by Quinn, Paula
Castle Kilmuir
“Why are they nae back yet?” Sibylla asked. “’Tis but just over a day’s walk to Inverness. They should have returned by now.”
Sibylla finally voiced the question that was on all of their minds. “How much longer are we to sit by this window watching and waiting? We canna go on like this!” Sibylla threw down her carding combs.
“Aye,” her mother heaved an anxious sigh. “I can only think the worst.”
Three days the journey to Inverness had always taken, yet five had passed since the men had left Kilmuir to pay their feu. The women spent most of their time in an unspoken vigil, by turns gazing out the solar window at the empty horizon.
Though they tried to hide it from one another with busy hands and light chatter, the women of Kilmuir had all become exceedingly fretful. Sibylla had carded a virtual mountain of wool until none remained and the spinning and weaving had continued long into the night.
“Look!” Ailis declared. Even as they spoke, a small party of men approached the castle, but it didn’t take long to discover that it was not their own men but some distant kinsmen from neighboring Dingwall.
Though nearly bursting with questions, the laws of hospitality demanded that the anxious women not press their guests for news before serving them food and drink. But once their thirst and hunger had been sated, the women surrounded the men as eagerly as vultures circling carrion.
“’Twas all premeditated,” pronounced the old Chief of Kildun as he settled in a chair by the fire. “Nae matter how many bullocks and ewes MacAedh would have brought to Inverness, his men would still have been taken as payment due.”
“Why?” Sibylla’s mother, Gruaid, asked.
“Because the king has a plan to conscript all of our Highland fighting men until none remains.”
“But we have been at peace with the king nigh on fifteen years,” she replied.
“Aye, but ’tis an uneasy peace at best and he kens it,” the old man said. “He acts to prepare the way for his grandson.” He paused for a long drink of ale and released a loud belch. “MacAedh’s petition will go nowhere with the Chief Justiciar. The men of Kilmuir will nae be released. For appearances sake, they will be held at Inverness until MacAedh’s audience, but then as surely as I breathe, they will be sent south to join the king’s army.”
Sibylla could see her mother’s face pale. Her husband and youngest son were both captives at Inverness castle.
“Then our men will ne’er come home?” Gruaid asked.
“Nae until the king is assured of Prince Malcolm’s peaceful succession.”
“MacAedh hopes to gain the king’s ear for Domnall’s sake,” Gruaid said.
“He seeks to gain favor with the king?” he asked.
“MacAedh would see Domnall appointed regent to the prince,” she replied.
“The Earls of Fife and Mearns also seek such an appointment,” the Chief of Kildun said. “The one who governs the prince will govern the land. MacAedh endangers himself for naught. He and Domnall will be forced to swear allegiance to Malcolm as will the lads at Inverness.”
“They will nae do it,” Gruaid said. “We canna let this happen! What can be done to free my husband and son?”
“There is naught to be done.” The old man opened his palms in a helpless gesture. “We are too few. We canna fight them.”
“What of the monk?” Sibylla asked. “Is Alexander also imprisoned at Inverness?”
To her dismay, the chief replied, “I dinna ken anything about the monk.”
“Someone must fetch Domnall,” Ailis said. “He kens naught of what has happened.” Domnall had ridden out only an hour after MacAedh had departed, bound for Kintyre, but had not yet returned. Nor had he sent word.
“Fetch Domnall?” The old man looked around expectantly. “Where is the lad?”
Gruaid hesitated, as if wondering how much she should reveal. “He’s gone to Somerled.”
“Ah.” The Chief of Kildun’s gaze narrowed. “Somerled is likely his only chance if he seeks the crown, but if word reaches the king, Domnall and all of his kin will be charged with treason.”
“All of us?” Ailis whispered.
“David will show nae mercy,” the chief stated bluntly.
“The time draws near,” Lady Olith broke her silence. “Domnall must be made aware of all that’s transpired. There is no time to waste.”
“But there is no one to send,” Gruaid said.
“I will go,” Ailis volunteered.
“’Tis not safe for a lass to travel alone,” her grandmother protested.
