Highland Heartbreakers: Highlander Series Starters, Volume One

by Paula Quinn

  If the king’s plans of succession prevailed, there was no doubt in Alex’s mind who would truly be the ruler of Scotland. The Earl of Fife, descended from the great Mac Duff was the king’s closest friend and most trusted advisor. His guardianship of the prince’s life was further witness to the king’s faith in him. As regent, would he remain faithful to the prince or would he, as others before him, succumb to the seduction of power? Would he allow the prince to grow into the role of sovereign, or would the earl simply seek to shelter and control him? His actions would eventually reveal the true man.

  Alex worried about the fate of his beloved Scotland. The Earls of Fife and Mearns were the only native Scots in all of the king’s court but both men had long ago abandoned the Gaelic tongue along with their Celtic heritage, and now would even betray the Celtic church. With the prince’s fanaticism for Norman feudalism, there seemed little hope of maintaining Scottish independence from England if Malcolm assumed the throne. Independence of any kind was not tolerated under the English feudal system. The king controlled everything. Even the centuries old monasteries were no longer safe and secure.

  Much depended on the outcome of the prince’s tour. Should he fail to win over the people, or worse, further alienate them, civil war would surely follow. Although Alex detested the idea of war, weren’t some things worth fighting for? The right to worship? The right to live freely without fear of being conscripted into the king’s army?

  Should he become regent, Alex believed that Domnall Mac William would put Scottish interests first, but Domnall was reckless and rash, and had proven that he would not heed those with superior wisdom and experience. Would he truly be a better king? The question lingered long in his mind.

  It had been little over a fortnight since he and MacAedh had driven livestock to Inverness, yet it seemed as if years had passed. As they approached the castle, Alex wondered if Fergus and the others from Kilmuir were still held captive, or if they had already been conscripted.

  The moment the earl hailed the gatekeeper, the castle gates were thrown open for the approaching men. Fife might not be well liked in the Highlands but as Chief Justiciar, he commanded both fear and respect.

  “My lord,” Alex addressed the earl as they dismounted in the outer baily. “When I first ventured from Portmahomack, I was offered protection by a number of men from Castle Kilmuir. They were being held here until the thane could resolve a tax dispute.”

  “Aye? And what has this to do with me?” the earl asked.

  “I would humbly suggest that if the prince wishes to establish goodwill in the Highlands, perhaps he might inquire if they are treated well?”

  The prince looked eagerly to the earl who considered the question. “Who, precisely, are these men? Might they present a danger to the prince?”

  “One of them is brother-in-law to MacAedh, Thane of Kilmuir,” Alex said. “The others are mere lads, much of an age with the prince. They are farm boys and drovers. They present nae danger.” Alex held his breath, hoping the earl would concede to allow the prince to see the captives.

  “I would nae advise contact with MacAedh’s kinsman,” the earl replied. “As to the others,” he shrugged. “I will let the prince decide.”

  “I would speak with them,” the prince declared. “’Tis good for the peasantry to see their future king.”

  “Nevertheless, ye will take a bodyguard,” the earl commanded. “Be aware, Highness, that though they be lads, Highlanders are a dangerous lot and as like to turn on ye as rabid dogs.” The prince’s gaze flickered with uncertainty as the earl added, “One must ne’er hesitate to slay a rabid dog.”

  With a slight bow to the prince, the earl then turned to his men. Prince Malcolm’s gaze followed the earl as he conferred with two knights. A moment later, the two knights joined Alex and the prince, following at a discreet distance as they entered the castle.

  “I will be a great knight one day,” Prince Malcolm declared, his eyes shining.

  “Ye will sooner be a king,” Alex said.

  “But anyone can be a king,” the prince replied, surprising Alex with his indifference. “One need only be born to one. But only the bravest and most virtuous of men become knights. Knights are sworn protectors of the king and guardians of the kingdom. They defend the poor and helpless. There is no higher calling,” the prince insisted.

  “What of the clergy?” Alex softly asked. “Is the work of God nae the highest calling?”

