Highland Heartbreakers

by Quinn, Paula

  They emerged in the courtyard where a groom stood with two saddled horses beside a man he didn’t recognize clad in black robes.

  Were they finally returning home to Fettercairn? He hated Castle Dunnottar and didn’t like his stern uncle who’d brought them here. There were no other children to play with in this place. Only silent and somber servants who scurried around like frightened mice. For weeks, Alex had stared out his window at the lonely landscape and the vast, gray ocean. His uncle had insisted they were there for their protection, but Alexander felt like a prisoner confined in this isolated, clifftop fortress.

  He missed his home in the Grampian foothills. Fettercairn wasn’t a cold, stone fortress surrounded by endless angry seas. It was a village unto itself, bustling with people. His home overlooked a river filled with salmon and was surrounded by woodlands teeming with wild game. He’d already learned how to build a rabbit snare, and had a falcon of his very own. His father had promised to teach him to hunt stag and boar as soon as he was big enough, but his father had gone away.

  “Alexander, this is Faither Gregor,” his mother said. “Ye must go with him.”

  Fear gripped him, sending a pulse of pure panic through his veins. He should have relished the idea of going away, but his instincts told him something was very, very wrong.

  “I’m going alone, Máthair?”

  “Aye. Tis for yer safety,” she insisted.

  “I dinna understand. Why canna we go together? Why canna I stay with ye? Please, Máthair!”

  “Ye canna stay with me!” she said.

  “But I dinna want to go!” he cried out and pulled out of her grasp. “Why do I have to leave?”

  “Please, Alexander,” she pleaded. “Yer faither has been taken away and the same men who did this deed will surely come looking for ye.”

  “Who?” he asked. “Who has taken Faither?”

  “I dinna ken.” She averted her face with a sniff.

  “W-will they kill him?” he asked, fighting the quaver in his voice. At four years old, he didn’t quite comprehend death. He only understood that they buried dead people in the cold, dark ground. He wanted his father to live and come home. He wanted them all to go home.

  “Ye ask questions I have no answer for, mo chridhe. All I ken is that ye are also in danger and I canna protect ye.”

  Alexander’s eyes burned. He tried to hold back, but scalding tears began leaking down his face. He shut his eyes but the flood still would not be dammed.

  She gripped his shoulders and gave him a firm shake that nearly made his teeth rattle. He’d never seen her look so fierce. “No more of that, my lad. Ye are from warrior stock. Ye must be brave.”

  “When will I see ye again?” he asked.

  “When it is safe, I will send for ye. Until then, no one must ken where ye are… or who ye are.” Her grip tightened painfully on his shoulders. “Do ye understand me?”

  “Aye, Máthair,” he replied in a choked whisper.

  “Good.” She reached inside her cloak and withdrew a silver mounted sgian-dubh. “Take this. It was yer grandfather’s.”

  Alexander fingered the leather sheath and then gingerly withdrew the blade and squinted at the inscription. Veritatem, Virtutem, Vindictae. He recognized that it was written in Latin but at four years old, had only just begun his lessons. “What does it mean?”

  “Truth, valor, vengeance,” she replied. “’Tis the ancient motto of the seven mormaers.” She looked to the priest. “Faither Gregor will teach ye how to use it.”

  The priest inclined his head. “Dinna fear, my lady. The lad will be safe with me.”

  “As God is our witness, I hold ye to yer word, Faither.” She then knelt and took Alex’s face in both of her cold hands. Her gaze softened as she kissed his tear-dampened cheeks.

  Unable to hold back, Alexander threw both of his arms around her neck. She pulled him into her bosom where she held him tight, her own body now racked with quiet sobs. After a long moment, she withdrew, pulled his woolen plaid tightly around him, and nodded to the priest.

  PART ONE

  A man’s heart devises his way:

  but the Lord directs his steps.

  –Proverbs 16:9

  Chapter One

  Portmahomack Monastery,

  Northern Scotland

  1151 A.D.

  Taking up a new goose feather, Alexander shaved the plumes from the shaft with his pen knife, and then carefully honed the nib to a useable point. He’d spent two years perfecting the skill of pen making. He’d made thousands of them before he was ever permitted to apply one to parchment, but that was nothing compared to the five years he’d spent scraping animal skins to earn his current apprenticeship in the scriptorium.

