by Paula Quinn
*
Sibylla arrived at the dining hall to find breakfast was half-finished. She slinked into her seat, stealthily grabbed the last bannock from the basket, and then reached for the pitcher of cider.
“Yer late, Sibylla,” her mother remarked with a look of concern. “Are ye unwell?”
“Nae, Máthair,” Sibylla shook her head, hoping there would be no further questions.
“Sibylla was up betimes,” Fiona chimed in. “She was already gone when Ailis and I awoke.”
Ailis shot her a warning look. Why couldn’t Fiona ever hold her tongue? Stupid girl!
“Is that so?” her mother asked, gaze narrowing. “What pulled ye from bed so bright and early, Sibylla?”
“I—uh—” Sibylla stumbled over her tongue trying to come up with a reason. “I was gathering eggs,” she blurted as she poured a cup of cider.
“Aye?” Her mother cocked a brow. “And just how many eggs did yer dead hen produce today?”
Sibylla’s hand froze on the pitcher. How could she have forgotten?
“What happened to yer hand?” Fiona asked.
Sibylla gave Fiona a shushing look and nudged her shin beneath the table.
“Ouch!” Fiona cried out. “What was that for?”
“Sibylla,” MacAedh’s deep voice rippled ominously down her spine. “Since ye now find yerself caught in yer deception, perhaps ye’d like to honor us with the truth. Why are ye late and what happened to yer hand?”
Sibylla dropped her gaze and licked her lips. She was a poor liar to begin with; uttering another falsehood would only make matters worse. “I went to the armory,” she replied, careful to avoid any direct mention of Alexander.
“Aye? And what were ye doing there?” he asked.
“I wanted to learn how to throw a knife,” she answered. “I cut myself while practicing.”
“If ye wanted to learn how to defend yerself, why did ye nae have Domnall teach ye?” She cringed as MacAedh’s gaze scanned the length of the dining hall. “It seems our tutor is also absent.” His remark was soft but his eyes were sharp. She squirmed on the bench as his inscrutable black gaze landed back on her.
“Alexander often breaks his fast in the kitchen,” Sibylla remarked.
“Sibylla has become far too familiar with our tutor’s habits,” her mother interjected.
“I only asked Alexander to teach me,” Sibylla protested. “I dinna ask Domnall because he isna as skilled as Alexander.”
Her brother’s face flushed. “He was lucky with his throw. ’Tis no kind of defense, Sibylla, to throw away yer weapon. If ye want to learn to protect yerself, I’ll teach ye proper.”
“Thank ye, Domnall,” she replied, hoping the issue was closed.
“’Tis nae seemly to meet a young man alone, Sibylla,” her mother scolded. “Were he nae a monk…” She looked to MacAedh.
“Monk or nae, the lad should ken better,” MacAedh responded with a scowl. “I’ll be having a word with Alexander.”
Sibylla’s heart sank into the pit of her stomach. Would Alexander be punished? Or worse, would he be sent away? “Please, Uncle,” she pleaded. “He did nothing wrong. He was only obliging my request.”
“It that so?” MacAedh’s expression was fraught with warning. “Then it best nae happen again.”
“I understand, Uncle,” she murmured.
What had she done? By teaching her to read, Alexander had offered her an escape from her dull, predictable life. But now it appeared she’d already sabotaged any chance that her uncle would allow it. She tried to console herself that MacAedh’s current displeasure would soon be forgotten, but it was highly unlikely he’d permit any further private interaction between them. Sibylla didn’t know which bothered her more, losing the opportunity to read, or the chance to be alone with Alexander.
*
Scrubbing his face, Alex sat down at his writing table determined to apply himself to something constructive, only to find his concentration faltering. Though he tried to focus on the history lesson, he was far too distracted. An impatient rap on his chamber door came as a welcome diversion from his thoughts.
He rose quickly but before he could answer, Domnall flung it open, announcing with hands mounted on his hips, “I’ve come for my instruction.”
“Ye needna regard it as punishment,” Alex replied. “If ye give it half a chance, ye might even enjoy it.”
“That’s doubtful.” Domnall flung himself into a chair with a loud sigh. “I’m no scholar! Why canna my uncle understand that?”
