Highland Heartbreakers: Highlander Series Starters, Volume One

by Paula Quinn

  “Brother Aubert,” Alex hesitated, licking his lips. “There is a delicate matter in which I require some assistance.”

  “Delicate?” The assistant prior’s brows rose.

  “Aye,” Alex said. “A lass who arrived with Faither Gregor was wrongfully imprisoned in the gatehouse jail. She is falsely charged with harlotry.”

  Brother Aubert’s dark gaze narrowed. “A grave charge, indeed. And ye believe her innocent?”

  Alex fought a glower. “I ken verra well she is innocent. I must obtain her immediate release. How can I go about this?”

  “If she is imprisoned, ye must appeal to the Earl of Fife, Chief Justiciar.”

  “Where can I find him?” Alex asked.

  “’Twill be a wasted effort. The criminal court is only convened once a month. Exceptions are only made by the king’s command.”

  “Then I must see the king,” Alex insisted.

  “The king is gravely ill,” Brother Aubert replied. “His physicians will nae allow anyone to molest him.”

  His frustration mounting, Alex rubbed his face with both hands. “Then what am I to do?”

  Brother Aubert frowned. “Tis a dilemma, indeed. If ye seek her release, there is one other to whom ye might appeal.”

  “Aye? And who might that be?” Alex’s stomach tightened even as he voiced the question.

  And rose fully into his throat as Brother Aubert answered. “The king’s second closest advisor… the Earl of Mearns.”

  The Earl of Mearns? Alex’s heart raced. Had his treacherous uncle truly wormed his way into the king’s innermost circle? It seemed so.

  Until this moment, he’d had only vague fantasies of seeking out his traitorous kinsman. Though he had already briefly seen his uncle at court, Alex had not anticipated a direct confrontation. His instincts told him to avoid Eachann of Mearns. He faced grave danger if his identity were discovered. His uncle would surely regard him as a personal threat, not to mention what the king would do should he learn of the existence of another potential rival to his grandson.

  Though a confrontation might foolishly place his life at risk, what choice did he have? Regardless of the cost, he had to help Sibylla!

  “I must speak with him,” Alex said.

  “The hour is late,” Brother Aubert protested. “Surely ye dinna expect to rouse him from his bed?”

  “The prince departs in the morn and I am to accompany him. I must see her freed before we leave Dunfermline.”

  “I warn ye against it,” Brother Aubert advised. “He is nae a temperate man in the best of circumstances.”

  “I will risk his wrath,” Alex said. “I canna leave the lass to rot in that place until we return!”

  Moreover, he could not deny the deep pull he felt inside his gut to look into the eyes of the man who’d betrayed his father and destroyed his life.

  *

  “Who dares disturb me at this hour?” a baritone voice roared from within the next room. Alex could not decipher the servant’s reply but, a moment later, the earl emerged from his bedchamber looking disheveled and murderous. Though Alex was tall, he was slight of build. Eachann, in contrast, was a massive mountain of a man. With his size, scars, and long, thick beard, he was intimidating even in his night shirt, but his current displeasure appeared to be on the cusp of a physical assault.

  “Who are ye and what do ye want?” Eachann thundered.

  Once more recalled to his childhood nightmares, Alex fought the impulse to look away. “I am Brother Alexander, come with a request from Faither Gregor of Portmahomack to release a prisoner from the gatehouse jail.”

  “What the de’il has this to do with me? Go ye to the Chief Justiciar!”

  “The Earl of Fife departs in the morn with the prince and willna hear the case,” Alex replied.

  “Why should I interfere?” Eachann said. “This means nothing to me. The matter will rest until he returns. Now be off with ye!” He waved his hand as if swatting a fly.

  “But she is the niece of MacAedh of Kilmuir,” Alex blurted, “come to court to plead for her uncle.”

  As expected, that bit of information snagged his attention.

  “The niece of MacAedh?” His gaze narrowed with speculation. “And precisely what is her kinship to Domnall Mac William?”

  “She is his sister, Lady Sibylla,” Alex replied, making a concerted force of will to meet his uncle’s bloodshot gaze. “I believe the king would be most displeased were he to learn his cousin was placed in the gatehouse jail.”

