Highland Heartbreakers
Page 84
“Come back from the window, Sibylla.” Ailis tugged her cousin’s night rail. “Ye dinna want them to catch ye spying in naught but yer shift.”
Just as Ailis spoke, one of the men looked up in their direction. He was young, maybe five and twenty summers, tall and well-built with fair hair and a golden, closely trimmed beard. His brows rose in a silent question as he eyed Sibylla in her state of undress. He acknowledged her with a wink. Heat flooded her face at the realization she’d, indeed, been caught. Sibylla pulled back with a gasp.
“Ailis warned ye!” Fiona chuckled. “What will Uncle do when he finds out? Maybe this time he’ll ne’er let ye out of this room. Mayhap he’ll throw away the key and leave ye to rot.” Her hazel eyes gleamed. Not for the first time, Sibylla wanted to thrash her impudent little half-sister.
“If the man has any honor at all, he will nae speak of it.” Sibylla eyed Fiona with a menacing glare. “And neither will ye, if ye ken what’s good for ye.”
“Should we go to greet them?” Fiona asked, undaunted by Sibylla’s threat.
“Nae. We must wait until we are called,” Ailis answered.
“Why would men from the Isles have come to Kilmuir?” Sibylla asked.
“I dinna ken, but I canna like it,” Ailis sighed.
“Why?” Sibylla asked.
Ailis bit her lip. “There’s been talk of another rising.”
“There is always talk,” Sibylla waved away her cousin’s concern. “It means nothing. They could have come for many other reasons.”
“Aye? Name one,” Ailis challenged.
Sibylla found her tongue at a loss to answer.
“’Tis different this time,” Ailis said.
“Different how?” Sibylla asked.
“All these years, Somerled and the Cenn Mór have kept each other in check, but now the king grows old and his health is failing. If these are men from the Isles, Somerled may be making the first step toward building a coalition against Cenn Mór. ’Tis an alliance he seeks,” Ailis insisted. “I grow certain of it.”
“If ’tis true, such an agreement would nae be bad for Domnall,” Sibylla remarked.
“Aye,” Ailis agreed, her blue gaze looking increasingly fretful. “Which is why I fear what is to come.”
“Would ye have Domnall ignore his birthright?” Sibylla asked.
“Nae,” Ailis violently shook her head. “He wouldna be worthy of his blood if he did. For better or for ill, he must fulfill his destiny.”
“Do ye think Uncle will join with Somerled and go to war against the Cenn Mór?” Even as she voiced the question, a knot began to form in her stomach. Though she didn’t confess it, Sibylla shared her cousin’s concerns. If Domnall and Somerled incited an uprising, suffering would follow in a wide and devastating wake.
“Uncle is Thane of Kilmuir,” Ailis reminded her. “He will do what he deems best for the clan.”
“That’s the great question, isna it?” Sibylla murmured. “What is best for the clan? I would ken Uncle’s mind on this.”
“Please, Sibylla.” Ailis gripped her arm. “Dinna speak of this. He will surely suspect ye were skulking where ye dinna belong.”
“Perhaps ye are right,” Sibylla agreed, recalling the fire she’d suffered on her backside many times for that offense. “I willna speak to Uncle.” She then added with a grin, “But there are other ways to find out.”
*
When Alex entered the kitchen to break his fast, he was nearly overcome by the mélange of mouth-watering aromas. Cooking fires blazed at both ends and half a dozen women were chopping vegetables, kneading dough, plucking fowl, and roasting meats on the spit. He’d never seen so much food being prepared at one time.
“There be bannocks and parritch yon,” one of the servants nodded curtly to a corner table. “Help yerself.”
He noted several younger lads who were eating and looking as mesmerized as he felt. Among them was Domnall’s sparring partner Kenneth. Joining them on the bench, Alex took up an oat cake and reached for the pitcher of cider.
“MacAedh surely killed the fatted calf for Somerled’s men,” Kenneth remarked. “Canna recall the last time we prepared such a grand Midsummer feast!”
“Somerled?” Alex asked, taking his first bite of oat cake, finding it dry and disappointing after all the tantalizing smells. He washed it down with a long and eminently more satisfying gulp of cider.
“Aye, the King of the Isles. His men brought word the Cenn Mór’s son is dead,” Kenneth said.
“Which son?” Alex asked.
“Prince Henry, the heir. They say he was murdered by his English half-brother over his English lands. ’Tis believed the king will call for a meeting of the earls and demand they all swear allegiance to his grandson, Malcolm.”
MacAedh’s antipathy for the king was no secret. What would he do if forced to bend the knee to the sovereign’s grandson? Would he be tried for treason if he refused? And what of Domnall? Would he now attempt to stake his own claim for the crown of Scotland?
Kenneth seemed to read his mind. He continued in a lower tone, “’Tis no coincidence Somerled sent his men. The opportunity has come if Domnall has a mind to put forth his claim for the throne. I’m ready to fight.” Kenneth’s eyes gleamed. “’Tis past time my sword got blooded.”