“He only acts in yer best interest,” Alex said.
“But I’ve ne’er taken to books. I havena the patience for it.”
“Perhaps ye havena read the right ones?” Alex suggested. “Have ye heard of Homer? Surely ye would enjoy The Odyssey and The Iliad.”
Domnall’s scowl deepened. “I’ve little enough use for Latin and none at all for Greek.”
“Ye ken naught of the Spartans? Of the Trojans?” Alex shook his head with a tsk. “’Tis a pity. The study of past wars often allows us to gain valuable insights.”
“Why should I care about ancient history?”
“Why, indeed, should ye care about ancient conflicts? What value could there possibly be in studying a confederation of quarrelsome city states who defeated the powerful empire who would have enslaved them?”
Domnall’s brow wrinkled. “What history is this?”
“The Greek conflict with Persia,” Alex answered. “The Battle of Thermopylae, although ultimately lost by the Greeks, is the ultimate example of the power of a patriotic force defending its homeland. The Spartans fought with unparalleled courage against overwhelming odds. Herodotus tells us this tale in great detail.”
“But I dinna read Greek,” Domnall said.
“Then ’tis fortunate for ye that I do,” Alex answered with a smile. It wasn’t that Domnall lacked intelligence, but he’d seemed to have no motivation to learn. He was the grandson of a king. Knowledge of history would serve him well if he ever wished to claim his birthright.
He opened the book and began to read, easily translating the work into a vernacular that Domnall could comprehend. For the first time, Domnall became actively engaged in asking questions and seeking answers. He was particularly fascinated with Herodotus’ account of the Greco-Persian wars. Until this moment, it had seemed that coming to Kilmuir was all a waste of time, but now Alex felt as if he’d come to Kilmuir to serve a greater purpose—to help prepare Domnall for his future.
After an hours-long discussion of famous battles and conquests of antiquity, Alex finally closed the book. “Same time tomorrow?”
“Aye.” Domnall nodded. “As long as ye dinna try to force feed me Latin.”
“Mayhap we’ll just continue with Herodotus,” Alex agreed.
With a look of relief and a murmur of thanks, Domnall turned toward the door.
“Domnall?” Alex stalled him as he laid his hand on the latch.
“Aye?”
“Would ye be willing to allow Lady Sibylla to attend yer lessons?”
Domnall frowned. “Why?”
“Because she told me that she canna read.”
Domnall shrugged. “Many people canna read.”
“But she wants to learn,” Alex argued, surprised by his lack of concern. “Why deny her such a simple desire?”
Domnall’s gaze narrowed. “Why are ye so concerned with my sister?”
“I would concern myself with anyone who voiced a yearning to learn,” Alex replied.
“Is that why ye met her in the armory this morn?” Domnall asked.
“She told ye?”
“MacAedh forced her confession,” Domnall said.
“Forced?” Alex swallowed hard. He hadn’t read the thane as a violent man. “If anyone is to be punished, it should be me,” Alex replied, resolved to confess the truth and face whatever penalty MacAedh would mete out.
“’Tis nae what ye think,” Domnall assured him. “She
received only a reprimand, but MacAedh wishes to speak with ye when we are finished. MacAedh chooses to give ye the benefit of doubt, but dinna take it as weakness.” He added in warning as he turned for the door, “Ye’ll deeply regret it if ye ever cross MacAedh or any member of this family.”
Chapter Six
After searching the castle, Alex found MacAedh, in the outer bailey working the forge. With sleeves rolled back, the thane of Kilmuir tapped the hammer on the anvil.
Sparks snapped in the air as he began molding a bar of white hot iron into shape.
“Ye sent for me?” Alex said.
“Aye,” MacAedh said, his dark eyes unreadable. “I would ken yer interest in my niece, Sibylla.”
“I was only obliging her request to show her how to throw the sgian-dubh.”
“And that is why ye met her secretly in the armory?” He glanced up briefly before striking another forceful blow with his hammer.
“I realize now that it was ill-advised,” Alex confessed. “I should have asked ye first. I meant no disrespect.”
