Valor (Sons of Scotland Book 2)

by Victoria Vane

  Her body quivered with fury. “You will not take them! They will go only when I am ready to leave here with them.”

  “Please, my lady,” the earl pleaded. “Ye must not defy the king’s wishes in this. ’Tis only a short separation. Ye will soon be reunited.”

  “I must go Maman,” Prince Malcolm spoke up. “I am the heir now. I must learn how to be king. ’Tis what my father would have wished.”

  His words brought instant calm to his distraught mother.

  “’Tis, indeed,” she confessed with a sad sigh. Although the grieving princess had protested the king’s request, in truth, she knew she had no power to resist the king.

  “Does this mean I am never to come home again?” the prince asked the earl.

  “You will not come back to Haddington,” the earl said. “But your mother and siblings will soon join you at Dunfermline.”

  “See, Maman?” Prince Malcolm embraced his mother. “’Tis only a few weeks until we are reunited.”

  “A few months,” the earl corrected.

  “Why is this?” Princess Adaline asked, worry etched once more on her face.

  “The king wishes for Prince Malcolm to make a grand tour of the kingdom,” he answered. “’Tis important for the people to see the heir. ’Tis equally important for the young prince to learn the extent and boundaries of his future kingdom.”

  “The boundaries? You mean the Highlands?” she asked. “How will he be protected?” she asked the earl, clearly not liking the idea.

  “I will accompany him with an escort of two hundred knights,” the earl reassured her.

  The princess’ eyes took on a fierce expression. “If anything happens to my son, know you well, Duncan of Fife, that I will hold you personally accountable.”

  “As will the king,” he said, adding dryly, “but ’tis the lad’s mother I fear most.”

  *

  The princess exhaled a woeful sigh as she and Davina took air in the garden a few days later. “It grieves me to no end that I could not see my husband laid to rest. And I dislike excessively this separation from my son. We must remove ourselves soon to Dunfermline.”

  The princess had desperately wanted to be present for Prince Henry’s burial, but was far too weak to travel when the earl departed. Still recovering from childbirth, she was nevertheless determined to be swiftly reunited with her son.

  “Ye must first care for yerself, my lady,” Davina gently chided. “’Tis a long journey for someone who has been so gravely ill.”

  “But there is nothing but sorrow for me here,” the princess said. “I must pull myself from this melancholy and consider Malcolm’s future. My son will soon be king, mayhap much sooner than we think. I must be seen and heard at court again. If I do not assert myself, once the king is gone, they will run roughshod over him.”

  “They?” Davina asked.

  “The king’s men,” she answered. “They think I am politically unaware, but Henry shared much with me in private moments. Malcolm will not reach his majority for nine years. ’Tis unlikely the king will live so long. Thus, he will surely appoint a regent.”

  When Prince Henry died, Davina’s only thoughts were of his family and their profound grief. Although Prince Henry was the heir to the Scottish throne, she’d given no consideration at all to the political ramifications of his death—until now.

  “What is the regent?” Davina asked.

  “The one who will truly rule the kingdom—through my son,” the princess replied. “The king will likely choose from his closest advisors.”

  “Do ye ken any of these men?” Davina asked. “And do ye trust them?”

  “I trust no one,” the princess answered. “As Malcolm’s mother, they will no doubt try to keep us separated, lest I attempt to exert influence over my son. Fife seems the king’s most obvious choice, but there is no reason it could not be me.”

  “Ye?” Davina asked in surprise.

  “Why not?” the princess replied. “I would have been queen, had I not lost Henry.”

  “Would the king do this?” Davina asked.

  On his son’s passing, the king had swiftly declared Henry’s eldest son, Malcolm, heir to the Scottish crown, but would he ever consider giving the powers of regent to the prince’s mother?

  “I have yet to discuss it with him,” the princess said, “which is all the more reason I must go swiftly to court. I needs must speak with him before his decision is made. You must come with me, Sister Mary Malachy,” the princess said. “I desire only to have people I know and trust around me and my children. Perhaps it is selfish to put my personal needs above the priory, but so be it. I must protect my own interests. If you agree to come, I will make an extra donation to the priory as recompense. Will you come with us?”