  “Aye?” Eachann’s lips curved into a slow, menacing smile. “That does signify, indeed.” Barking an order for his dressing robe, the earl then sent for the captain of the guard. “Escort this monk to the gatehouse,” he commanded, “and bring the lass back to me.”

  Alex departed with the captain, wondering what Eachann intended to do with Sibylla. She said she’d come to beg for MacAedh’s life. He had little confidence that she would succeed. Surely Eachann would retain her now that he knew who she was, but it was equally certain he would not return her to the common jail. If nothing else, Alex could rest in that accomplishment. She might not be free, but as a kinswoman to the king, she would not be mistreated… at least not as long as they felt they had a use for her.

  Alex was not allowed to enter the cell this time, but instructed to identify her for the captain. The jail was overcrowded, making it difficult to find her amongst the throng of bodies. It sickened him to know she was here. He’d believed her safe at home and had even hoped for a chance to meet with her once they arrived in Black Isle, but it seemed that fate had played against them.

  “Lady Sibylla of Kilmuir,” the guard shouted into the crowd. “Come forth.”

  A woman wearing a black cloak elbowed her way to the front. Something wasn’t right. Alex recognized the garment Sibylla had worn, but the face was that of a stranger. “Nae!” he protested as the captain prepared to release her. “’Tis nae the lass we seek.”

  “I am Lady Sibylla!” the hag insisted.

  “She lies,” Alex said. “Where is Sibylla?” he demanded. Not waiting for an answer, he snatched the torch from the captain’s hands and pushed his way into the cell. “Sibylla? ’Tis Alexander. Where are ye?” Frantically he searched the throng of beggars, thieves, and prostitutes. In the furthest corner a body lay slumped in an unnatural position. Sibylla?

  His heart lodged in his throat.

  Rushing toward her, he threw down the torch and scooped Sibylla into his arms. A sensation of warm wetness covered his hands. Blood? Good God! “Sibylla, mo ghaol!” he sobbed. “What has happened to ye?” Had the hag murdered Sibylla for a cloak?

  Although she remained unresponsive, her chest rose and fell in steady but shallow breaths. The captain soon appeared with the pretender by his side. “Is that the woman ye seek?”

  “Aye,” Alex said, gazing helplessly down at Sibylla’s still form. How could this have happened? It had only been a couple of hours since he’d left her. Nevertheless, he was racked with guilt for failing to protect her.

  “Be gone with ye!” The captain struck the imposter full in the face. “Happens all the time,” he remarked to Alex with an indifferent shrug. “Tis why the earl sent ye with me. Does she live?” he asked, looking skeptical.

  “She’s badly injured,’ Alex replied. “I think she was struck in the head. She needs a physician.”

  The captain looked from Alex to Sibylla. “The earl will decide.”

  As he carried her back to the earl’s chamber, Alex could hardly swallow the cruel irony that the life of the person he cared most about was now in the hands of the man who’d all but murdered the only other people he’d ever loved.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Sibylla was aware of warmth and a feeling of weightlessness as if she floated on a cloud, yet she couldn’t manage to open her eyes. Her head felt as if it were an anvil struck incessantly by a hammer. There were unfamiliar voices speaking indistinguishable words. Where was she? A hand cl
asped hers and then a whisper in her ear penetrated the fog. “I must leave ye now, mo ghaol. I have nae choice but I promise I will be back.”

  Alexander. He was there with her?

  She tried to cry out his name, but only a whimper sounded from her lips. A moment later, she felt a brief squeeze of her hand and then nothing.

  She didn’t know how much time had passed before she roused to consciousness again, but this time her eyes obeyed the command to open. The last thing she recalled was the stench and horror of the gatehouse jail. But now she found herself lying on a heather-stuffed mattress and her head resting on a goose down pillow in an enormous lavishly-appointed bedchamber.

  “Tis the queen’s former apartment,” an unknown gruff voice answered her unasked question.

  A wave of nausea assailed her as she turned her head in the direction of the voice. She retched several times but her stomach had long been empty.