“Sibylla should have asked,” MacAedh corrected. “But that lass has a way of bending others to her will.” He illustrated his point by bending his iron into the rough shape of a horseshoe. “Ye are nae the first of her victims, nor will ye be the last. Be mindful of feminine wiles, Alexander. A man can all too easily get caught up in their snares.”
“But ye’ve managed to avoid them?” Alex remarked.
“Aye,” MacAedh responded with a dry laugh. “I’ve been fortunate thus far, but no doubt my days of unfettered freedom are numbered.”
The thane’s answer surprised him. He’d always believed that nobles put a high priority on siring sons. “Ye dinna wish to take a wife?” Alex asked. “To have bairns?”
“Aye. Eventually,” MacAedh said. The bucket answered with a hiss of steam as he submerged the searing iron into the water. “But my life is too uncertain. I wouldna take a wife unless I could offer security.”
“Security? But ye are Thane of Kilmuir,” Alex said.
“I am, indeed, thane… and carpenter… and stone mason… and smith,” he replied with a humorless laugh. “I became master of all trades the day the king’s army came recruiting. They always conscript the smith first. ’Tis how they keep us in check, by taking our men and any means we have of making weapons.”
He retrieved the shaped iron from the bucket and laid it down with his tongs. He said nothing more until he’d doused the inferno that blazed inside the forge.
MacAedh then stood and wiped the sweat from his brow. “’Tis our payment in kind,” he added bitterly, “and how we remain here. If I refused to provide soldiers, we would soon find ourselves homeless. ’Tis also why this place is in such disrepair.” He nodded to the castle. “There are too few men left to do all the work and still provide for their families. We have had a reprieve for the past two years but the moment the English are done fighting themselves David Cenn Mór will send his men north to recruit.” His words suggested resignation but his tone bared deep resentment.
“Is that why Domnall and the others train?” Alex asked. “Will they be conscripted?”
“They train for their own purpose,” MacAedh answered cagily. “But any who refuse to join the king’s army will be counted as traitors against the crown. This places Domnall in a dangerous position. If he were to go south, even in the king’s service, I fear for his life. Few kinsmen of the Cenn Mórs ever die of natural causes. They have a remarkable talent for eliminating anyone they view as a threat to their power.”
“Is Domnall a threat?” Alex asked.
“His faither, as the son of Duncan, had a rightful claim, but ne’er saw fit to press it. Instead, he let the king buy him off with lands and titles. He became the greatest landholder in Scotland, save for the king himself. But Domnall is nae like his faither. His blood runs true to his Highland heritage. That alone makes him a threat. If the king doesna recognize him, he will likely fight for his birthright… which now leads to the matter I wish to discuss with ye.” MacAedh laid down his tools to eye Alex squarely. “I would ken the truth of where ye got that sgian-dubh.”
By his stern expression, MacAedh expected a forthright response, but Alex hesitated. Why was it so important for him to know the knife’s origin? His father had had many enemies—men who betrayed him and took him away. Was MacAedh somehow connected to that? Could he trust this man enough to disclose his secret? Part of him wanted to speak, but a life of caution told him to hold his silence.
“I told ye, I dinna remember.”
“Ye make a poor liar, Alexander.” MacAedh replied. “But perhaps ye have good reason for caution.”
“What do ye mean?” Alex studied MacAedh with uncertainty but sensed nothing threatening or suspicious in his eyes.
“Come,” MacAedh answered. “There’s something ye must see.”
Alex followed MacAedh through the bailey and past the castle to an ancient mausoleum where, presumably, generations of MacAedh’s clan rested. The entrance was guarded by two imposing, stone-carved angels holding swords. MacAedh unlocked the door to the tomb and beckoned Alex into the dark, dank chamber that smelled of death and decay.
“Why are we here?” Alex asked, growing horrified as MacAedh proceeded to pry open one of the caskets.
“’Tis heavy.” MacAedh grunted against the weight. “Come lad, help me to lift this.”
Steeling himself for rotted remains, Alex heaved with all his force to open the lid. To his shock, the casket instead held a cache of weapons.
“Our only remaining treasures.” MacAedh explained.
He retrieved a long object wrapped in layers of linen. “This is what we came for.” Removing the cloth, MacAedh revealed an ancient, silver-hilted sword.