  It was another unexpected turn of events. Although Davina dreaded even the thought of being near the king again, after all he had done, she ached for the princess and children. They were the closest thing to a family she had known since her own was murdered. She had tried to be content at the convent but, in her heart, she did not want to return.

  “If the abbess agrees,” Davina said. “Aye, I will go with ye.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Hoping to secure a pact with Ranald, Domnall did his best to ensure that Somerled’s men were treated like the most honored of guests at the Midsummer Feast. The tables were heavily laden with suckling pig, fresh venison and all the best drink that Castle Kilmuir could provide. Their cups were replenished while the piper’s music filled the air.

  For a time, Domnall and Ranald exchanged laughing jibes and low-toned ribaldry. But after a while, the conversation turned back to business.

  “My uncle intends to meet with the king,” Domnall said. “To petition for my birthright, but if he doesna succeed, I would have a contingency plan.”

  “How many men can ye raise?” Ranald asked. “Somerled will wish to ken.”

  “I canna say precisely,” Domnall answered. “But I have the sworn support of five great warriors who will help to raise men should the time come to act.”

  Domnall wasn’t about to volunteer anything more, given none of the five men were currently in Scotland to vouch for him. In truth, he’d had little word from his fellow outlaws in three years. Duff, Jock and Niall had left Scotland almost immediately after coming home, to seek their fortune abroad as mercenaries. Last he’d heard, they were fighting for Henry Fitz Empress in Normandy. A few months after they’d departed, Leith and Quinn had come to Kilmuir to say they were going on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land.

  Looking over his cup to the lower end of the table, Ranald asked, “Is that yer sister?”

  Domnall followed the direction of his gaze. His cousin, Ailis, sat with his mother and half-sister. “Nae,” Domnall said. “’Tis my cousin, Ailis.”

  “She’s comely enough to bed,” Ranald remarked with a smirk.

  Domnall’s smile tightened. If Ranald were any other man, he would not stand for the vulgar reference to his kinswoman, but he needed this alliance. “Ailis is a virtuous lass…” he said by way of warning. He hoped Ranald would take his remark as a hint to better guard his tongue.

  “Aye? And where is the sister ye would offer as my bride?” Ranald asked, his voice slurred from drink.

  Domnall searched the room with a frown. Sibylla was nowhere in sight. Bloody hell! Where was she? “I dinna see her.”

  His pulse pounded when he noted Alexander’s absence as well. ’Twas surely no coincidence. Just as he was about to make his excuses and hunt them both down, Sibylla arrived in the great hall. He was pleased to see she’d taken pains with her appearance. Her wild, strawberry curls had been tamed and crowned with ribbon and flowers, and she’d donned her best gown. Mayhap that was the cause of the delay?

  Ranald had also noticed her arrival. His ice blue eyes tracked her intently as she crossed the room toward the foot of their table.

  “Sibylla! Come and sit with us,” Domnall called out. “Lest our fri
ends feel neglected by our womenfolk.”

  Ranald grinned as she approached. “’Tis true. We have been sorely deprived of genteel company since our arrival.”

  Sibylla joined them, but sat straight-backed and tense. Though Ranald tried to make conversation, her replies were limited and lackluster as she sipped heather ale.

  What the devil was wrong with her? She knew how important this was! As the granddaughter of two kings, Sibylla knew very well that an arranged marriage would be her fate, once she came of age. He’d reminded her of that fact two days ago when he’d caught her dallying with Alexander. He didn’t understand her resentment. Ranald was a well-made man from a powerful clan. Many a lass would fantasize about such a husband.

  “The women of the Isles are famed for their music as well as their beauty,” Ranald boasted. “Though beauty abounds at Kilmuir,” he raised his cup to Sibylla and then to Ailis, “I wonder if ye also have songbirds amongst ye?”

  “Aye,” Domnall said, looking down the table and speaking loud enough for all to hear. “My cousin, Ailis, has both the nimblest fingers on the strings and the sweetest voice ye will e’er hear. The angels in heaven weep with envy when she plays.”

  “Is this so?” Ranald sat back in his chair to eye Ailis.

