by Paula Quinn
“Aye?” He turned back.
“How did ye learn to throw a knife like that?”
“I’ve practiced since I was a wee lad.”
She wound a finger around a stray curl the color of morning sunlight. “Do ye think ye could teach me? Like ye taught me how to fish with my hands?”
Alex briefly considered her request before shaking it off. Spending any more time alone with her was a very bad idea. He’d nearly kissed her at the burn. He could not take a chance on a repeated incident for fear he’d be helpless to resist the next time, but when he drew breath to deny her request, somehow the right words eluded his tongue.
“Aye. I could teach ye,” he said.
“At the armory? In the morn before anyone’s awake?” she suggested.
“At the armory,” he agreed with a nod. Once more, it was not the answer he’d intended to give, but he found himself unable to say no to her. He couldn’t comprehend his own actions. Why the de’il was he so helpless to resist her? Was he bewitched? Or was this another trial of his faith and self-restraint? He’d never thought himself a weak man, but if Sibylla was a test, he feared he was doomed to fail.
Chapter Five
Taking care to avoid waking Ailis and Fiona, Sibylla slipped stealthily from her bed, silently cringing as her bare feet hit the cold, stone floor. After donning her green, homespun kirtle over her shift, she plaited her hair and bound it with a matching green ribbon. Green was her best color. She was always told that it set off her eyes.
Had he noticed the color of her eyes? She’d certainly noticed his. Slate gray with thick, dark lashes. She’d noticed many more things about him, but was still sadly ignorant of his history. She didn’t even know his age, although she guessed he was only a year or two ahead of her and Domnall. She wondered what had led him to the monastery and why he’d decided to pledge himself to priesthood. Did he truly like it there? How certain was he about taking monastic vows? Was she wasting her time and effort trying to engage his interest? That was the question that plagued her most.
Was she really trying? She paused to consider it. Yes, for the first time, she wanted a male’s attention. At first she’d only wanted a kiss because Ailis had been kissed, but then she realized she didn’t want just any kiss. She particularly wanted Alexander to kiss her. But why him? It was perhaps a foolish pursuit, but there was something between them that she’d never experienced with anyone else before.
She’d seen the hesitancy in his eyes when she’d suggested their meeting at the armory, yet he’d agreed. Maybe it was just guilt for killing her hen, but she suspected it was more. She was quite certain he felt something, too.
Having finished primping, Sibylla donned her shoes and stockings and then crept quietly out of her room. The grass was still damp with dew and faint shards of light had only begun to break through the lingering vestiges of night as she slipped through the armory gate.
At first, she didn’t see him leaning against the wall, his hooded robe having effectively melted him into the lingering shadows. He pushed off from the wall and came slowly toward her.
“Good morn,” Alex greeted her with a brief flash of white teeth that might almost be described as a smile.
“Good morn,” she answered.
“Did ye bring a knife to throw?”
“I have no knife,” she said. “I thought to learn with yers.”
“I can teach ye with mine,” he said. “But ye’ll want one of yer own. They’re all different.”
“How?” she asked.
“The weight, the balance, the feel.” Alexander retrieved his knife and offered it to her in his open palm. “Yer brother carries a bollock dagger, but this type is far better for a lass.”
“It has writing on it,” she remarked. It was a deadly weapon but also one of beauty. “What does it say?”
“Veritatem, Virtutem, Vindictae.” The familiar Latin words rolled easily off his tongue.
“I dinna ken what it means,” she said.
“’Tis Latin. Truth, Valor, and Vengeance.”
“Where did ye get such a knife?” she asked, her curiosity growing. “Surely nae at the monastery.”
He gazed down at the knife and pensively caressed the lettering on the blade. “I canna say.”
“Because ye dinna remember?” She studied him closely as his eyes clouded.
“I remember well enough, but I made a vow ne’er to tell anyone.”
“Ye have secrets, Alexander?” She wondered what they could be. “Do ye trust no one?” She searched his eyes hoping for some clue to decipher him but, like a closed door, he revealed nothing.
