by Quinn, Paula
“He dinna like it when I told him I am promised to another,” she countered.
Domnall’s expression darkened. “Ye are nae promised to anyone but Ranald.”
Sibylla raised her chin. “I willna have him. I would go to the convent of Iona first.”
“We already had this discussion, Sibylla. ’Tis nae yer choice. Ye will make peace with him. Everything depends upon it.”
“Everything?” She arched a brow. “Ye have no faith that Uncle will succeed with the king?”
His hand clamped tightly on her arm. “And what would ye ken of that? He told no one he goes to the king.”
Sibylla licked her lips. “I overheard—”
“Ye bluidy well spied!” he accused.
“I have every right,” she insisted. “Given I’m part of yer plan.”
“What did ye hear?” he demanded.
“Enough. I ken that Somerled offers an alliance. I also ken that Uncle and Alexander go to petition the king for ye.”
His mouth compressed to a flat line. “I will nae be appeased.”
“Ye should trust Uncle’s judgement,” Sibylla said. “He has been through all this before.”
“MacAedh would negotiate for a regency, but I want what is mine by right.”
“A regency?” Sibylla asked. “What does that mean?”
“MacAedh thinks to convince the king to appoint me as regent over Prince Malcolm until he comes of age.”
“And ye would refuse this honor?” she asked.
“He will ne’er agree to it,” Domnall said. “If he does, I still canna trust him. Do ye recall how he appeased Wimund with lands in Cumbria? Nae one believes ’twas the Cumbrians who put out Wimund’s eyes and cut off his manhood.”
Sibylla shuddered. She’d never met her bastard half-brother, who’d demanded his birthright from the king, but the gruesome story had spread like a wildfire through the Highlands. If Domnall was bent on taking up his own cause, he had good reason to mistrust the king.
“If the king refuses to acknowledge me as his heir, ’twill surely come to blood,” Domnall said. “And that is why ye must wed Ranald.”
“Given that he left this morn, ’tis a moot point,” Sibylla argued.
“He agreed to give ye time to come around. He said he will be back in a month to claim his bride.”
His bride? But which one? Did he intend to take Sibylla or Ailis? She dared not ask. To do so would only reveal Ailis’ disgrace. Nevertheless, Domnall had given voice to Sibylla’s greatest fear. If he would not be moved by her appeal to reason, it was time to tell him the truth, or at least the truth in part.
“Ye canna trust Ranald either, Domnall. He is nae an honorable man.”
“Why would ye say so?” Domnall demanded.
“Because… because last night he tried to rape me!” Sibylla blurted.
Domnall looked stunned. “Tried?”
“Aye. He dinna succeed only because Alexander came along.”
“If ’tis true, why the de’il did ye nae speak of it before he left?”
“Because Ranald was drunk and likely dinna ken what he was about… I wouldna have a clan war over it.”
“Drunk or nae, Ranald dishonors us all with his actions. Does Uncle ken of this?”
“Nae,” Sibylla replied. “Please, Domnall,” she pleaded. “There was no real harm done.” Searching his eyes, she softly added, “But do ye now ken why I willna have Ranald?”
His hand tightened painfully, before he abruptly released it. “Aye. I willna force the marriage.”
Sibylla felt as if a great weight had dropped from her shoulders. She didn’t know what she would have done had Domnall continued to press the issue.
But her relief was short lived.
“Mayhap there is another way.” Domnall’s eyes had taken on a calculating gleam.
“Another way for what?”
“Another way to bind an alliance,” Domnall said. “By the hand of fate, Ranald has given me all that I need to ensure Somerled’s support.”
“I dinna understand,” Sibylla said. “What are ye saying?”
Ignoring her question, Domnall strode to the paddock where the remaining few horses munched on their hay. Sibylla’s stomach churned as Domnall led one of the horses out by the halter and tethered it to a post. He then disappeared into the tackle shed and reemerged a moment later with a saddle and bridle slung over his shoulder.
“Where are ye going?” she asked.
“Where do ye think? I go west to Kintyre.”
“Ye should await Uncle’s return,” Sibylla insisted.