  “Mayhap ’twill help if ye take some wine.” The amorphous voice became the body of a man as he advanced into her line of sight. He was large and fierce-looking with a long, jagged scar that ran from his brow to his chin, but there was something strangely familiar about his gray eyes.

  “Ye speak Gaelic,” her voice emerged as little more than a croak.

  “Aye,” he answered, shoving a cup toward her.

  Sibylla tried to sit up, but dizziness overcame over her. She fell back against the pillow. The stranger silently studied her with thumbs hooked in his belt.

  “Who are ye?” Sibylla finally asked.

  “I am Eachann of Mearns, an old acquaintance of yer family.”

  “My family or my faither?” Sibylla asked. “I dinna recall yer name.”

  “I was well acquainted with both Angus of Moray and yer faither.”

  “My uncle and faither were enemies,” she remarked. “I wonder, does that make ye my friend or my foe?” If he was friend to one of them, he would have to have been foe to the other.

  “Ye speak yer mind too freely,” he remarked with a dark look. “Tis a dangerous habit.”

  “If my candor offends ye, I suppose I have my answer,” she replied. His expression showed disapproval with more than a hint of contempt. Was it because she spoke her mind or because she was a woman? Likely both.

  “Why am I here in this bedchamber?” she asked.

  “’Twas by the king’s order,” he replied. “Ye have been asleep for two days.”

  “And the monk, Brother Alexander?” she asked. “Where is he?”

  “He is gone from Dunfermline,” he replied.

  “When will he return?” she asked.

  “I dinna ken,” he answered.

  Her bows furrowed. “But he said he would speak to the Chief Justiciar on my behalf.”

  “Ye face nae charges,” he said. “The king dismissed them.”

  “Oh?” Sibylla could not hold back her surprise. “I must thank him.”

  “Ye will have yer chance soon enough.”

  “I will get to speak with him? I came here to plead for my kinsman.”

  “He kens why ye came.”

  “And?” she asked. “Will he let me see my uncle?”

  “Ye are nae well enough.”

  “I am fine now!” She sat up and threw her legs over the side of the bed, only to clutch the post when her weak legs refused to support her weight. Chagrinned, she dropped back onto the bed. “I will be fine,” she insisted, refusing to surrender completely. “I just need some food.”

  “Ye will stay in the bed until the king’s physician decrees otherwise,” he commanded. “A servant will bring ye a tray.” He turned toward the door and then paused. “When ye are well enough, ye will dine with the king.”

  Sibylla stared after him not knowing what to think. Was she a prisoner here or a guest? She’d been given a lavish chamber and her wounds had been tended by the king’s own physician. The earl had been polite but there was suspicion in his manner and coldness in his courtesy that told her he was motivated by command rather than kindness. At least he spoke her tongue.

  A servant entered a few minutes later with a tray of food. The woman said nothing as she came to Sibylla’s side offering a bowl of watery gruel and a cup of cider. As unappetizing as it appeared, her stomach still responded with a loud grumble. Determined to regain her strength, Sibylla allowed the maid, Heloise, to assist her. Once she was strong again and permitted to leave her bed, she would finally achieve her purpose—a private audience with the king.

  *

  Alexander could hardly tear himself from Sibylla’s chamber. It had taken a force of will to sit by her side with a suitable air of compassionate detachment when his very soul cried out to take her into his arms. He’d nearly fallen apart in the jail when he’d found her, but if the captain of the guard had suspected anything more than friendship between Alex and Sibylla, he’d thankfully said nothing.

  He felt almost as if he’d abandoned her in a lion’s den. Yet, he knew she would now receive the best of care with the king’s personal physician attending her. He could tarry no longer. The Earl of Fife and Prince Malcolm were ready to depart and the earl had already called for him. He’d had to suffice with a touch of her hand and a whispered goodbye. He prayed both for her rapid recovery and his swift return, but both were beyond his control.

  Alex found both the earl and the prince at the king’s stables. Both were already mounted and the earl looked extremely perturbed. “I don’t like to be left waiting,” he retorted, adding with a look of condemnation, “One hopes this is not yer habit.”