  The prince looked only momentarily chagrinned. “God has chosen me for the highest calling of all. I will be king.”

  “A great king does nae always have to wield a sword,” Alex said. “Compassion and mercy are oft more effective in winning the people.” Alex carefully planted another seed. Only if the prince wished to appear beneficent, would he be able to secure the captives’ freedom.

  “What need I to win the people when I have been given the throne?” the prince asked.

  Alex wondered if the prince spoke out of ignorance or conceit. Did he not understand the danger of such disregard and hubris?

  “With God’s blessing,” the prince continued, “I will be both the greatest knight and the most glorious king Scotland has ever known.”

  *

  The conditions of the castle prison were much like the gatehouse jail, with far less crowding. MacAedh’s kinsmen were grouped together in one cell while a few other men occupied the next. Upon Alex’s entrance, their eyes widened in recognition that quickly turned to speculation as they took notice of the prince.

  “Rise to greet yer prince,” the guard commanded.

  Fergus rose from the floor with a fierce, single-eyed glower that made the prince step back in alarm. The boys followed suit, eyeing the young prince with open curiosity while Prince Malcolm returned their regard with wariness mixed with distaste.

  To his disappointment, Alex made little headway in his mission to persuade the prince to release MacAedh’s kinsmen. Instead of stirring the prince’s mercy and compassion, as Alex had hoped, his efforts were met with apathy and aversion.

  “They dinna appear diseased,” the prince remarked. “Do ye suppose they have lice?”

  “If they do, ’tis only because they canna bathe,” Alex replied.

  “Other than their stench, they appear none the worse for wear,” the prince hastily remarked. “I have seen enough of the jail. I’m parched. Let us repair now to the great hall for some wine.”

  Once they’d arrived at Inverness, the Earl of Fife had instructed the men to set up camp within the bailey, while the prince had quickly abandoned the tents in favor of the comforts of a castle bedchamber. Though he had eagerly made camp with his men the first few nights of the march, it hadn’t taken long for the novelty to wear off. He complained much about the lack of comforts in the tents, and had voiced his displeasure about the food.

  Alex saw little of either man over the next few days. While the earl and prince entertained themselves with the governor of the castle, Alex spent his free ministering time to the men in the jail and in spiritual service to the troops.

  “What is the word of MacAedh?” Fergus had asked once they finally had a moment of privacy.

  “The king demands an oath of allegiance. If MacAedh continues to defy him, he lives on borrowed time. The king will only let him live as long as he thinks he’s useful.”

  Fergus shook his head. “Were I but free I would take men to Dunfermline…”

  “Ye would ne’er succeed,” Alex said. “The walls are thick and the knights are plentiful.”

  “What of Domnall?” Fergus asked. “With all his bluster and bravado, does he now do nothing?”

  “I ken naught of Domnall,” Alex replied. “He left Kilmuir right after we departed for Inverness. He was determined to press Somerled for an alliance. I dinna ken if he has even returned to Kilmuir.”

  “So he kens naught that his uncle is imprisoned?”

  “Aye,” Alex answered. “But Sibylla has interceded.”

 
“Sibylla?” Fergus said. “How?”

  “She went to Dunfermline to plead for MacAedh’s life and is now a ‘guest’ of the king.”

  “Then the Cenn Mór has us by the short hairs,” Fergus declared with a humorless laugh. “It seems our only hope lies with Domnall and Somerled.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Once Sibylla had regained her strength, she began to explore. The queen’s apartment included two rooms, her bedchamber and a private solar. The bedchamber was grander than any Sibylla had ever seen. The bed was bigger and softer and surrounded by curtains to keep out the draft. Yet, she missed the warm bodies of her cousin and sister. She even longed for Fiona’s snoring.

  Rather than rush mats, the floors were covered with elaborate woven rugs that felt like silk under her bare feet. She’d never experienced such luxury. It seemed almost a travesty to walk on them. Queen Mathilda was a Norman. Had they come all the way from France?

