by Quinn, Paula
“Dinna let him ken,” the priest advised. “The king will look for weaknesses to exploit.”
“Are ye to come with me?” she asked.
“Aye. The king commands me to attend ye.”
“Did he?” It was Sibylla’s turn for surprise. Although she had asked the earl to convey her request, she hadn’t truly expected the king to grant it. “Then let us nae keep his Majesty waiting.” She wondered what was behind these two unexpected acts of kindness. What could he possibly seek to gain from her?
The king was reading a document when the servant announced her. When he didn’t immediately acknowledge her, she made a detailed visual survey of the room. The walls were darkly paneled and contained many shelves of books. Was it, perhaps, a council chamber? A fire smoldered in a hearth at one end, beckoning her to its warmth, yet, Sibylla sensed that she should not initiate any uninvited movements.
After a time, he laid down the parchment, only to take up a quill pen and write. Was this some kind of test? She continued to silently watch him as he melted a blob of wax and then impressed his seal. It was only after he laid his implements down that he finally recognized her presence. Sibylla resisted the urge to fidget as he eyed her with studied scrutiny. “Je ne vous ai pas vu à la messe.”
“He desires to ken why ye dinna attend mass,” Father Gregor said.
“’Tis nae my habit,” Sibylla answered.
“La piété est une vertu sainte,” the king replied, adding in a commanding tone. “Vous assisterez à chaque heure de prière.”
“He expects ye to attend every hour of prayer,” Father Gregor said.
Normans prized modesty and piety in noblewomen, and life in this king’s court revolved very much around worship. While Sibylla had never considered herself particularly religious, she knew that she must act the part if she wished to gain favor.
“Les vêtements vous conviennent,” the king remarked with a nod.
“He says the clothes suit ye,” Father Gregor murmured.
“Please thank him for his generosity,” Sibylla said, glad that something she’d done had finally warranted his approval.
“Quelle langues parlez-vous?” the king asked.
“I dinna speak anything but Gaelic,” Sibylla replied to the question without need of interpretation. Her answer was true enough. Yet, since she’d arrived in the king’s court, old memories had begun to stir. As a small child, her father had demanded that she and Domnall speak only Anglo-Norman but, after he’d left, they had quickly abandoned the tongue in favor of their mother’s native Gaelic. Though the words did not come readily to her tongue, her ear was quickly becoming attuned to the language.
The king’s brows met in a frown. “Votre père a été négligent. Il aurait dû considérer vos perspectives de mariage.”
“Yer faither was negligent,” the priest said. “He should have considered yer marriage prospects.”
“My faither ne’er took much interest in our welfare,” Sibylla remarked dryly.
She wondered why the king would concern himself with her marriage prospects. He’d granted much land and many titles to foreigners in exchange for their fealty. Did he now think to use her to entice another Anglo-Norman noble to settle in Scotland? No! She refused to be used as a political pawn.
“C’est le devoir d’une noble femme de faire un bon mariage,” the king remarked.
“’Tis a noblewoman’s duty to make a good marriage,” the priest said.
“B-but I dinna wish to wed!” Sibylla said.
“Vos souhaits ne sont pas pertinents,” the king replied with a subtle smile.
The priest regarded Sibylla with an apologetic look. “The king says yer wishes are irrelevant.” Seeming to comprehend her answer, the king nodded. “Le droit du roi est également de faciliter ces questions.”
Sibylla’s throat tightened. What right had he to make such decisions on her behalf?
“It is a king’s privilege to facilitate such matters,” Father Gregor said. “’Tis the custom the king to arrange marriages between noble houses,” he explained. “And ye are nae only nobly bred but are also a kinswoman.”
“But my uncle is my guardian,” Sibylla insisted. “I have him to look after my interests. I only came here to plead for his life. Why canna I see him?” The king’s continued refusal only increased her anxiety. Was he hiding something from her? Was MacAedh already dead? “Please, yer Majesty,” she dropped to her knees to beg.
“Vous êtes maintenant sous ma tutelle. Vous ferez ce que je vous commande,” the king replied.