“Trust?” He hesitated, seemingly to consider the word. “I trust in God and in myself,” he answered.
“But no one else?” His cynicism surprised her. He was far too young to be so disillusioned. “Someone betrayed ye? I ken verra well how it feels,” she said.
Her own father had turned his back on them long ago, not that she cared overmuch about him. She’d barely known the man, but his actions had stigmatized both her and Domnall.
“’Twasna so much a betrayal as a broken promise,” he answered.
She’d hoped for further elaboration but he seemed unwilling to confide more.
“The hour grows long,” he said. “Everyone will soon be awake and breaking their fast.”
He placed the knife in her right hand. She could barely think about anything beyond his warm fingers on her skin as he proceeded to explain his technique. “Ye must hold it by the blade, like this…” Sibylla tried to focus on his instructions, but his subtly musky scent and the heat of his body standing so closely behind hers made it difficult to concentrate.
Releasing her hand, he stepped away to demonstrate, going through the motions several times before urging her to try. Taking the knife, Sibylla squinted at the wooden targe that stood only a few feet away. Biting her lip, she flicked her wrist precisely the way he had shown her, only to have the knife stray far wide of the mark!
Sibylla released an exasperated sigh. “How could I have missed it by so much?”
But she knew the answer. It was Alexander’s physical proximity that had unnerved her. Why did he have such an overwhelming effect on her? “Did ye see where it went?” she asked.
“Over yon.” He pointed. “Ye dinna throw it far. We’ll find it.”
They spent the next few minutes on hands and knees scouring the grass. “I found it,” Sibylla declared in triumph as she closed her fingers a bit too eagerly around the cool steel. “Ouch!”
“Ye cut yerself?” His gaze darted to her hand with a look of concern.
Embarrassed for him to see her injury, she returned his knife with her other hand. “’Tis but a scratch.”
“Let me see it.” Alexander took her hand in his to examine her wound. Prying her fingers open, he lightly probed the cut. His hands were large with big palms and long, tapering fingers, but his touch was surprisingly gentle.
“’Tis nae deep,” he reassured her. He then proceeded to cut a length of fabric from the hem of his robe which he used to bind her hand.
“I’ve ruined yer tunic,” she remarked in dismay.
He shrugged. “I have two others.”
“And that is all ye own?” she asked.
“I can only wear one at a time,” he replied with a hint of a grin. “My life is simple, Lady Sibylla. I have few possessions—this sgian-dubh, the clothes on my back, and a psalter. ’Tis all I need.”
“It might be all ye need,” she said, “but we all have wants and desires beyond the mere necessities.”
“I’m nae accustomed to thinking in those terms,” he answered. “In the monastery, we are taught to put away our personal desires to pursue the will of God.”
“But I have ne’er believed that He desires us to live in privation,” she said. “The scriptures prove it is so. Abraham was a verra prosperous man, and Solomon was said to have surpassed all the kings of the earth in riches and wisdom.”
> “If ye canna read, how is it that ye ken so much of the scriptures?” he asked with a puzzled look.
“I canna read, but I’m nae daft,” she replied. “I have perfectly good ears and, since I was a child, I have loved to listen to stories. The old priest was a great storyteller.”
“Where is he now, this priest?” he asked. “I have been nearly a sennight at Kilmuir and havena missed a single hour of prayer, yet I find no priest attending the chapel.”
“The old priest, Faither Fergus, died after a long sickness,” she said. “A replacement was sent by the Abbot of Dunkeld, but my uncle believed him a Cenn Mór spy and sent him away. We have had no priest since.”
“As Thane of Kilmuir, doesna yer uncle have a care to his people’s souls?”
Sibylla shrugged. “My uncle is nae a verra religious man… which is why ’twas such a surprise he sought out a monk to be Domnall’s tutor. Ye still havena answered my question, Alexander. Surely there must be something more ye want from this life.”
“I am nae a self-seeking man,” he replied. “I dinna dream of fame or riches if that’s what ye ask. I have no great aspirations other than perhaps to become a scribe. I believe the work would suit me.”