  “Nae,” Ailis replied with a maidenly blush. “But I am much gratified that my cousin believes it so.”

  “’Tis true!” Domnall insisted. He was growing perturbed that his normally lively sister was making so little effort to charm. He hardly wondered that Ranald’s attention was straying from the lass seated by his side. If Ranald preferred his cousin, so be it. Ailis was also in need of a husband.

  “I say, let our guest be the judge,” MacAedh declared.

  At MacAedh’s bidding, Ailis rose from the table to take her place at the clàrsach. Her movements were smooth and graceful, and the moment she began plucking the strings, the entire hall went still. When she began to sing a haunting Highland melody, it was as if everyone forgot to breathe.

  “She is verra good, indeed,” Ranald murmured as the song ended.

  “Aye,” Sibylla agreed. “Ailis has many talents.”

  “Do ye also play, Lady Sibylla?” he asked.

  “Nae,” she replied. “I have ne’er mastered the instrument.”

  “Then perhaps ye would favor us with a song?”

  Sibylla responded with a dry laugh. “I would only offend yer ears—unless ye happen to find the call of ducks appealing.”

  “Surely ye are too modest,” Ranald insisted.

  “Nae. I assure ye, I have nae musical talent.”

  He directed Domnall a quizzical look. “Yet yer brother sings yer praises.”

  “Does he?” She glanced at Domnall with a frown. He had, indeed, praised his sister in the highest terms. “I hope he doesna sing them too loud, for Domnall is even more tone deaf than I am.”

  Her jest made at Domnall’s expense had a pleasing effect on Ranald.

  “I do like a lass with a quick wit.” He reached out to claim a lock of her hair.

  Sibylla stiffened as he wound it around his finger. “Yer cousin indeed sings like an angel, but there are some men who prefer a bit of she-de’il.”

  Sibylla shifted a few inches on the bench as if trying to create more distance, but Ranald closed the gap. She looked pleadingly to Domnall, but he shrugged it off. ’Twas only a lock of hair, after all.

  A few minutes later, Ranald murmured an excuse to relieve himself. The moment he left, Sibylla also rose. Domnall stayed her with a hand on her arm. “Where are ye going?”

  “I dinna feel well.”

  “Ye canna leave,” Domnall admonished. “’Tis rude.”

  “And Ranald’s touching my person isna?”

  “Ye ken how ’tis, Sibylla.” He sighed. “Ranald fancies ye and I need his help.”

  Why was she being so difficult about this? Marriages were almost always bargains of one kind or another. She knew it as well as he. They were both byproducts of such a union.

  “If ’tis so important, why dinna ye marry him!” Jerking out of his grasp, she spun for the door.

  There was no use going after her. If he did it would only make matters worse. Better to give her time to accustom herself to the idea. If she didn’t come around quickly, however, he’d be forced to deal once and for all with Alexander.

  The feasting continued with the skirl of bagpipes and dancing. Lost in his thoughts, Domnall didn’t consider Ranald’s long absence until it was time to light the banefire.

  Why hadn’t Ranald returned? He’d had a great deal to drink. Mayhap he’d passed out when he’d gone outside to piss?

  “Have ye seen Ranald?” Domnall asked Ailis.

  “Nae,” she replied, breathless from the dancing. “But some of his men left just now with Kenneth to light the banefire at Cnoc Croit na Maoile, Mayhap he went with them? Do ye go also?” she asked.

  He was occupied with far more important things than dancing around a banefire, but he didn’t see any way he could avoid it. As their host, his presence would be expected. “Aye,” he replied, trying his best to hide his reluctance. “I will go.”

  “Good!” she declared, her eyes shining. “’Twouldna be the same without ye.”

  Joining his cousins and Somerled’s men, Domnall departed the castle with torch in hand to make the long trek to Cnoc Croit na Maoile where everyone would spend the remaining hours until dawn in Pagan revelry.

  The moon was partially obscured by clouds, making the path difficult. Ailis stayed close to his side as they carefully navigated in the darkness. Twice, she stumbled and clutched his arm. The second time, however, she continued to hold on to him. Domnall noted a few couples quietly splinter from the main group. The Midsummer trek to Cnoc Croit na Maoile was more than an opportunity for unbridled merriment, it was also notorious for lovers’ trysts. He wondered which among them would be surprised next spring by a March bairn.