  “Nae, my lord,” Alex replied contritely. “I meant no disrespect to ye or his Highness.” He regarded the prince for the first time. He was pale faced, weak-chinned and slight of build. He also appeared as if he hadn’t yet entered puberty. This boy was the heir to the kingdom? “I beg yer forgiveness,” Alex continued. “There was an incident that required my assistance. A kinswoman to the king was in distress.”

  “A kinswoman?” the prince remarked with a frown. “I was nae aware of any kinswomen at court. Who is she?”

  “Her name is Lady Sibylla Mac William of Kilmuir. She only recently arrived in Dunfermline.”

  “Mac William? I know not this name.” His frown deepened. “What is her relationship to the king?”

  “She is a granddaughter of the king’s half-brother, Duncan Cenn Mór.”

  He took a moment to digest the information. “So she is also my cousin?”

  “Aye. That she would be,” Alex replied.

  “I think I should like to meet her.”

  “’Tis nae possible at present,” Alex said. “She was gravely injured and lies unconscious in the late queen’s bedchamber. ’Tis why I am late.”

  “What happened to her?” the prince asked with a look of concern.

  “She was attacked. I found her.” He saw no reason to elaborate.

  He turned to the Earl of Fife. “As Chief Justiciar, I trust ye will ensure her assailant is suitably punished?”

  “’Twill be done upon our return,” the earl pledged.

  “Our return?” The prince’s gaze narrowed. “Ye would let such a grave matter rest?”

  “Highness,” the earl addressed the boy with more than a hint of condescension. “By the time we finish the tour, this matter will no doubt have resolved itself.” He continued with a grim smile. “Prisoners at court rarely last beyond a month.”

  His remark made Alex even more acutely aware of MacAedh’s deteriorating condition. “What of political prisoners?” Alex asked.

  “If ye refer to MacAedh of Kilmuir, he will live as long as the king desires him to,” the earl answered blithely.

  Alex swallowed that bitter reality with effort. Unless Sibylla could soften the king, it was entirely possible that MacAedh would be dead when he returned.

  “MacAedh is also from Kilmuir? Is he my kinsman as well?” the prince asked.

  “Aye,” Alex replied. “Lady Sibylla came to court to petition for his life.” />
  “What crime has he committed?” the prince asked.

  “The worst of crimes,” the Earl of Fife interjected. “By refusing to swear allegiance to ye, he is guilty of treason.”

  “What reason has he to be against me?” the prince asked.

  “Tis nae so much against ye as for his nephew, Lady Sibylla’s brother, Domnall,” Alex explained. “He believes he has a claim to the throne.”

  “But I am the eldest son and heir of Prince Henry, the king’s eldest son and heir,” the prince voiced an indignant protest. “There can be no superior claim.”

  The Earl of Fife regarded Alex with a silencing glare. “He is a pretender, Highness. They are wont to appear out of the woodwork any time the succession comes into question.”

  “There is no question,” the prince said. “I am the designated heir to the crown of Scotland.” With a scrape of steel, he unsheathed the sword by his side. Raising it with bravado, he proclaimed, “Any who deny me will face my sword.”

  The earl responded with an indulgent smile. “As your champion, they will first face mine. My horse grows restless. Mount up, Brother Alexander and let us be off.”

  *

  Over the next three days of riding with the prince and the earl, Alex spoke little and observed much. Thus far, Alex had seen little to inspire his confidence in the king’s heir.

  The young prince had lived a coddled and pampered life. He was soft and used to a life of ease. Yet, he talked incessantly about Norman knights and their battles.

  The young prince spoke in such a glorified fashion that Alex wondered if he’d ever actually witnessed bloodshed. At night, Alex had made camp among the prince’s retinue, a force comprised of dozens of highly trained knights who functioned as the prince’s personal guarde de corps along with two hundred foot soldiers. Though the earl commanded the troops’ respect, there were quiet murmurings among the men for having to answer to the whims of a fanciful child. While Alex refrained from comment, the Earl of Fife, one of the king’s most experienced warriors, responded to the lad’s fanciful chatter with trite remarks and indulgent smiles.