  Almost reverently, she moved about the chamber. There was a dressing table with a boar’s hair brush and a silver comb. Had these also belonged to the late queen? She fingered the objects wondering what kind of woman she was.

  Gazing at herself in the queen’s polished silver hand mirror, Sibylla was painfully self-conscious of her drab appearance. Although Heloise had assisted in dressing her hair, the plain tartan homespun gown was all she had. She wished she’d at least had her tartan arisaid. She would have proudly flaunted her clan colors before the king, but all of her clothing and personal belongings had been stolen from her in the jail. She was probably lucky they hadn’t stripped her completely naked.

  A light knock sounded on the door and the maid entered with a shallow curtsey. Having experienced Sibylla’s numerous blank stares, the servants had, by now, all but given up on verbal communication with her. She gestured to the door, indicating that it was time for Sibylla to descend to the great hall. The maid led her to a staircase where she was surprised to find the earl waiting for her.

  “My lady? The king awaits.” He offered his burly arm in a gallant gesture that seemed almost mocking.

  Tonight, she was dining with the king. This was finally the opportunity she’d hoped for, but she hated that she would be forced to put all of her faith in the Earl of Mearns to interpret for her. From the start, her instincts had warned her to be wary of him. Though he would have her believe he was on her side, he was no friend to her family. If he was, he surely would have made some attempt to help free MacAedh. But Eachann of Mearns had his own agenda.

  She was sorely in need of an ally, but who could she trust?

  She wondered if Father Gregor was still at Dunfermline. If so, perhaps she could convince the king to let him stay at court with her. She must find a way to ask.

  Unlike the Castle Kilmuir that was nightly filled with laughter, music and chatter, the great hall of Dunfermline was almost eerily quiet. Her entrance was noted with low murmurings and whispers accompanied by the courtiers’ condescending stares and smug smiles. She’d never felt more alone and vulnerable. Sibylla wanted to turn and run, rather than face their ridicule, but pride squared her shoulders and forced her chin up. Releasing the earl’s arm, she floated across the floor as if she were the queen of this domain and dropped into a deep obeisance to the king. Though her heart despised her act of hypocrisy, she was determined to go through all the proper motions. Her kinsmen’s lives could very well depend on it.

  From his seat on the dais, the king gifted her with a benevolent smile. “Bienvenue, ma cousine. Je suis soulage a voir vous avez recouve.”

  Only glancing up briefly, she once more downcast her gaze, and waited for the earl to interpret.

  “The king welcomes ye to Dunfermline and expresses his pleasure to see ye recovered,” the earl said.

  “Pray convey to the king that I appreciate his welcome and the services of his physician.”

  “Bien sur.” He inclined his head. “Je pourrais fair pas moins pour une parente.”

  “I could do no less for a kinswoman,” the earl repeated in Gaelic.

  The king’s gaze raked over her in slow scrutiny. “Est-ce que les barbares de Moray ne s’habillent pas pour le dîner?”

  Although she could not comprehend the entire question, Sibylla’s ear was keen enough to decipher a few words. Les barbares de Moray. The barbarians of Moray.

  “He wonders that ye dinna dress for the occasion,” the earl said, intentionally omitting the king’s insult.

  “This is the only gown I have,” Sibylla said. “Everything else was stolen from me.”

  Before the earl could communicate her answer the king asked another question.

  “Pourquoi êtes-vous venu au palais?” the king inquired.

  “He wishes to ken why ye have come,” the earl said.

  “I came to beg the king’s indulgence and mercy for my uncle’s life. When can I see him?” she asked, raising her eyes fully to the king’s face. She looked for a sign of softness or compassion in his cool blue eyes, but the king remained impassive and unreadable.

  “Nous parlerons plus tard de MacAedh,” he replied with a dismissive gesture. “Jai faim.”

  “He doesna wish to speak of yer uncle,” the earl said. “’Tis unwise to introduce a weighty subject to a hungry king.”

  She’d sensed by the king’s tone and gesture that he had no intention of indulging her request. Sibylla needed no further interpretation. Perhaps she had spoken too soon. She should have responded to his questions with trite flattery. She had much to learn about life in a royal court.