“I will nae,” Domnall replied defiantly. “To do so would only forfeit my advantage. I must confront Somerled now, before Ranald has an opportunity to tell his version of the story.”
“What if he doesna believe ye?” Sibylla asked.
“’Tis a risk I am willing to take. Ranald has brought disgrace to his family name.” He lifted a booted foot to the stirrup. “And Somerled’s honor will demand that he make reparation for it.”
Chapter Thirteen
Alex departed Kilmuir riding behind MacAedh and Fergus. Thus far, MacAedh had said nothing to him about Sibylla, but the matter weighed heavily on Alex’s mind. He’d made her a promise to return, but that promise would lead to naught if her uncle opposed him. The time had finally come to speak of it. Nudging his horse into a trot, Alex pulled up beside MacAedh.
“I… er…” Alex nervously cleared his throat. “There is a matter I must speak to ye about.”
“Aye?” The thane’s mouth curved subtly at one corner. “Does this ‘matter’ by chance have a name?”
An invasion of heat slowly coursed up Alex’s neck into his face. “Aye,” Alex confessed. “So ye know already that I have feelings for Sibylla.”
“I suspected as much,” MacAedh replied.
“Do ye object?” Alex asked.
“I canna object to feelings alone, only to actions.” He regarded Alex with a raised brow. “Is there something more ye would confess?”
“Nae!” Alex protested. “I dinna dishonor her. I swear it.”
“But ye have spoken of marriage?” MacAedh asked.
“Aye. I dinna expect ye to accept my suit, but I would ask ye nae to reject me out of hand.”
“I dinna reject ye, Alexander. Ye are a fine man from an illustrious line, but ye are in nae position to seek a wife. Ye ken that her brother would see her wed to Ranald?”
Alex scowled. “I ken that he desires it, but Sibylla doesna want him.”
“My niece is a willful lass, but marriage is nae always about happiness. ’Tis about protection, comfort, and security. Ranald can offer her that and more.”
“Is it already done then?” Alex asked, his heart racing. “Is she already pledged to Ranald?”
MacAedh shrugged. “Domnall would have it so.”
“And ye? As her guardian, is it nae ye who has the final word?” Alex asked.
“Aye,” MacAedh answered.
“Would ye see her wed to Ranald?” Alex asked.
“I would see her settled soon,” MacAedh replied evasively. “Before ye woo a maid, Alexander, ’tis best to ask yerself what ye have to offer.”
“’Tis a question I canna yet answer,” Alex said. “But I ask that ye give me some time before ye pledge Sibylla to another.”
“Ranald left this morn without an agreement,” MacAedh said. “But he intends to return in a month’s time. Ye have only until then to make a better case for yerself.” He added with a chuckle, “With any luck, Ranald may realize what a banshee wife she will make.”
*
Having failed to stop Domnall, Sibylla sought out her mother and grandmother in the solar. “Domnall has left Kilmuir,” Sibylla breathlessly announced.
“He’s gone?” Ailis gasped. “Where?”
“He’s bound for the Isles,” Sibylla replied. “He thinks to bind Somerled to an alliance.”
“Damn his eyes!” Her mother thre
w down her tambour with a curse. “My brother told him to remain at Kilmuir! Why canna Domnall heed his judgement?”
“Because he is young and rash, just as my Angus was,” her grandmother replied with a sad sigh.
“I fear what Uncle will do when he returns from Inverness,” Ailis said.
“But he’s nae returning from Inverness,” Sibylla replied. “Uncle is going south after the taxes are paid and Alexander has gone with him.”
“Why would Alexander go?” Ailis asked.
“I dinna ken exactly,” Sibylla said. “He only said he hopes to learn something of his family.”
“He is a mysterious lad,” her mother remarked.
“What kind of monk keeps a sword?” Fiona asked.
“A sword?” Sibylla spun to face her half-sister.
“Aye. Duncan and I found it under his mattress.”
Sibylla suddenly recalled Alex’s request to keep safe something that he’d hidden, but she’d never expected a sword!
“Fiona!” her mother scolded. “Have ye been snooping where ye dinna belong?”