“My sword arm is nae what it once was, but my name is still respected,” the Chief of Kildun said. “I will accompany the lass. I vow she will arrive safely.”
Later that night, after Fiona had fallen asleep, Sibylla could sense that Ailis was still awake. “Is there a particular reason ye go to Kintyre?” Sibylla whispered. She’d been so preoccupied with her own concerns that she hadn’t even thought of Ailis’ secret.
Ailis went completely still beside her.
Ranald.
“Surely ’tis too soon to ken,” Sibylla insisted.
“Yet I ken in my heart,” Ailis answered. “I grow certain that I carry Ranald’s child.”
*
Dunfermline Abbey
Over the next few days, Alex was supremely thankful for Father Gregor’s solid presence in these unfamiliar surroundings. Though the old priest had spent many years in seclusion at Portmahomack, he still had a few remaining allies within the church, and made a point to bring Alex into their small circle of trust.
Alex also used his free time between the hours of prayer to learn his way about. Brother Aubert was most accommodating. Perhaps being so close in age, a friendship quickly developed between Alex and the Norman monk. Nevertheless, he was still denied access to MacAedh, who remained confined to his monastic cell.
Though Alex discreetly sought his whereabouts, he failed to locate Ranald or to learn anything more about his presence at court. Nevertheless, the discovery raised his hopes about Sibylla. For certain, MacAedh now knew Ranald for a traitor.
Several days passed before the Thane of Kilmuir was finally released and granted his hearing with the king. Haggard and unkempt, MacAedh had far more the look of a prisoner than a guest. Once more under armed escort, he remained stiff and silent as they proceeded toward the audience chamber.
The entrance to the hall was closed and flanked by more armed soldiers. As they approached, the doors swung open for another man’s exit. His thunderous expression revealed that he was not happy with whatever words he’d exchanged with the king.
Though his hair and beard were now heavily streaked with gray, Alex knew him at once. Alex reeled. He’d come to Dunfermline prepared to make inquiries. He’d hoped to gain information on this journey but had not anticipated an encounter with his kinsman.
Suddenly, he was four years old again and cowering before the battle-scarred giant who’d imprisoned him and his mother at Dunnottar Castle. “The bastard’s spawn” his uncle had called him. He was too young to understand the meaning of the words, but the venom behind them was clear even to a young child. Then and now, he both hated and feared Eachann of Mearns. He passed Alex without so much as a sideways look, but Alex still had to suppress the instinct to draw back into the shadows.
“Dinna stare so after him.” MacAedh’s murmured warning brought Alex abruptly back to the present.
“The king will see ye now,” an official came forward to announce.
Alex recognized at once that the audience chamber was intended to intimidate. Other than the religious tapestries adorning the walls, there were no other furnishings. The men who entered would be forced to stand… or to kneel. The chamber itself was long and narrow with a carpet of crimson leading to the dais where the king sat upon his throne.
“Qui est-ce?” The king’s raspy voice was barely above a whisper, yet it echoed through the silent hall.
&nbs
p; “Malcolm MacAedh, Thane of Kilmuir,” the official answered the king’s inquiry.
Though surely only a few years past the half century mark, David Cenn Mór appeared much older. Thin and frail with a sallow complexion and hollow cheeks, his body appeared wasted, but his mouth was firm and his eyes were steady and clear. He also commanded an air of absolute authority possessed only by those who were born to rule. With a bland expression, he gazed down his long, thin nose at MacAedh.
“Se presenter, MacAedh of Kilmuir,” the king commanded.
Alex could almost hear MacAedh’s bones protest as he made his obeisance to the king. It must have taken an extreme effort of will to force his knee to the flagstone in homage to the man who had killed his brother.
“Kilmuir?” The king’s brows met in a frown. “Est-ce situé à Moray?” He then remarked in a flippant aside to his courtiers. “Est-ce que quelque chose de bon vient de Moray?”
“Can any good thing come out of Moray?” Alex’s whispered translation was swallowed by the low chuckles that reverberated through the chamber.
