Virtue (Sons of Scotland Book 1)

by Victoria Vane

  “’Twas no such thing!” she insisted. “I often go to Cnoc Croit na Maoile. Alexander only went there to pray. Our meeting there was pure happenstance.”

  But the kiss was not.

  Sibylla hadn’t considered the repercussions when she’d flung herself from the tree into Alex’s arms. She hadn’t thought at all. She’d only wanted to claim the kiss that Alexander had previously denied her. But what had begun innocently had quickly become something completely beyond her knowledge. Her brother would never understand if she told him what she believed with all her heart—that Alexander’s appearance had been the work of fate.

  “Is that so?” Domnall asked. “Then how do ye explain the hand holding?”

  “He was only helping me after I tripped on a tree root.”

  Domnall made a scoffing sound. “Even if I could swallow that tripe, which I dinna, that still doesna answer the hungry way he looks at ye. ’Tis dangerous to tempt a man, Sibylla.”

  “But I wasna! I dinna! Alexander told ye the truth! He dinna dishonor me!”

  “I would nae have left him standing had I disbelieved him,” Domnall said. “But that doesna excuse ye.”

  “And who are ye to lecture me?” she demanded. “Did ye nae kiss Ailis, Yuletide last?”

  His body went rigid. “What did she tell ye?”

  “Only that.”

  “I kissed her once,” he confessed, “but ne’er since.”

  “Dinna ye care for her?”

  Domnall shrugged. “’Twas just a kiss. I dinna mean anything more by it.”

  “So it’s all well and good for ye to kiss whoever ye fancy, but a woman canna?”

  “’Tis different for a man,” he mumbled. “A woman must heed the value of her maidenhood.”

  “The value of her maidenhood?” She released a bitter laugh. “And just what price does one place on such a thing, I wonder? How many spring calves would ye say it’s worth?”

  “Dinna make light of what I say, Sibylla! A man wants a virgin for his bride. Do ye think so little of this family, and of me, to throw yerself at the first one who looks at ye?”

  “Throw myself? Is that what ye think?”

  “I ken what I see,” he answered. “Ye willna speak with him again.”

  Sibylla seethed. “What right have ye to tell me who I can speak with?”

  “As yer brother, I have every right,” he replied. “And if I’m to have any hope of claiming my birthright, I need ye to help me.”

  “Me? What have I to do with it?”

  “’Twill soon be time for ye to wed. I have already spoken of it to MacAedh. He agrees ’tis yer duty to strengthen our position with a good marriage. He will be much displeased to learn of yer dallying with Alexander.”

  “Is that all ye care about?” she asked, nearly choking with anger. “Ye only fear I might diminish myself as yer bargaining tool?”

  He pulled up the horse and turned in the saddle. “What do ye want me to say, Sibylla? Ye ken how ’tis.”

  “Have I no say in this?” Sibylla asked. Had Domnall and MacAedh been plotting her future without her knowledge? Was that the reason he was so furious about her feelings for Alexander?

  “Ye will marry,” he declared resolutely. “And given yer conduct, ’twill be sooner rather than later.”

  Chapter Eight

  It was no surprise that Domnall didn’t appear the next morning. Alex greatly feared the second episode involving Sibylla had destroyed the fragile rapport he’d worked so hard to build with her brother. He and Domnall had come dangerously close to exchanging blows—or worse. Was there any way back or was the damage irreparable? MacAedh had overlooked the first time they’d been alone together, but what would he do if Domnall told him there was a second, and even more incriminating incident?

  His mind kept wandering over the events that had come together to shatter his tranquil existence—the revelations of his past and Sibylla’s kiss. If pressed, he knew he couldn’t even say which of these had unsettled him more.

  Though he wished he could refute them, he couldn’t deny his feelings for her. He’d never felt so drawn to another person. The kiss had nearly been his undoing, but marriage was out of consideration.

  Although most of the clergy in the Scottish kirk chose to live in celibacy, there was no actual doctrine prohibiting marriage. Only the Catholic Church forbade clerics to wed. Even if he were to take holy vows, only his state of poverty stood in the way. But even if he were not penniless, her family surely had a better match in mind. They would want someone who would not only provide her with security but who would be an advantageous ally to the clan—a noble husband with lands, power, and influence.

  These thoughts led him, once more, to wonder about his own family and birthright. His kinsmen had once held extensive lands in Fettercairn. Did they still? If his parents were indeed dead, would not some of these lands be his by right of birth? Was this even a matter he wished to pursue? To do so would surely place his life in danger, given his uncle’s treacherous history. But what choice did he have?

  Not long ago, he’d thought himself content and would have willingly spent the rest of his days in study, transcription and prayer. But the disconcerting revelations from MacAedh and his growing attachment to Sibylla were making him question everything. A month ago, he would have been ready to commit his life to the monastery, but now he was no longer so eager. He could not go on as he’d once planned. Too much had happened. He was not the same man who’d come to Kilmuir. He didn’t even know who he was anymore.