  The earl escorted her to an empty place at the high table where the nobles sat. Their expression told her all she needed to know. She was an object of scorn to the women and of curiosity to the men. The earl then went through the motions of formal introductions but the nobles’ unfamiliar speech and formal manners only made her feel more like a stranger in a foreign land.

  The dinner was an elaborate affair that featured French wines and multiple courses of exotic dishes. A boar’s head stared at her from one end of the table, and a roasted pheasant adorned with its original plumes sat before the king. She would have enjoyed it all immensely under different circumstances, but she was far too anxious to taste anything. The meal was a long and drawn out ordeal, lasting for several hours. Even the minstrels in the gallery above failed to distract her. Their sedate strumming only made her yearn for the lively tones of the pipes and drums.

  Although he initially made a point to interpret a few remarks for her, the earl quickly engaged in conversation with his peers, and soon forgot her presence altogether, not that she minded. It was an effort to make polite conversation with these people with whom she had nothing in common. Instead, she was content to silently study the king and his guests.

  At long last, the king stood, signaling the end to the meal. Looking in her direction, he murmured something to a servant and then departed the great hall. A moment later, the same servant approached the earl, apparently conveying a message. “The king will see ye in his private apartments on the morrow,” the earl said.

  “When can I see my uncle?” she asked again.

  Before he could answer, Sibylla spoke again. “There is a priest at Dunfermline who kens both Gaelic and Norman. Could ye please ask the king if he might attend me?” Sibylla asked, adding hastily, “’twould save ye all the trouble of translating.”

  “I have no pressing business,” he replied with a frown that suggested he read her mistrust. “But I will convey yer request to his majesty.”

  *

  The next morning, as Sibylla was washing, the chambermaid appeared bearing a bundle of brightly colored cloth. “C’est un cadeau du roi,” Heloise explained.

  Though she didn’t comprehend all of the words, Sibylla recognized the Norman word for king. Had the king sent her a gift?

  Sibylla suppressed a gasp of delight as the maid proceeded to lay the bundle on the bed. The deeply dyed hues and quality of the silk were far beyond anything Sibylla had ever seen.
She reached out to touch the cloth, fighting the temptation to rub the soft fabric against her cheek. The clothes, a bliaut, girdle, and filet headdress, were distinctly Norman in style. The sleeves of the gown were particularly impractical, nearly dragging on the ground and the veil of chainsil was as transparent as gossamer. Had these garments belonged to the late queen?

  Sibylla considered the king’s offering with mixed feelings of appreciation and resentment. Had the king sent the clothes out of consideration for her, or out of his own embarrassment that one of his kinswomen had sat at his table so poorly attired? More likely the latter. Although she was grateful to have a change of clothing, she bristled at the idea of adopting Norman dress. Why should she try to look the part when she would never be accepted by them? Although she would like to have demurred, Sibylla donned the clothes in the end. It would be a foolish thing, indeed, for her to rebel against the king’s wishes when she needed most to earn his favor.

  Heloise assisted her with the garments that felt strange on her body, particularly the couvrechef with the silver filet. At home in Kilmuir, she’d never covered her head with a veil. None of the women had, but the thoroughly Norman king would expect her to don the modest headdress.

  When Sibylla gazed once more into the mirror, she hardly recognized herself. Though she appeared elegant and regal in the rich clothing, she felt as if she betrayed her heritage by wearing them. Nevertheless, she could not afford to displease the king if she had any hope of helping her family. She was determined to use any means at her disposal to persuade him to release her uncle.

  A soft knock sounded on the antechamber door. Heloise answered it, returning a moment later. “C’est un prêtre,” she announced.

  “A priest? Faither Gregor?” Sibylla asked.

  The maid shrugged and pointed to the antechamber.

  “Lady Sibylla?” The old priest’s eyes widened when Sibylla entered. “I scarce recognize ye. Indeed, ye have quite the look of a queen.”