“MacAedh?” The king’s gaze narrowed with suspicion. “Quelle est votre relation avec Angus Mac Aedh de Moray?”
“What relation are ye to Angus Mac Aedh of Moray?” Alex translated. Though he spoke lowly, his murmur caught the king’s attention.
“Qui est ce moine?” the king demanded. “Se presenter!”
Who is this monk? Present yourself.
Alex stepped forward and knelt before the king. “Je suis Frère Alexandre de Portmahomack. Je traduis.” He explained his role as translator.
“This barbarian of the north has no command of a civilized tongue?” the king remarked in French.
His face flushed as Alex struggled how best to translate the king’s deprecating remark. “He is… er… surprised… ye dinna speak the Norman.”
MacAedh glowered. “I understand exactly what he said. Tell him Angus was my brother.”
Alex began to translate, but MacAedh interrupted to respond for himself in Latin. “Erat frater meus.”
The king’s brows rose. “So the savage Highlander is not as ignorant as he would feign,” he answered in Latin. “What is your complaint?” the king asked.
MacAedh continued in Latin, “I come because I have paid my feu in full as the crown requires. Yet, five of my kinsmen, three of whom have nae seen their thirteenth summer, are being held at Inverness Castle for no other crime than being born Highlanders.”
The king’s mouth twitched with his dry reply. “’Tis crime enough.”
Was this king truly such an antagonist to his own people?
“Would ye deprive the Highland máthairs of their sons for nae good reason?” MacAedh asked.
Though his tone was mild, the king’s knuckles whitened on the arms of his throne. He stared back at MacAedh as if he were a worm. “Who are ye to judge my reasons?”
“The kingdom is nae at war,” MacAedh argued.
“Yet past experience has taught me the value of maintaining a strong army,” the king replied. “As for recruits, I would rather the sons over the fathers… The sons can yet be molded.”
“Into proper Normans?” MacAedh challenged.
“Into loyal subjects,” the king corrected him. “And ye Highlanders will continue to provide recruits until I am assured of yer unwavering allegiance.”
Unknowingly, the king had provided MacAedh the perfect opportunity to present his argument for Domnall’s regency. But having been given no prior opportunity to speak, Alex had been unable to share Father Gregor’s words of warning about the rivals for the regency.
“If it is our allegiance ye seek, there is a better way,” MacAedh replied evenly.
The king raised a cynical brow. “And what might that be?”
“’Tis said ye have named Prince Malcolm of Cumbria as yer successor.”
“’Tis true,” the king answered.
“But the lad is many years from his majority,” MacAedh argued.
“A regent will be appointed from amongst my advisors,” the king answered.
“Perhaps there is someone better suited for the role?” MacAedh suggested.
“And who would ye suggest to rule my kingdom?” the king asked, his voice laced with irony.
“There are others with a claim to the crown,” MacAedh said.
“There are always pretenders,” the king remarked with a dismissive wave of his hand.
“I speak of nae pretender,” MacAedh said. “Domnall Mac William is the grandson of yer own half-brother, King Duncan. Who better to act as regent if ye wish to unite the north and south?”
“Ye would have me entrust my kingdom to your nephew?” the king responded with a choking laugh. “The illegitimate offspring of my half-sibling?”
“Legitimate or nae, he still shares yer blood,” MacAedh contested.
“Blood that has been tainted by his treacherous Highland kinsmen,” the king argued. “How could I ever trust such a man? How do I ken nothing will befall young Malcolm the moment your nephew is installed in power?”
“Ye have my word as the son of Aedh, the last Mormaer of Moray.”
“Yer word?” the king scoffed. “I would as lief trust a viper than any man of Moray. For five and twenty years, I have struggled to unite this backward country. I have chartered burghs from Cumberland to Elgin in the hope of growing trade and prosperity. The southern kingdom flourishes with merchants and trade, yet the north remains untamed with obdurate savages who would rather wallow in penury than submit to royal authority. So be it.” He threw up his hands. “Ye will continue on this path at yer peril for I will continue to conscript yer sons until no rebel remains.”