“Do they already talk of rebellion?” Alex asked. He was reminded of the thousands of Highlanders who had given their lives fighting for his father for the same cause.
“Better said, they talk around it,” Kenneth said with a wink. “No one dares speak outright. They would ken MacAedh’s position first.”
“And what is MacAedh’s position?” Alex asked.
Kenneth shrugged. “MacAedh is a man who keeps his own counsel.”
Alex felt his own allegiances subtly shifting. David Cenn Mór was no exception to past kings of his line. They were all men who would do anything to retain power, even murder their own kinsmen. MacAedh had lost his brother, title and lands. Domnall had suffered a father’s rejection and now carried the added stigma of bastardy. Alex’s own father had suffered similarly. They had all been ill-used by the king.
Before coming to Castle Kilmuir, Alex had accepted that, for better or worse, God chose the kings of men, but now he’d begun to question where his own loyalties rested. Only a sennight ago, he would have told himself that their fight was not his fight, but many things had changed. He had changed.
If forced to choose, would he swear an oath to Prince Malcolm, or fight for Domnall? Or would he retreat altogether to the safely of the monastery? He didn’t know, but feared that very decision might soon be thrust upon him.
*
Taking her skirts in hand, Sibylla stalked down the stairs intent on discovering the answers to her questions. She’d learned long ago that servants were always the best source of information whenever she wanted to know anything. Surely someone would loosen their lips with a bit of cajoling.
As she’d presumed, both MacAedh and her brother were congregated in the great hall with their newly-arrived guests and a handful of the clan elders, about a dozen men in all. While she’d expected to find Somerled’s men drinking and enjoying the bounty of their host’s hospitality; what she hadn’t anticipated was the heated argument in progress. She froze at her brother’s raised voice, and then drew quickly out of sight.
“But Henry’s dead!” Domnall exclaimed. “Now is my chance!”
“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 has a grandson, the blood of his own blood as an heir?”
“Malcolm is a feeble stripling who’s ne’er 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?”
Somerled’s men echoed his sentiment with murmurs and nods.
“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 crowned, I’d wager my sister’s maidenhead that he doesna rule more than a month.”
Sibylla curled her lip in distaste. Were men always so vulgar with no women around?
“The king has ne’er been weaker,” Domnall continued. “He’s old, feeble, and his heir is dead. And this time, the English are too busy fighting their own civil war to interfere with our concerns.”
“’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.”
Domnall’s gaze lit with interest. “Ye speak of an alliance?”
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 nieces do ye not?”
“My sister is unwed,” Domnall replied.
Sibylla’s hand flew to her mouth to stifle her gasp. Why was Domnall so quick to mention her when Ailis was a year older and also unwed? She recalled Domnall’s threat the day he’d caught her with Alexander. He’d meant what he’d said. She had no doubt he would use her to help achieve this alliance.
She burned with both indignation and frustration that a marriage might already be in the making. Domnall had made no secret of his plans to use her to negotiate an alliance. Was the arrival of Somerled’s men a coincidence, or had her brother already been secretly at work?
She’d always suspected an arranged marriage would be her fate, once she came of age to wed, but that didn’t lessen her abhorrence of the idea. Perhaps she would have been more accepting of the notion if she didn’t long for something more. But the arrival of Somerled’s men and their proposed alliance seemed certain to seal her doom. She was naught but a pawn in the men’s game of domination and conquest.
Ranald cast a slow and assessing gaze over the men seated at the table. “No doubt ye have much to discuss amongst yerselves.” He then drained his tankard and rose with a nod to his men. “Let us take our leave now.”
MacAedh acknowledged Ranald with an inclination of his head. “We will speak again after the feast.”
Sibylla swiftly drew back into the shadows. Panic assailed her when she realized there was nowhere to hide. But why should she hide? ’Twas her home after all. She had every right to lurk in the passageways if she so chose. Nevertheless, explaining her lurking to her uncle might prove troublesome.
Hoping to be mistaken for a servant, she pulled her arisaid over her head and kept her eyes downcast as she headed in the direction of the kitchen. Though she’d sought to disguise herself, she still felt the men’s gazes following her as she passed. Feeling as if she’d run a gauntlet, Sibylla’s spine relaxed as she reached the door leading outside, only to stiffen again at the touch of a hand on her shoulder.
She glanced up into a pair of ice blue eyes.
“Was it ye I saw this morn in the window, lass?” Ranald asked.
Refusing to be caught in his snare, Sibylla lifted her chin and haughtily replied. “’Tis unseemly to speak when we havena been introduced.”
The corners of his eyes wrinkled with his grin. “I have my answer… As to the introduction, I am Ranald, third son of Somerled, Lord of—”
“I ken verra well the name Somerled,” she replied stiffly. “And I bid ye and yer men welcome to Kilmuir. Now if ye would excuse me…”
She made to pass but he blocked her way. His demeanor was not threatening, but the man was much larger and more physically imposing than she’d first imagined. He would easily intimidate if he chose to.