  He examined the nib with satisfaction before dipping his finished quill into the inkhorn. Carefully, he made his first slow, clean stroke across the virgin vellum. He had begun copying a Book of Hours. It was a painstaking process that would take him many months to complete, but once his mind filled with the words and imagery, he often lost all sense of time and place.

  Toil and worship had filled all of his waking hours for almost as long as he could remember but, in this particular labor, Alex found a peace and contentment that had otherwise eluded him. The monastery was a stark, Spartan place of hard wood and cold stone with few creature comforts. The only room even allowed a fire was the warming house. He shared a sleeping chamber with the other neophytes of Portmahomack and took all of his meals in the refectory. His days were strictly regimented from vigils that broke the silence of the morning, to compline, the last prayers of the day before the candles and rush lights were snuffed for the night. His only times of true privacy were his hours in the scriptorium. It was his escape.

  As a young boy, he’d often been chastised for long periods of daydreaming and for his chronic tardiness to vespers. Eventually, however, he’d come to accept the routine of the monastery, or perhaps better said, he’d simply given up hope of ever leaving.

  A sudden knock on the door startled him, a reaction that left an ugly blob of ink on the precious piece of parchment. Biting back a curse that sat precariously close to the end of his tongue, Alex frantically dabbed at the stain with the edge of his sleeve, but it only worsened the smear. He glanced up to rebuke the intruder, only to swallow his words.

  “Alexander!” the prior addressed him with a solemn look, “Faither Gregor calls for ye to come to his private chambers.”

  Alex immediately set down his quill and capped his inkhorn. Being summoned to the abbot wasn’t usually a good thing. Had he committed some unknown trespass? He crossed the familiar cloistered courtyard to the abbot’s quarters with a growing sense of trepidation.

  Upon arriving, Alex stood hesitantly at the threshold, taking in the familiar surroundings—the threadbare carpet and faded tapestry depicting Saint Columba, the oaken table that was even more scarred and blotted with ink. He’d spent countless hours of his boyhood here in this room studying ancient scriptures with the old priest who’d given him sanctuary in the monastery, had indeed fostered him as a son for nearly seventeen years.

  A man sat facing the priest with his back to Alex. Other than the few nearby crofters who attended Sabbath worship, the monastery rarely received visitors. Alex wondered who he was.

  “Ye sent for me, Faither?” Alex said.

  The stranger turned to face him, allowing Alex the first look at his face. He was a large man, proportioned like a bull, with a black beard and penetrating dark eyes. Alex guessed he was probably only a decade older than himself, but his authoritative air made him seem much older.

  “Come, come,” Father Gregor beckoned him impatiently inside and waved him to a chair. “There’s naught amiss.”

  Alex exhaled in relief.

  “There’s someone ye must meet,” the abbot said. “This is MacAedh, Thane of Kilmuir, who’s come seeking a tutor.”

  MacAedh then spoke. “My nephew has nigh come of age, yet he’s sadly ignorant
—a situation I mean to remedy.”

  “He’s had no education?” Alexander asked.

  “He’s had a Sassenach education,” MacAedh spat. It was clear he had no love of the English. “Young Domnall can barely read or write, nor does he ken anything of our history and our ways. Faither Gregor thinks ye’d be best to teach him.”

  “Ye’re my brightest pupil,” the abbot said, “And would no doubt also be a good companion for the young laird.”

  “But I’m content here,” Alexander said.

  The thought of leaving took him completely by surprise. He was accustomed to this place and the routine. The monastery was familiar, safe, and secure. He’d lived almost his entire life here with little exposure to outsiders, but now he was being asked to leave with a man he knew virtually nothing about. The idea filled him with panic.

  “Only because ye have ne’er kent anything else,” the abbot replied.

  That much was true. Since his arrival at the monastery as a child, Alex had rarely left the secluded fishing village on Tarbat Ness. He now had only the dimmest recollection of his former life.