  He’d never felt so confused. Never had he been in greater need of wisdom and guidance, but there was no one he could trust. No one he could fully confide in aside from God Himself.

  Alex sat down to resume copying some psalms for a Book of Hours, but Sibylla and their passionate kiss wouldn’t stay long from his thoughts. Although he willed himself to keep his focus on his letters, when he laid down his quill and scanned his work for errors, only to realize he’d written the same verse twice.

  Raking his hair with a deep sigh of dismay, Alex abandoned his work and set out for the chapel. He spent the next few hours in fervent prayer until the candles sputtered out leaving him in near darkness. His body was chilled, and his legs were numb from kneeling on the cold, stone floor, but to his dismay, no answers had come to him.

  “Nae mine, but thy will be done,” Alex murmured to the carved wooden crucifix mounted above the altar. “But what is thy will for me?”

  A loud cough echoed against the walls. Alex jerked his head around to find young Kenneth standing on the threshold looking sheepish.

  “Do ye wish to pray?” Alex asked.

  “Nae,” Kenneth replied. “The MacAedh sent me to fetch ye to the keep. He awaits ye in the great hall.”

  Recalling Domnall’s warning about crossing MacAedh, Alex swallowed hard. It appeared his hour of reckoning had come. Murmuring another short prayer, Alex rose and prepared to accept his penance for kissing Sibylla. Would he be sent away now? Avoiding her would be impossible. He’d already tried and failed. It was no good pretending. Whether MacAedh ordered it or not, he must leave Kilmuir. It was the only possible course.

  *

  Arriving at the great hall, Alex was surprised to discover a familiar black-robed figure seated with MacAedh at the high table. How could this be? He hadn’t even sent his letter yet! Was the abbot’s appearance an answer from God? He froze at the entrance. “Faither Gregor?”

  The old priest turned and his weathered face broke into a smile. He rose and extended his arms. “Alexander! How do ye fare, my lad?”

  “I am well,” Alex replied as the priest took him into an embrace. “And ye?”

  “Much fatigued from my journey but I am blessed by the sight of ye,” the old man replied.

  “Ye have indeed come a long way,” Alex said. He looked about expectantly but the abbot appeared to be alone. “Do ye travel unaccompanied?”

  “Aye,” the abbot replied with a sigh. “My
mission is a personal one and I have much farther still to go. I am thankful for the hospitality of such a generous host.” He looked to MacAedh who answered with a grin.

  “A second man of God has comes to Kilmuir? I must wonder if there is a message in this.”

  “The chapel of Kilmuir has been devoid of a priest for far too long,” Father Gregor chided.

  MacAedh shrugged. “Perhaps ye are right, but I have become wary of Cenn Mór wolves in priest’s clothing. Come and sit, lad.” MacAedh urged Alex to join them at the table. He refilled his and the priest’s cup and then poured another for Alex.

  Raising it to parched lips, Alex took a long swallow only to be assaulted by the sensation of liquid fire in his throat. “What is this?” he sputtered.

  MacAedh eyed the abbot and then threw his head back with a laugh. “Have ye ne’er sample Uisge-beatha?”

  “Nae,” Alex replied. “What is in it?”

  “’Tis, the water of life, a drink of malted barley,” MacAedh answered.

  Alex set the cup down and pushed it away in distaste. “Have ye ale or mead perhaps?”

  “Give it moment lad,” MacAedh grinned. “Ye will come to appreciate the drink.”

  Even as the thane spoke, Alex felt the fire diminish to a welcoming warmth that first pooled in his stomach and then slowly stretched its fingers outward to his limbs. Perhaps it wasn’t so bad after all. He reached for his cup and took a smaller sip.

  “Where are ye bound?” MacAedh asked the abbot.

  “I go to Dunkeld Abbey for a meeting of the abbots. Rumors abound that the king has sent for a bishop of Rome to conduct a full inquisition of the monasteries.”

  “An inquisition?” Alex asked. “Why would he do such a thing?”

  “He fears for his eternal soul if he does nae reconcile us with Rome before his passing. Just as the Pope believes apostasy in his own ranks was the reason the last crusade failed, David Cenn Mór is convinced that his trials as king are punishment for not bringing the Highland kirk into the arms of the Holy Catholic Church. He is determined to purge the land of heresy before he leaves this earth—starting with the Céilí Dé.”

  The Céilí Dé, translated as companions of God, had established many early Christian settlements that dotted the Highland landscape. These were still governed by fiercely independent men who pledged their allegiance only to God. Their self-rule was well known to be a thorn in the king’s side.

  MacAedh snorted. “’Tis nae enough that David feudalizes our land. Now he would even make our kirk a vassal of Rome?”

  “There is far more in what ye say than I like,” the priest replied soberly. “There is great uncertainty in the fate of our monasteries.” He paused. “Many of the abbots fear what will be if they refuse to conform.”

  “Surely ye dinna fear for yer position—“Alex said. He wondered what he would do if he were in the abbot’s place.