  Ailis seemed to be walking slower and taking frequent breaks. It was a steep climb but nothing she wasn’t accustomed to. Soon, they lagged far behind the others. Was she doing it intentionally to get him alone? Had she taken his praise of her voice tonight for something more than pure admiration of her talent? He hoped not, but when he tried to pick up their pace, she halted altogether.

  “Please Domnall?” she began, licking her lips and looking uncertain. “I’d hope to speak privately with ye.”

  “Aye?” he drew back a bit. “What about?”

  “There are whispers of alliances… and betrothals… Sibylla is much distressed by it. Is it yer intention that she wed with Somerled’s clan?”

  “Aye,” he replied, seeing no reason to deny it. “If Somerled seeks an alliance it must be sealed by a marriage between our clans.”

  “But Sibylla’s heart is elsewhere,” Ailis said. “I believe she’s fallen in love with Alexander.”

  “Then she’d bluidy well better fall out of it!” Domnall snapped. “She kens her duty. Besides, he has nothing to offer her. The man is bound to the monastery.”

  Alexander was a novice who hadn’t yet taken vows of celibacy, and Sibylla was far too fond of him. Even the most honorable men were weak when tempted by a woman.

  His thoughts turned to Davina coming to him the night before his battle with Fitz Ranulf. She’d offered herself and he’d hadn’t turned her away.

  “He has nae taken his vows yet,” Ailis argued. “And MacAedh seems verra fond of him.”

  Which made Domnall worry all the more. “Why are ye so concerned with Sibylla and Alexander?” he asked.

  “I love her as a sister,” Ailis said. “It pains me to see her unhappy.”

  “I dinna like to see her unhappy either,” Domnall replied. “But ’tis how these things are done. Our own máthair made such a marriage with Fitz Duncan for the good of the clan. Sibylla kens that.”

  “Is there another way?” Ailis asked softly, her eyes searching.

  “Aye,” Domnall said, “But y
e may nae like my answer.”

  “Ye speak of me,” she said.

  “Ye are also the granddaughter of a king. Somerled would have nae reason to object.”

  “But do ye object, Domnall?” she asked. The moon shone down on her face, revealing earnest and searching blue eyes. “Is there a particular reason ye offered Sibylla first and nae me?”

  Did she believe he’d saved her for himself? Damn! What a fool he was! He’d never imagined that Ailis would interpret his actions this way. But she, unfortunately, had read far too much into it. He could see it in her eyes. He found himself cornered. There was no easy way out of this. There was nothing he could say that wouldn’t cause her pain, but it had to be said. It had to be done.

  He drew a breath and blurted. “Nae, Ailis. I offered Sibylla only because she makes a fool of herself over the monk. There was nae other reason that it was her over ye. I care a great deal for ye, but ’tis as a brother to a sister. There canna be anything more between us.”

  “Ye dinna kiss me like a brother!” she retorted with a strangled sound.

  He heaved a deep sigh. He’d taken great care not to encourage his cousin, aside from one drunken kiss, done in a thoughtless moment under the Yuletide mistletoe. He’d instantly regretted the act and had done his best to keep his distance ever since. He hated causing her more pain but it wasn’t fair to let her go on with expectations of something that would never be.

  “’Twas a mistake,” he said. “I was verra sorry for it when I realized…” Not knowing quite how to finish without throwing salt on her wound, he ended with a shrug.

  “The mistake was mine.” Ailis spun her back to him with a stifled sob. “I’m glad I kent the truth before ’twas too late.”

  “Too late? Too late for what?” Domnall asked, but found himself talking to the trees. He called out her name but was answered only by the swift sound of footsteps crunching on the pathway. Ailis had disappeared into the night.

  *

  Domnall awoke with the resounding strike of a hammer on an anvil inside his head. He’d had far too much to drink the night before and his body was paying the price. He rose with a groan to relieve himself, only to have his attention diverted by the sounds of men and horses in the bailey. Jerking his plaid around his waist, Domnall strode to the window.