Was it the king’s goal to purge the land of Highlanders? It seemed so.
“As to securing Prince Malcolm’s succession,” the king continued. “Ye will bring yer nephew, Domnall, to court, where ye will both kneel and swear allegiance to yer future king.”
“My allegiance is already sworn to my kinsman,” MacAedh replied.
“Renounce it and I may consider restoring some of your family’s prior holdings,” the king said. “Indeed, I feel generous at present. Should he do the same, I will grant Domnall lands and titles of his own to the south.”
MacAedh remained steadfast in his defiance. “If ye willna consider him for the regency, there is naught more to say. I will nae send for him.”
The king smiled. “Is that so? It seems I mistook ye for a reasonable man. Perhaps ye need time to reconsider my offer?” He inclined his head to the guards. “Take this man away and put him in chains.”
Like a trapped animal, the Thane of Kilmuir look wildly about for escape, but weaponless and outnumbered a dozen to one, there was no way out. Alex watched in impotent frustration as the soldiers surrounded him with drawn swords.
MacAedh’s shoulders slumped in surrender as he sought Alex’s gaze. “Remember yer vow,” he murmured in Gaelic just before they dragged him away.
“Brother Alexander,” the king addressed him once more, gaze narrowed. “What, precisely, is your affiliation with this traitor of Moray?”
Alex’s pulse pounded as MacAedh’s, earlier words rang a peal in his head. I count on ye to warn the others of what is to come. Domnall must be ready to act.
“We have no connection,” Alex replied, feeling very much like a Judas. “We met by chance on the road to Dunfermline. He provided me protection and I offered my services.”
“How is it that ye speak the Gaelic so fluently?” To Alexander’s ears, the king’s question sounded more like an accusation. Was he also about to be taken prisoner?
“I was raised in the north at the monastery of Portmahomack,” Alex answered.
“And your family? Who are they?”
“I dinna ken, yer Majesty. I was a foundling.”
The king’s gaze narrowed. “Raised amongst the Culdee heretics?”
Alexander shook his head. “The abbot, Faither Gregor, is a true man of God.”
“That is yet to be determined,” the king replied cryptically.
“If ye doubt my word, Faither Gregor is presently here at Dunfermline meeting with the bishop,” Alex volunteered.
“Is he, indeed?” Fingering his beard, the king eyed Alexander with greater scrutiny. “Ae ye an ambitious man, Brother Alexander?”
Where was this going? He hadn’t a clue.
Alex chose his words carefully. “I was trained as a scribe, but my ambition is only to advance the Kingdom of God.”
“And of course to serve your sovereign?” the king suggested with a cocked brow.
“Given that God appoints our king, does that nae go without saying?” Alex replied.
The king laughed outright. “Ye are a humble scribe, perhaps, but I also perceive by your answer that ye would make a skilled politician. Indeed, I grow quite certain I could use someone with your particular mix of talents.”
“How so?” Alex asked.
“’Twas my sainted mother’s dying wish to unite our church with Rome, God rest her blessed soul.” The king paused to make the sign of the holy trinity.
“Queen Margaret was well known for her piety,” Alex remarked.
“Aye. She fed the orphans and bathed the paupers’ feet daily and, by Heaven, I am avowed to honor her desire before I pass from this earth! In three months’ time, a delegate will arrive from Rome to conduct a thorough review of the Culdee monasteries. The church in the southern kingdom has made great strides to reform,” the king continued, “But there are reports that many Highlanders refuse to give up profane Pagan rituals.”
Alex was immediately reminded of Cnoc Croit na Maoile. There were, indeed, many such places in the Highlands.
“People often hold to old traditions as a way of honoring their ancestors and their past,” Alex said, thinking of Sibylla. “’Tis nae their intention to dishonor God.”
“And what of their refusal to obey the wishes of their earthly king? They continue to rebel against both church and state. How do ye explain this, Brother Alexander?”
Alex had no answer. The rebellion led by MacAedh’s brother’s rebellion had cost his clan everything. Nevertheless, MacAedh was determined to rebel if the king refused to recognize Domnall.