She had no difficulty comprehending his final words.
“Ye are now under my guardianship… and will do as I command.”
Chapter Twenty
Black Isle, Scottish Highlands
On the third day after arriving at Inverness, the earl gave the increasingly restless men the command to decamp. They were bound for the old Céilí Dé monastery of Rosemarkie, one of the early Celtic Christian settlements that the king wished to eradicate.
After hours of brisk marching under the blazing August sun, they came to halt at the River Beauly, where the men dismounted to rest and water the horses. While some soldiers, stripped of hauberks, chose to refresh themselves in the cool water, others rested under a leafy canopy of shade trees. The prince had abandoned the weight of his chain mail and stripped to his braies for a swim.
Unwary and unarmed, they were unprepared when the battle horn sounded.
With war cries intended to terrify the horses, Highlanders dropped from trees and sprang out from hiding deep in the thickets. Rearing and spinning in terror, many of the horses broke through the ranks of men and bolted. Drawing swords, the knights quickly assembled to counter the attack, while the prince frantically splashed in the river.
Amidst the melee, a wail of bagpipes sounded the call for the second wave of attack. More men materialized, some on horses, others bearing Norman-style bows. Under a fatal shower of arrows, men began to fall. When the prince’s bodyguard disappeared beneath the water, Alex tore off his robes and dove into the river, swimming toward the panicking prince, whose wild kicking and thrashing threatened to drown them both. “I’m hit! I’m hit!” the prince shrieked.
“Swim or perish!” Alex shouted as he pulled the boy away from the melee and further into the water to a place where the river reached out its arms and dragged them deeper still. Sucked into the swirling currents, they struggled to remain afloat as the river pulled them eastward. With limbs and lungs burning, they swam on, pulled by the outgoing tide into the Beauly Firth.
Raised by the sea, Alex was an excellent swimmer but fatigue quickly set in, further hampered by the prince who was as dead weight pulling him down. Had he escaped the brutal attack only to drown in the river? Alex’s survival instincts screamed to save himself, but his conscience would not allow him to release the floundering prince.
They would live or die together.
His body was ready to surrender to the depths when a large piece of driftwood appeared—a bobbing beacon of hope sent by God Himself. With a hope-inspired burst of energy, Alex swam toward it. Wrapping his arms fast around it, they clung like barnacles to a sea wall. Clinging to the log, they floated until the firth closed its gaping mouth. Kicking and paddling into the shallows, they finally found solid footing beneath the water. Releasing the log, Alex dragged the prince with him to the bank where he collapsed into the oblivion of exhaustion.
*
Alex awoke to find his face encrusted with sand and a curious seagull standing on his chest. “Shoo!” he shouted and sat up to spit the grit from his mouth. Where the devil was he? Like a tidal wave, his memory of the attack crashed over him.
A voice moaned beside him. The prince? The lad was clutching his shoulder and the sand beneath him was stained with crimson.
“Ye are wounded?” Alex asked.
“’Twas an arrow,” the prince answered with a wince. “It passed right through my arm.”
Alex
frantically sought something with which to bind the wound, but he and the prince both wore only braies. There was nothing else with which to make a bandage without leaving one of them naked. He was about to make the sacrifice, when he recalled the sgian-dubh tied to his leg with a thin leather binding. It was just big enough to tie above the wound.
“Tis nae life threatening,” Alex reassured the boy once the bleeding had been staunched. “At least so long as it doesna putrefy.”
“We were ambushed!” the prince declared, looking outraged.
“Aye,” Alex answered. “’Twas an ambush.”
But who had attacked? Could it have been Domnall with Somerled’s men? The call to battle had sounded with Highland pipes and the war cries were Gaelic. Yet, something about that theory didn’t sit right with Alex. There were archers amongst the men. Normans employed archers. Highlanders made war with battle ax and sword. And how had they known where the army would rest?
There were too many questions and too few answers. But Alex was certain that whoever had set upon them had intended to kill the prince. And whoever did this would soon hunt them down like wolves after wounded prey.