“So ye’ve already decided?” she asked. “Ye will go back and take the vows?”
“I dinna ken,” Alex replied, eyes still transfixed on her hand. “Faither Gregor would have me wait another year.”
“Much can happen in a year,” she said softly. “Ye could even change yer mind.”
He brusquely tied off the bandage. “Mayhap this wasna the best idea.”
“I’m nae always so clumsy.” She didn’t dare to say it was he that made her so awkward—first the fall in the burn and now the accident with the knife.
He shook his head. “Nae more knives. I think books would serve ye far better.”
“Books? What do ye mean?” Was he mocking her? “I already told ye I canna read.” Sibylla searched his face but found no sign of ridicule.
“Tis ne’er too late to learn,” he said. “Do any of yer kinswomen read?”
Sibylla considered the question. “I dinna think so.” The women of Kilmuir were an industrious lot who valued the work of their hands. Even their personal pleasures—spinning, weaving, knitting, needle work—were all productive in nature.
“Would yer uncle forbid it?” he asked.
“I dinna believe my uncle would object.” Her pulse raced. In her father’s household, females had rarely been encouraged to speak, let alone think for themselves. Her lot had improved somewhat, since coming to Kilmuir, but she never would have expected anyone to take an interest in improving her education. “Are ye offering to teach me, Alexander?”
“If ’twould please ye,” he said.
“Aye! ’Twould, indeed!” she exclaimed. “I will ask my uncle at the first chance.”
“We’d best go now,” Alexander urged. “Afore we’re missed. I dinna relish a skelping by MacAedh.”
Alexander was right. Dawn had already broken and her cousin and sister would be stirring from their beds. She would certainly be missed, given that she was rarely the first out of hers. Although it was not her habit to rise early, she was rarely late for a meal. How had the time passed so quickly?
She glanced once more at Alexander before turning to the gate. He answered her smile with the briefest curve of his lips. It was as if he deliberated even the smallest things. Did he never smile without thought or act without care? Why was he so guarded? She was resolved to find out.
She’d asked him to teach her knife throwing, not just to learn the skill, but in the hope of learning more about him. To her dismay, he’d disclosed little. There was still so much she didn’t know of him, but at least today she’d begun to chip away at his armor. His offer to teach her gave her the chance to continue chiseling. Alexander was a mystery she was determined to solve.
As she left the armory, Sibylla’s heart was so light she nearly skipped to the gate. She felt as if a whole new world awaited her—and best of all, Alexander would be her personal guide.
*
As he watched Sibylla flit off with a smile lighting her face, Alex felt a grin stretching his own mouth. For the first time since his arrival, he was actually excited. He told himself it was only Sibylla’s eagerness and intellectual curiosity that stirred his enthusiasm. He didn’t dare question too closely whether it was truly the idea of teaching a willing pupil, or just spending more time with Sibylla.
Since she enjoyed stories so much, perhaps he could begin her lessons by sharing one of his own favorites. She would probably enjoy Ovid’s fantastical tales more than Herodotus’ histories. Maybe he could even make a game out of teaching her letters and words. She was so much more than a comely face. She had an astute and inquiring mind that deserved to be enlightened. ’Twas unfortunate that education had been denied her solely on the basis of her sex. She would be a joy to teach—if her uncle would permit it.
Alex’s grin faded. She’d looked so elated by the idea that he hadn’t even considered MacAedh’s possible objection. Were he in MacAedh’s place, he would not allow it—at least not without a proper chaperone. Maybe Ailis or another of her female kin could attend her lessons with her? If not, mayhap Sibylla could join her brother? Domnall surely wouldn’t like it, but Alex resolved to speak with him when next he came for his lesson, or rather, if he came for his morning lesson. Although he’d sworn to keep his word, Alex was still dubious.
Not wishing to rouse suspicion, Alex had tarried alone in the armory long after Sibylla had departed. The walled courtyard bore the evidence of many practice battles, such as he’d witnessed the day before. There were various circles where the grassy turf was worn to dirt and the thick oaken posts used for sword practice bore deep scars.