  “Soon ’twill be time to take yer vows,” Father Gregor continued. “I would have ye see something more of the world before ye pledge yerself to this life. Ye will go with MacAedh. When ye return, we can discuss yer future.”

  My future.

  Alex had thought much about that of late. Having been placed at such a tender age under the abbot’s care, he’d naturally assumed that he would one day take holy orders, perhaps as a scribe. It wasn’t that he’d felt any particular religious calling, but what other plan could there be for his life? He’d never imagined leaving, but it appeared the choice had been made for him.

  “Go and pack yer belongings,” Father Gregor commanded.

  “Aye, Faither,” Alexander replied. He was going whether he wanted to or not.

  As he made to leave, he was stalled by a large hand pressing his shoulder.

  “Thank ye, lad,” MacAedh said, offering a reassuring nod.

  Alex met his gaze with a forced smile, though he felt nothing inside but disquiet. He felt as if he were being expelled from the only home he’d ever known.

  It took only a few minutes for Alex to pack. His personal belongings were few—two black robes, a single woolen plaid, one pair of shoes for winter, and an ancient psalter. The last wasn’t actually his, but had been loaned to him by Father Gregor. He’d spent many hours reading the sacred verses and committing them to memory.

  He’d recently begun the painstaking task of copying and illuminating the text for a Book of Hours. He was heartily disappointed that he wouldn’t be able to complete this work. He couldn’t understand why his whole world was suddenly being upset.

  Alexander reverently caressed the worn leather volume before wrapping it back in its protective cloth. He added an inkhorn and some plummets for sketching to his collection, then tied everything up in the plaid. Then, with a heavy heart, he carried the precious book back to the abbot.

  “Here is the psalter,” Alexander said, offering it to the priest. “I had hoped to finish the text with illumination.”

  “Then take it with ye,” Father Gregor urged him with a smile.

  “Thank ye, Faither,” Alexander murmured and tucked the book into his tunic next to his heart. “Have ye materials for teaching?” Alexander asked MacAedh.

  “Aye,” he replied. “Ye’ll find no shortage for teaching. We have an entire library at Kilmuir.”

  “A library?” Alexander was incredulous. Books of any kind were precious and costly. Few people owned anything but a prayer book. The Thane of Kilmuir must be a wealthy man indeed to possess so many.

  “Aye,” MacAedh replied. “We often lend to those who ask. Ye may make free of it. We must be off if we are to return before sunset,” the thane urged. “’Tis a long ride back to Kilmuir.”

  “Goodbye, Faither,” Alexander said.

  “Godspeed, my son,” the abbot replied, taking Alex into a brief embrace. As Alex bade him farewell, he was struck by the portentous look in the abbot’s eyes.

  MacAedh led him past the small cluster of buildings to the central water trough where a group of men waited, proud-looking Highlanders on horseback. “Do ye ride?” he asked Alexander.

  “Nae,” Alexander shook his head. He hadn’t been on the back of a horse since he was four years old. “But I walk well enough,” he added with a grin.

  “’Tis thirty miles,” MacAedh said. “Ye’ll ride.” He then inclined his head to a fair-headed youth who appeared but a few years Alex’s junior. “Domnall, meet yer tutor. Now help him onto the horse.”

  MacAedh was a man of few words, but those he uttered were well-heeded.

  The young man came forward with the horse and a breath of muttered curses as he gave Alexander a knee up onto the beast’s back. “I dinna need another tutor,” he mumbled.

  “Ye do if ye ever wish to claim yer birthright,” his uncle called over his shoulder. “The men of Moray will ne’er follow a Sassenach.”

  “They followed my faither,” he argued.

  “Aye. But only to kill more Sassenachs.”

  Domnall’s body visibly stiffened but he seemed to have no other rebuttal.

  Who was this young man? His particular speech and mannerisms suggested that he’d been raised in the southern kingdom. Was he a Norman? Alex digested what little he knew. The lad was obviously someone of importance since his uncle had ridden thirty miles to find him a tutor. And his father must have been a soldier of some repute. Whatever his history, it was clear he resented the idea of completing his education. Domnall’s antipathy only strengthened Alexander’s qualms about leaving the monastery, but what choice had he?