“Ye dinna return the courtesy?” he asked with an arch of a tawny brow.
“I dinna ken what ye mean,” she replied.
“Yer name, lass. Ye dinna give it to me.”
“Nae,” she replied. “I dinna. Do ye often seek to consort with yer host’s servants?”
She’d intended to put him in his place, but he flashed another irritating grin.
“Only the comely ones.” He then stepped back with a mocking bow. “I will ken yer name before the day is out,” he murmured as she passed.
“Humpf!” Sibylla snorted, her hackles rising. He was not only vulgar, but filled with arrogance and conceit. Her instincts told her he was not to be trusted. She prayed her brother would not seek to form an alliance with such a man, most especially if it meant her marriage.
*
“I was right,” Domnall stated triumphantly. “Somerled sent his kinsmen here to offer his support.”
“Tis nae enough,” MacAedh said.
“Because ye lack faith in me. Ye dinna believe the clans will come out for me. I will prove ye wrong!”
“Think lad!” MacAedh rebuked his nephew. “No man ever acts against his own interests. Somerled offers his aid only because he thinks he’ll be able to control ye.”
Struck by the tense words, Alex stalled in the doorway to the great hall. He’d come to speak to MacAedh but now feared he’d imposed where he wasn’t welcome. His worries were dispelled when MacAedh acknowledged his presence. “Come, Alexander.” He nodded to the table. “Ye should also ken of what we speak.”
Alex took a place at the end of the bench beside Fergus, the one-eyed giant who was wed to MacAedh’s sister. Wordlessly, Fergus poured a cup of mead and slid it in front of Alex while MacAedh and Domnall stared at each other in strained silence.
“Dinna ye ken, lad?” MacAedh continued, “Somerled is a man with boundless ambition. If ye accept an alliance with him, ye will only be trading one master for another.”
“Aye? And who was yer master, Uncle?” Domnall countered. “The man who came at the king’s behest to take possession of yer lands? The man who burned and pillaged and destroyed and then further humiliated ye by claiming yer sister, though she was already promised to another.” Domnall looked to Fergus who clenched his fists with a black expression, and then back to MacAedh before he continued. “How does it feel, Uncle, to send Moray men to fight in English wars, and to pay homage to live on land that is yers by right? Would ye have us go on merrily while they continue to dishonor and demean us by taking our lands? Our pride? Our verra manhood?”
MacAedh slammed his fist, violently rattling the tankards. Had the taunt come from any other, Alex had no doubt he’d already be shorter by his head. Every man stiffened in anticipation of his response to the ultimate insult.
With a blood vessel visibly pulsing in his forehead, MacAedh shut his eyes in what must have been a supreme exercise in self-control. After a moment, he responded in an ominous tone. “Only a fool has no regard for the counsel of those with greater wisdom and experience.”
“Fool am I?” Domnall flushed. “Even a fool can see that it’s nae Somerled, but ye who wants to control me! Just as my faither controlled ye!”
“That has naught to do with it,” MacAedh ground through his teeth.
“Then why dinna ye wish to fight?” Domnall challenged.
“Because battles are won by swords, but wars are won with wiles,” MacAedh answered. “We canna fight the Cenn Mór with our swords alone. We need a strategy.”
Fergus and the other clan elders looked uneasy. While their first allegiance was to MacAedh, Alex suspected more than a few of them would side with Domnall if he chose to act against the king.
“But we have an offer of an alliance with the most powerful clan in the land. If ye willna fight with them—to hell with ye! I am my own man! I will raise my own army.”
MacAedh rose and roared like an erupting volcano, scattering the cups and trenchers. “As long as I breathe, I am still head of this clan. If ye wish to challenge me, ye do so at great hazard.”
“Ye would have me fight ye?” Domnall asked.
“Nae.” MacAedh shook his head. Although he’d quickly regained his self-control, the fire in his eyes betrayed the depth of his rage. “If ye wish to lead this clan… ye must kill me.”
Alex’s gaze riveted to Domnall as he tried in vain to read his thoughts. Domnall regarded his uncle with a look of uncertainty mixed with alarm. His gaze darted around the room, as if weighing the cost of swallowing his pride.
He was young and rash. Would hubris goad him to accept this challenge? Alex’s breath froze in his chest, certain blood would be shed.
After several agonizing seconds, Domnall’s shoulders slumped. “I canna kill ye,” he said, still defiant, but with far less bravado.
“’Tis true ye canna, but ’tis good to ken ye dinna wish to try,” MacAedh replied with the barest hint of a smile.
The room released a collective breath.
“There is much ye dinna understand,” MacAedh said. “After the rebellion that killed my brother, Angus, William Fitz Duncan came to Kilmuir with fire and sword. The only one who might have acted against Fitz Duncan was also at death’s door.” He looked to Fergus who sat stone faced. “Fitz Duncan had orders from the king to kill us all, and surely would have done so, were it nae for yer máthair’s sacrifice.”