Had he not been taken from Fettercairn, would he also have been taught these same martial skills? Countless times, he’d wondered how different his life might have been had he had a normal boyhood with a mother and a father. Until now, he’d had no exposure to such things. As a child he’d known only work and prayer. His hands were well-callused, not from sword bearing but from five years of scraping animal hides.
In the short time since he’d arrived at Castle Kilmuir, he’d come to realize what he’d missed as a boy—the warmth and familiarity of a family. Although the monks regarded one another as brothers, they were nothing like a true family—at least not the kind he’d seen at Kilmuir—the kind he’d ached for as a boy. Over time, he’d learned to be content at the monastery but, in his heart, he’d always yearned for something more.
Once he’d grown into manhood, he’d believed he’d put his boyhood yearnings behind him, but now he was even more painfully aware of what was missing. He was almost overwhelmed by a sense of loss for what had been taken from him.
By the time Alex arrived for breakfast, the kitchen was empty except for Sibylla’s grandmother, Lady Olith, who sat by the hearth with a rug spread atop her legs. The hearth was barely smoldering. Thinking she might grow cold, he rose to throw another brick of peak onto the fire. The flames quickly flickered to life, filling his nostrils with its sweet, smoky scent as the fire began to consume the fuel.
“So the young monk comes at last to break his fast?” she scolded. “There still be bannocks, but the parritch is cald.”
“Bannocks are fine, thank ye,” Alex said, helping himself to the bread and pouring a cup of cider. It was the first time they had exchanged words and he felt oddly ill at ease in her presence. He generally avoided taking his meals with the family, preferring instead the kitchen. He’d come to Castle Kilmuir as a tutor, which placed him in a peculiar no man’s land of neither servant nor family member, something that fell awkwardly in between. But then again, he’d felt much like an outsider his entire life.
“So ye fancy, Sibylla?” the old woman remarked, as if reading his thoughts.
Alex nearly choked on his bannock. He was quick to wash it down with ale. How could the blind
woman know of his growing interest in her granddaughter? She couldn’t have seen them together. Had Sibylla told her or had someone spied on them?
“I’m bound for the monastery,” he replied. He’d never given much thought to anything else until now. But if he committed himself to the monastic life, he would never experience a wife or family. The thought brought him little joy.
“So ye say.” Ignoring his rebuttal, the old woman continued, staring sightlessly into the fire. “She carries the blood of two kings, but yer bairns will bear the blood of three.”
She made no sense, but Alex humored her.” “Even if I did seek marriage, I would ne’er look so high above myself,” he protested. Nevertheless, he couldn’t deny his growing attraction to Sibylla. She fascinated him in a way he couldn’t fathom.
“Ye will have many bairns. From yer loins will spring two sons and many daughters. They will sire two great clans that will spread across the Highlands from east to west… but with this great blessing also comes a curse.”
“A curse?”
“Yer son’s sons will ever be at odds. Relentlessly, they will make war upon one another—until the verra last drop of blood is shed.”
A cold shiver crept down Alex’s spine. Was the old woman a seer or was she simply mad? Likely, the latter. Alex swallowed the remainder of his meal and drained his cup. “Thank ye for the bannocks.”
He wasn’t a superstitious man, but her words set him on edge. Though he tried to dismiss her ominous prophecy, he left the kitchen with a sense of disquiet even more powerful than what he’d felt when MacAedh had recognized his knife. Was there any truth in the old woman’s words?
As he returned to his room to prepare for Domnall’s lessons, Alex’s thoughts kept straying back to the portentous prediction spoken by the old woman. It was ludicrous, of course. But why had she chosen him as the subject of her strange divination? Could there be any truth in it?
Sibylla had asked him what he wanted most in life. He hadn’t answered because he didn’t dare confess to her that his greatest desire was to belong somewhere. He’d only come to Kilmuir for a short time and when he had fulfilled his obligations, he would return to his old life. When he returned to Portmahomack, his memory of Kilmuir would eventually fade with time, but would he ever forget the girl with the red-gold hair and sea green eyes?