  Although Alex was riddled with questions, he was accustomed to holding his tongue. Surely all would be revealed in good time. He reassured himself that it was only temporary, but as he departed, he couldn’t suppress the ominous feeling that he might never return.

  Chapter Two

  Castle Kilmuir, Black Isle

  Scottish Highlands

  “Hallowed be thou, Vervein, as thou grow on the ground. In the mount of Calvary was thou first found. Thou healed our Savior, Jesus Christ, and stanched his bleeding wound. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, I take thee from the ground,” Sibylla quietly murmured the ancient prayer, as she uprooted the last of the herb harvest and placed it gently into her basket.

  “Are we finished?” Ailis asked.

  “Aye, we have enough and some to spare,” Sibylla answered. It had taken several days and countless hours, but their harvest was now complete.

  “Then let us go and perform the charm.” With a smile, Ailis took Sibylla’s hand.

  With baskets on their arms, the two girls trekked across the heather-covered moor to a steep forest trail leading to the promontory called Cnoc Croit na Maoile. Reaching the summit, they set their baskets down and took in the view. If the climb had not already left her breathless, the vista, stretching the length and breadth of Black Isle to the purple-hued Affric Mountains, would have done so. Every time she came here, Sibylla’s heart swelled with pride knowing her family’s long connection to this wild and beautiful land.

  They continued to the circle of standing stones, ancient relicts from past ancestors, silently circling the perimeter three times, before advancing to the center where they spread their arisaids beneath the shelter of the great oak that commanded the center.

  While Sibylla stretched herself out upon the makeshift blanket, Ailis plopped down cross-legged beside her and loosed the ribbons from her hair. The midsummer feast of St. John was soon approaching. It had always been Sibylla’s favorite, followed closely by Yuletide, but this year felt somehow different. For days, she’d experienced a heavy sense of foreboding she didn’t understand.

  Lost in her thoughts, Sibylla stared up through the thick canopy of branches at the cloudless Highland sky. The summer was already half over and autumn would nip swif
tly at her heels. Such days as this were rare and short lived, thus meant to be enjoyed while they lasted. She must make an effort to shake off this strange mood that had overtaken her.

  “I miss the old days,” Ailis sighed. “When these fields were filled with grazing sheep and cattle.”

  That was well before Sibylla had arrived at Kilmuir. In her experience, what little livestock they had, barely kept everyone fed. At least the land produced sufficient vegetables and herbs to meet their needs. They were fortunate to have such fertile ground in Black Isle. Their needs were met while others less fortunate still suffered.

  “Back then,” Ailis continued, “hundreds gathered in this place for Beltane, Midsummer, and Samhain. But after the rebellion, the king’s men realized ’twas the easiest place to conscript new recruits. We have nae lit the banefires since. I wish ye had been with us then. Give me yer ribbon,” she said.

  Sibylla unbound her plaited coronet, letting loose a cloud of riotously unruly strawberry blonde waves and handed the ribbon to her cousin who began to weave it into the stalks of St. John’s flowers they’d collected. Lying back on the sweetly-scented grass, she basked in the sensation of sunshine caressing her skin.

  In silence, Sibylla watched Ailis’ nimble fingers form the stems and leaves into a garland, but she had no desire to join her in the activity. The Yuletide tradition, however, was quite another matter. Being a superior climber, Sibylla always looked forward to the harvest of mistletoe from the upper boughs of towering oaks. The tree they currently sat under was considered the most hallowed. Many times, she had scaled its height to harvest large clusters of the sacred plant. Other times, she climbed for the sheer joy of perching in the branches, much like a fairy princess gazing out of a high tower.

  After several minutes Ailis finished her handiwork and held it out for inspection. “Sit up,” Ailis commanded and placed the garland on Sibylla’s head. She regarded her with an appreciative nod. “Yellow suits ye. It brings out the gold in yer hair.”