He displayed it for Alex in open hands. Alex’s gaze riveted to the inscription on the blade—Veritatem, Virtutem, Vindictae. “’Tis the same as my sgian-dubh. I dinna understand this.”
“Perhaps ye will now understand my curiosity about yer sgian-dubh,” MacAedh said. “This sword is one of seven forged of pure Damascus steel centuries ago for the seven Mormaers of Alba. They are as legendary as the Holy Grail. Take it,” MacAedh urged, extending the sword to Alex.
Alex’s hands shook as he took possession of the ancient weapon. His heart raced as he more closely examined the deadly blade.
“My faither had such a sword,” MacAedh said, “but this particular blade belonged to Mal Peder MacLeon, Mormaer of Mearns, the man who killed Duncan Cenn Mór. Four kings have perished by these blades. For this reason, they have come to be called the Kingslayers.”
“Kingslayers?” Alex balanced the sword and then took a practice swing. It felt awkward in his unskilled hands.
“Aye.” MacAedh grinned. “The Cenn Mórs have good reason to fear and despise the men of the Highlands.”
A vague memory wormed its way out of some unknown recess of Alex’s brain. His mother’s kin were from Mearns. He didn’t know how, but he was certain it was true. Was his own family somehow connected to this story?
“If this belonged to the Mormaer of Mearns, why would ye have it?” Alex asked.
“After the regicide, King Alexander executed MacLeon and took the sword. He later used it to kill six other men of Mearns and Moray who’d set out to assassinate him. All of this only added to the swords’ legend. ’Tis now believed by many that he who claims all seven of these swords will become invincible.”
“Do ye believe this?” Alex asked.
MacAedh shrugged. “I am nae a superstitious man, but the Cenn Mórs believe it.”
“Ye still havena explained how ye have this sword in yer possession,” Alex said.
“On his deathbed, King Alexander gave the sword to his natural son in the hope that he might accede to the throne. But King Henry of England chose to pit Alexander’s brother David against the ‘bastard’ of Alexander. Four thousand Highland men met their death at Stracathro, when David Cenn Mór came at the head
of a large Anglo-Norman force. My brother, Angus, was among them.”
“What became of the son of King Alexander?” Alex asked.
“He barely escaped with his life, only to be later betrayed by a kinsman. When his capture was imminent, he gave his sword to one of our men to bring it back to Kilmuir for safe keeping. It has been hidden in this crypt these twenty years.”
MacAedh leaned back against the stone coffin, arms crossed over his broad chest silently studying Alex. “I have entrusted ye with my own dangerous secret,” he said at length. “Perhaps now, ye will have faith to confide yers? Who gave ye the dagger?”
Alex hesitated. Years ago, he’d promised his mother never to divulge his past. Was he still bound to that vow when she’d broken her own promise to send for him? Could he trust this man whose family history seemed to be so closely intertwined with his own? His instincts told him he could.
“My máthair,” Alex replied. “She gave me the knife when she sent me to the monastery. I was but four years old.”
“A tender age to lose a máthair,” MacAedh remarked. His gaze narrowed. “Why did she feel compelled to give ye up?”
“There was danger,” Alex replied. He vividly recalled the fright in his mother’s eyes the night she sent him to the monastery.
“And yer faither?” MacAedh asked. “Where was he that he dinna protect his wife and son?”
Alex knew the true question. MacAedh presumed he was a bastard.
“I dinna remember much of my faither but he had enemies,” Alex said. “I only ken that my máthair feared for our lives. I was too young to understand why. She feared my Uncle Eachann. He’d taken us away to a terrible place, high on a cliff that overlooked the sea. She sent me away because she feared he would hurt me.”
Alex shut his eyes on a rush of visions from his childhood—a big and fearsome man with a red beard and an ugly, jagged scar running down the length of his face. Now he understood why his mother had been so fearful. His uncle was the man who’d betrayed his father and then imprisoned him and his mother. After being sent to the monastery, he’d never again heard from either of his parents. Eventually, he’d come to believe his father had abandoned him and his mother. The truth was almost too overwhelming to comprehend. His entire life had been destroyed by one man’s greed.