He didn’t yet know the fate of the king’s army. They had been taken by surprise. Had they been defeated or had they prevailed in the end? He had no way of knowing. The only thing he knew for certain was that he had to find some place safe for the prince. If they could only reach the monastery of Rosemarkie, they could claim sanctuary. Any church would provide a safe haven that even a soldier would dare not defy, but it was too risky to travel west.
Looking about, Alex sought any landmark that might tell him how far east the river had carried them. His breath hitched in his chest as his gaze traveled upward from the banks of the firth to a distant promontory. Cnoc Croit na Maoile?
They couldn’t possibly be so close to Kilmuir! Yet his heart told him it was so.
The Beauly River had carried him home.
*
It was half a day’s walk to Kilmuir, made far more difficult supporting the injured prince. Though his bare feet were blistered and bleeding, and his body was battered and sunburned, Alex felt instantly reenergized the moment the keep came into sight.
“What is this place?” the prince asked.
“Someplace we will be safe,” Alex replied.
“Are they yer kinsmen?” the prince asked.
“Nae,” Alex answered. “They are kin to yer own cousin, Lady Sibylla. Her máthair and grandmother reside here.”
The prince pulled back with a look of terror. “Ye would save my life only to take me to the home of the man who plotted my murder?”
“’Twasna Domnall Mac William who plotted that attack,” Alex said. “I am certain of it. ’Twas carried out by someone who wanted it to look like Domnall did it.”
“Who?” the prince demanded.
“I dinna ken,” Alex replied. “But I swear I will discover it. Ye must trust me, Highness. I wouldna endanger yer life.”
“Why should I trust them?” he asked, still suspicious.
“Because ye have nae other choice,” Alex replied. “Ye are injured and need care.”
Still, the prince balked. He thrust his chin and declared, “If anything happens to me, my grandfather will decimate the Highlands.”
“Aye,” Alex agreed, knowing the threat was no idle boast but a very real possibility. “I ken verra well and pledge on my own life that they willna harm ye.”
*
“How fares our bonny Prince Malcolm?” Lady Gruaid asked Alex as he entered the solar to confer with the women of Kilmuir. The women had unquestioningly ministered to both of their bodies with food, drink, healing herbs and bandages—not to mention clothing.
“He sleeps soundly,” Alex replied, ignoring her note of sarcasm. The demanding prince was not easy to care for. “Thanks to the aid of the sleeping tonic ye gave him.”
“I mixed a heavy dose, though poison would have served us better,” Lady Olith grumbled.
Surely she didn’t mean… “What are ye saying?” Alex asked.
“Even to my blind eyes, the solution is clear. After all these years, we finally have the chance for retribution. Indeed, we have a chance to slay two kings.”
“Two kings? What do ye mean, Máthair?” Lady Gruaid asked.
The old woman’s blind eyes gleamed. “The murder of Cenn Mór’s son nearly put him in his deathbed. Should anything befall his grandson, the king will surely follow him to the grave… And ye can be sure I will be the first to dance on it. Alexander,” Lady Olith commanded, “Bring the Kingslayer. ’Tis time to fulfill its purpose.”
Alex gaped. “Ye canna expect me to murder the prince? I would ne’er do such a thing!”
Though he protested against it, in truth, he would be harder pressed to make that decision if it turned out to be the only way to get Sibylla safely home again. He prayed he would never have to make that kind of choice.
“If ye are nae prepared to act,” the old woman continued, “Domnall surely will nae hesitate. With both Cenn Mórs gone, the throne would be his for the taking.”
“Ye would have him rule on a legacy of murder?” Alex asked.
The old woman shrugged. “Tis no different than others have done before him.”
Was the old woman’s mind ravaged with her bloodthirst? Alex elected to change tack. “But Domnall is nae here and we dinna ken when he will return,” Alex argued. “Surely there is another way to free MacAedh and Sibylla.” Racking his brain for another solution, Alex paced the solar. “The king’s greatest desire is to secure his legacy. Surely he could be persuaded to exchange Sibylla and MacAedh for the prince.”