  The priest shrugged. “’Tis only speculation at present, but I go south to learn the truth of it. Which leads to my second purpose in coming here.” Father Gregor laid a heavily veined and ink-stained hand on Alex’s knee. “I’d hoped to give ye more time, lad, but ye must begin to consider yer own future.”

  Alex’s heart raced in apprehension. “Ye speak of my vows?”

  “Aye.” The priest nodded. “I dinna encourage ye to return to Portmahomack, unless it is truly where God is leading ye.”

  “I have many questions, Faither Gregor,” Alex replied. “Questions about my family.”

  The priest looked to MacAedh. “Have ye have told him?”

  “Aye. What little I ken,” MacAedh replied. “But the lad deserves to hear all of it.”

  MacAedh set down his cup and rose from the table. “Ye have much to discuss between ye that doesna involve me. I will leave ye in peace.”

  Alex and the abbot sat in silence for several minutes after MacAedh departed the great hall. Alex tried to gather his scattered thoughts but found his mind muddled.

  “Why did ye nae tell me before about my faither?” Alex asked.

  “For yer own safety, I was vowed nae to speak of it,” he replied. “But I had faith that all would be revealed to ye in God’s good time.”

  “Did ye send me here for another reason than tutoring?” Alex asked.

  “Aye,” Father Gregor confessed. “In truth, ’twas nae MacAedh’s idea for ye to come here, but mine. Ye needed to experience another life and I trusted MacAedh nae to betray ye.”

  Father Gregor had all but admitted he’d sent Alex to Kilmuir under false pretenses.

  “Why?” Alex asked.

  “Because ye have the right to ken who ye are. Whether ye choose to acknowledge it or nae, ye are, indeed, the grandson of King Alexander, and as such have a legitimate claim to the throne of Scotland. The time will come soon that ye must decide whether to serve the king of all kings, or to seek yer own earthly crown.”

  He’d never understood why the abbot had discouraged him from taking his vows once he’d turned eighteen, as other novices had done. It was because he knew all of this! Alex jerked to his feet and began pacing. “And now I dinna ken what to think or what to do!”

  “’Tis a heavy burden, indeed,” Father Gregor replied. “I would have saved ye from this if I could have. Come lad, let us walk out of doors,” the priest urged. “I find far greater peace walking in God’s creation than enclosed by the walls of man.”

  They exited the keep and crossed the courtyard, past the kitchen garden and the armory to a sea gate leading down to the firth. The two men perched on a boulder and stared out at the inlet. They had fallen into a long silence. Alex’s body was restless and tense but he willed himself to exercise patience. The answers would be forthcoming when the abbot was ready to speak.

  “How much do ye remember from before?” Father Gregor finally broke the silence.

  “Nae much,” Alex replied. He recalled very little of his childhood before arriving at Portmahomack, and almost nothing of his sire. “I was verra young and now it’s been so long that all becomes hazy. I ken that my máthair’s name was Annis, and that we once lived at a place called Fettercairn. I remember the castle, the forest, the river. I remember playing with other children. I can vaguely picture my máthair’s face but I dinna ken much of my faither. He was often away and my máthair was always fretful and sad.”

  “Aye. She would have been, poor lass.” The priest shook his head sadly. “Fettercairn is in Mearns.” Father Gregor continued. “Ye were born there. ’Twas I who baptized ye. I was also the parish priest who performed the marriage rites between yer máthair and faither. I knew Malcolm Mac Alexander since he was a wee lad. He grew to be a braw man—smart, strong, ambitious, but he bore the taint of illegitimacy.”

  “My faither was a bastard?”

  “Nae.” The priest shook his balding head. “He wasna. The marriage between yer grandsire, King Alexander and yer grandmother who was a daughter of the Mormaer of Mar was consecrated by the Scottish kirk.”

  “I dinna understand. How could my faither be illegitimate?” Alex asked.

  “Because King Alexander gave in to pressure from Henry of England. After marrying Alexander’s sister, Henry desired to strengthen his dynasty by placing one of his own bloodline on the Scottish throne. He proposed a marriage between King Alexander and one of his own bastard daughters. Though he was already wed, Alexander agreed to put away his Highland wife on the pretext that the marriage was nae consecrated by the Pope.”

  “So my faither was declared illegitimate to remove him from the line of succession?”

  “Aye.” the priest replied grimly. “’Twas a violation to the covenant of marriage. God Himself commands that no man put asunder the holy bonds of wedlock. But kings are often wont to place themselves above the commands of God.”

  “What happened to Alexander’s Scottish wife?” Alex asked.

  “He put her away in a convent and then sent yer faither to be raised by his máthair’s kinsmen in Mar. Though he’d d
isowned him he still heeded his son’s protection. Yer faither was a proud man who was determined to claim the birthright that was denied him. When King Alexander passed with no heir from the new union, he saw his chance. His Highland kinsmen rallied to his cause, but Henry of England backed his new protégé, David Cenn Mór. The Highland nobles rose up in support of yer faither with a force of ten thousand men, but David Cenn Mór had the backing of the English and defeated them with a great slaughter.”

  “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.