Alexander has a boat only a few miles away at Inverkeithing. We will disguise ourselves as monks and slip away.”

  Davina’s heart raced with anticipation and indecision. She wanted to go but what would be waiting for her? “Ye intend to return to Kilmuir?” she asked.