“He left it.” Fiona shrugged. “We was only looking around.”
“Ye had no business in his room!” Sibylla rebuked. “Did ye take it, ye little thief?”
“I dinna take it,” Fiona said. “But if Alexander wanted it, he wouldna left it behind.”
“Where did he get a sword?” Ailis asked. “He dinna bring one to Kilmuir. I am certain of it. I was there when he arrived.”
Lady Olith ceased her spinning. “I would see this sword.”
“But ye canna see,” Fiona protested.
“My vision may have failed me, but I see much more than ye with two good eyes. Bring it to me,” the old woman commanded.
Sibylla accompanied her half-sister to Alex’s room where Fiona peeled back the straw mattress to reveal the object hidden beneath. It was, indeed, a sword and not just any sword by the look of it. Snatching it from her sister, she removed it slowly from its sheath. Sibylla immediate recognized the inscription on its blade. Although she couldn’t read the words, she knew it was the same as what she’d seen on his knife. What did this signify? Only one person would know. Sheathing the weapon, Sibylla briskly strode back to the solar.
“Here it is,” Sibylla laid the sheathed blade on her grandmother’s lap.
The other women formed a circled around her as the old woman ran her hands up and down the sheath and then carefully removed the blade. “Is there an inscription?” she asked.
“Aye,” Sibylla replied. “I canna read it, but it looks much like the one I saw on Alexander’s sgian-dubh.”
“It also had an inscription on it?”
“Aye,” Sibylla answered. “’Twas written in Latin.”
“What did it say?”
Sibylla hesitated. “I canna remember exactly. Veritatem? Virtutem? I forget the last word.”
“Vindictae?” her grandmother suggested.
“Aye. I think ’twas it,” Sibylla replied.
“’Tis one of the Seven Swords of Alba,” her grandmother declared.
“I thought they were only a legend,” Ailis said.
Her grandmother shook her gray head with a cackle. “There is much legend attached to them, but the swords, themselves, are verra real. Have I ne’er told ye the tale?”
“I have nae heard it,” Sibylla said. “I surely would remember if I had.”
“Then come and sit,” she commanded. “Ye and Ailis both should ken this. ’Tis part of the history of yer own clan.”
The moment Sibylla settled on the floor at her grandmother’s feet, she felt as if she were a little girl again, hanging on every word as the old woman spoke.
“Long, long ago, in times nigh forgotten, there was a great king by the name of Cruithne, a name for which all of his people became known. ’Tis said that so great was the peace in his reign that the voices of all the people sounded as the music of the harp to one another. This Cruithne was blessed with seven braw sons. Fearing they would weaken the kingdom by making war upon one another after his death, this king divided the land into seven provinces, over which each son would independently rule.”
Olith paused for a moment. “In commemoration of this event, Cruithne ordered seven great swords to be forged, one for each of his sons. Upon their coronation, to ensure that none should seek dominion over the others, each king swore an oath by the earth and stars that, thenceforth, from the maternal nobility alone should succession occur.”
“Ye mean to say the kingdoms would pass only through the women?” Sibylla asked.
“Aye,” the old woman answered. “To prevent rival sons from slaying one another, the most worthy among the maternal offspring were elected to the high throne. But vanity and greed are powerful forces that move men to deplorable acts. Over time, the vow was broken by one who desired to glorify himself above all others and establish a lasting dynasty in his own name. By the murder of his own kinsmen, MacBeth stole the crown but he, eventually, was also slain in an act of vengeance. ’Tis also how the Seven Swords of Cruithne became known ever after as the Kingslayers. Thenceforth, the throne of Scotland has always been steeped in blood.”
“Is this all true?” Sibylla asked.
“Aye. Ye only need look to yer own family history to find the truth of it,” her grandmother replied. “’Twas Malcolm Cenn Mór who slayed my faither, Lulach, for his crown. My son, Angus, proudly carried the sword of Moray into battle against Cenn Mór’s son, David.”
“But my faither, not the king, was killed in the battle,” Ailis said.