“Trading hostages is a common practice between kings,” Lady Gruaid agreed.
“But Cenn Mór could just as well send his army to burn us out and take him by force,” Lady Gruaid said.
“Only if he kens where the lad is,” Alex countered. “He will soon be informed of the ambush. Why nae let him assume those same men took the prince?”
“Even if we were to succeed, ’twill only buy us their two lives,” she replied. “It doesna change anything else. Once Prince Malcolm is safely returned to Dunfermline, retaliation is certain to follow.” She worried her lip. “The king is certain to blame Domnall for this act.”
“Can ye be certain ’twasna him?” Alex asked.
“The whole thing reeks of duplicity,” the old woman remarked. “I’ve smelled it a’fore.”
“The king verra well could retaliate with fire and sword, but exchanging the prince is still our only hope of getting Sibylla and MacAedh back,” Alex replied softly. “They are yer kin. Thus the decision must rest with ye.” Alex watched their faces as they considered his words. “There is naught to be done to protect the castle, but if ye fear for yer lives, ye could always seek sanctuary at Portmahomack. The monks will provide for ye until ye have yer kinsman back.”
“What of Domnall and Ailis?” Lady Gruaid whispered, worry lines etched all over her face.
“They are safer away from here,” Alex answered. “Let us hope they remain with Somerled once word of all this reaches the Isles.”
“We canna do nothing,” Lady Olith said. “Holding the prince hostage is our only recourse.”
Alex nodded. “Verra well. I will go as yer messenger to Dunfermline.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Dunfermline Palace
Sibylla quickly fell into the dull monotony of palace life. The king’s strict observance of canonical hours that demanded rising well before the sun and attending seven masses per day left her little time for herself. Though given the clothing and comforts of a queen, her life could not be more restricted had she entered a nunnery! She desperately longed for the simple life and freedom she’d known in the Highlands.
No doubt in preparation for her marriage, the king had commanded that she learn his tongue. Though Father Gregor had a firm grasp of Anglo-Norman, he was not permitted to instruct her, his Gaelic accent having offen
ded the king’s ear. Instead, Brother Aubert, a native Norman and Assistant Prior of the abbey, was chosen to instruct her.
Twice each day, he appeared for her lessons. The morning hour was spent inside with a focus on grammar and vocabulary, while the in afternoon she practiced her polite conversation while strolling the palace gardens with the king. During these walks, he allowed no interpreter, but at least endeavored to speak slowly using simple phrases. Thus immersed, Sibylla rapidly caught on.
“Good afternoon, Lady Sibylla,” the king addressed her formally in Anglo Norman.
“Good afternoon, Majesty,” she replied. “How do ye fare?” she answered.
“My stomach gives me much complaint,” he answered, “but I am otherwise well.”
“Have ye taken herbs?” she asked.
“My physicians have prescribed a percutant. It does little good and keeps me abed.”
“Percutant?” Sibylla stumbled over the unfamiliar word.
“An agent that moves the…” he flushed and placed his hand on his lower abdomen.
“Och! Purgaid,” Sibylla nodded and replied in Gaelic. She continued in Norman. “There is, perhaps, a better cure,” she suggested. “Have ye tried mint tea? Or perhaps…” once more the Norman words eluded her. “Ubhal sùgh-ubhal fìon-geur?”
“Ye have much knowledge of herbs?” the king asked.
“Aye. We grow many in our gardens at Kilmuir,” she replied. “’Tis a rare illness that we canna cure.”
As they paused by the reflecting pool, Sibylla dragged her fingers idly through the cool, clear water. Some water crow foot grew in mats of white and yellow flowers on the surface with leaves branching out thread-like under the water. She felt a strange affinity for this plant that had sprung up where it didn’t belong. The species was oft considered a nuisance plant, but she hoped no one would pluck it out.
“I will try this tea,” the king replied. He then eyed her with another slow appraisal that always made her wonder at his thoughts. “What other skills do ye possess? Have ye any musical talents?”