“Aye,” the old woman replied. “Angus died by treachery, curse their black souls! But his sword was recovered and returned it to Kilmuir before it could be given to Cenn Mór. When the time is right, the sword of our ancestors will once again earn its name.”
“Where are the others?” Sibylla asked.
“Four of the seven are in David Cenn Mór’s possession. But God forbid he ever obtains the lot of them.”
An ominous shiver of foreboding crept up Sibylla’s spine. “What are ye saying, Grandmother?”
“’Tis believed that the one who possesses them all will become invincible,” the old woman replied.
“But how would Alexander have come by such a sword?” Ailis asked.
“That is a verra good question,” the old woman replied. “It seems young Alexander of Portmahomack is nae what he appears.”
“There is much we dinna ken of him,’ Sibylla said. “But I am certain he is more than just a foundling raised in the monastery.”
“He is nae a foundling,” her grandmother said. “He is blood of a king and a king’s blood will soon be shed.”
Sibylla’s heart leapt into her throat. “Alexander is in danger?”
“Aye. It has already begun and he will play a part.”
“Wh-what part?” Sibylla asked. “Ye dinna mean he will die?” Sibylla asked in a choked whisper.
“I have seen only the crimson-stained blade.” The old woman’s voice quavered and her frail body shook with passion. “But I pray I will also live to see the rightful king on the Scottish throne.” The old woman’s thin lips curled into a slow, satisfied smile. “At long last, Angus MacAedh of Moray will be avenged. I refuse to go to my grave until the last Cenn Mór falls.”
*
Though ’twas only half a day’s journey, Alex’s body felt battered by the time they arrived at the hilltop overlooking Inverness. As Alex slid down from his horse, his feet sank nearly to the ankles in the mire, a pungent mix of mud and manure.
“What is this place?” Alexander asked. The grounds had the appearance of a former stronghold, though nothing now remained but the crumbling stones that once formed a palisade.
“Old Castlehill,” MacAedh replied. ’Twas once the castle of MacBeth, but King Malcolm burned it to ashes after MacBeth killed his faither. Now it’s only used to contain cattle.” He nodded to the enclosure where makeshift livestock pens held hundreds of cows, sh
eep, goats, and pigs. Several of the king’s men stood by counting heads as MacAedh’s drovers began herding their beasts into the pens.
The area that once comprised the bailey was filled with men—speaking a mixture of Gaelic and Anglo-Norman. Alex noted at once that it appeared as if an invisible wall divided them. On one side of the courtyard were the Highlanders who’d come to pay their taxes, and on the other sides were the king’s men who eyed them with open contempt.
“What now?” Alex asked.
“We will wait while they count the livestock,” MacAedh answered. “I will nae depart this place without proof in hand that my feu is paid in full.”
“Ye do nae trust the king’s men?”
“I do nae. Those who work for the Cenn Mór have only gained his trust by betraying their own. There are many amongst this lot,” he cast his gaze over the Highlanders, “who would put a sword through the king’s men without a second thought.”
“Surely it must be difficult to be bound to pay tribute to a man one despises,” Alex remarked.
“We bear it only for the good of our clans,” MacAedh said. “They have suffered much. I would nae make them suffer again purely because I refuse to swallow my pride. Sadly, ’tis a lesson my nephew has yet to learn.”
Domnall could, indeed, have learned much from MacAedh’s example, but Alex feared he was already on the reckless path to destruction. Alex didn’t know whether to admire MacAedh’s loyalty to his clan or to pity him for his unenviable position. MacAedh, however, was hardly a figure to inspire pity. It took a strong man to act according to his conscience, especially when it meant sacrificing some of his self-respect.
“There is something else I dinna understand,” Alex said. “If yer brother rebelled against the king, how is it that ye were made Thane of Kilmuir?”
“By the time I came of age, the Cenn Mór had great confidence that the Highlands had been brought into submission by Domnall’s sire, Fitz Duncan. Only because there was peace, was I was allowed to return to Kilmuir, but Cenn Mór has always had his spies. The last one wore the garb of a priest.” He added with a pointed look, “’Tis why the post at Kilmuir is now vacant.”
Alex didn’t dare ask what had become of the traitor.
