The devil’s bollocks! Somerled’s men were gathered below as if preparing to depart.
Was Ranald leaving? How could this be? They’d discussed much but resolved nothing… at least nothing he could remember. Admittedly, his memories were a bit muddled. He hadn’t seen Ranald after the feast in the great hall. The last thing he did recall clearly was his unpleasant conversation with Ailis. As for the other matter, he was not about to let Ranald off the hook so easily!
Jerking on his shirt, trews, and boots, Domnall bolted from his room, catching Ranald as he was preparing to mount his horse. “Ranald!” he hailed the other man as he strode across the bailey. “Ye would leave us so soon?”
“I canna stay,” Ranald replied.
“But we have settled naught,” Domnall said.
“Because there is naught to settle,” Ranald replied. “I willna have her.”
Ranald glanced up at his Sibylla’s window. Domnall followed his gaze to find his sister in plain view watching them with a frown between her brows. Ranald shot her a look of pure venom.
What the devil was this? Last eve, Ranald could barely take his eyes off her, but now it seemed he’d rather eat maggots than look at her. Domnall couldn’t comprehend it. Damn it all!
“Before the feast, ye alluded to an alliance,” Domnall said, hoping to draw Ranald out on the subject.
“We spoke in general terms,” Ranald replied, checking the girth of his saddle, making clear his eagerness to depart. “But this is too weighty a matter to conclude without Somerled’s blessing.”
“Only yesterday, ye said ye had been given leave to negotiate on yer kinsman’s behalf.”
“Ye misunderstood,” Ranald replied. “I said have been given leave to speak of such things. I dinna have the final word.”
His answer was plausible but something didn’t sit right with Domnall. Ranald was being strangely evasive. Why? What had transpired last night?
“Be ye nae put off by Sibylla’s standoffishness,” Domnall said. “The discussion of marriage came as a surprise to her. She’ll come around to the idea in time. But if she doesna, there is also Ailis to consider.”
Last night, Domnall had made clear to her that there could be no marriage between them. ’Twould be best to find her another husband soon. He was certain MacAedh would have no objection to the idea.
Ranald paused, seemingly to deliberate. “Verra well,” he replied after a moment. “If Somerled favors the idea of an alliance, I will return in a month to claim my bride.”
“A month then.” Domnall nodded. He watched the men mount up and depart, feeling as if he’d barely salvaged the situation.
The bitter ashes of his confrontation with his uncle still lingered on his mind, and the events of last night only re-fueled the fires of frustration. Although he’d agreed to his uncle’s plan, his spirit still rebelled against allowing another man to do his business.
He wished now that he had gone abroad with his friends when he’d had the chance. If he left Kilmuir, he could make a name for himself. Other men had achieved great things with their swords—to include the Norman bastard, who’d claimed two kingdoms with naught more than his own might.
There were many kings in foreign lands who paid well for fighting men. If MacAedh’s mission failed and the king refused to make him regent, Domnall still had other options to make his way in the world, independent of his uncle.
Would he ever truly be his own man? Would he ever be in a position to make good on his promises to himself and to Davina? He tried not to think about her, but hardly a day passed that she didn’t invade his thoughts.
Although he regretted that the king had seized her lands, he was glad she had been sent to a convent rather than given in marriage to another man—one who might mistreat her—or just as bad in Domnall’s mind—one that she might learn to love. She would be safe in the convent, at least until he came for her. Was she still waiting for him? Or had she already lost faith, believing he’d forsaken his vow to her?
He was restless, irritable and edgy. Short of cleaving something with his sword, there were only two other activities that helped when his mood was foul—hunting and riding. The morning was not yet too far advanced to flush game, so Domnall opted to do both. He retrieved his bow and then readied his horse. Although he felt like a nonentity at Kilmuir, he consoled himself that he had the best aim with an arrow… and owned the swiftest horse.
Chapter Twenty
After a successful hunt, Domnall returned to the keep with a Highland boar slung over his saddle-bow. The hunt had brought back bittersweet memories of his youth and his first boar hunt with Fitz Duncan. He’d both despised and revered his father back then. His sire had never shown Domnall any real love or affection; perhaps Fitz Duncan was incapable of those emotions. But his very hardness had taught Domnall to depend upon himself.
Hunting had given him a temporary distraction from his troubles, but his dissatisfaction with his situation returned the moment he arrived back at Kilmuir, and found the men preparing to drive the cattle to Inverness.
Quickly unsaddling his horse, Domnall sought out his uncle to try once more to persuade MacAedh to let him go. He found MacAedh conferring with Fergus, Kenneth, and a few drovers amongst the dissonant choir of bleating sheep and lowing cattle.
“I wish to go with ye,” Domnall declared, “at least as far as Inverness.”
“And who will be in charge in my absence?” MacAedh asked.
“Fergus could stay behind,” Domnall suggested.
“Nae,” MacAedh answered, “as my tanist, it is for ye to see to things in my absence.”
“See to what?” Domnall scoffed “There is nae one left here but the women and children.”
Declaring Domnall as his tanist was an act of appeasement that meant little, at least to Domnall. It was as empty a title as the Thane of Kilmuir. Like his uncle, he had no authority beyond what another man bestowed upon him.
MacAedh shook his head with a sigh. “Ye still have much to learn, Nephew. The safety and welfare of the women and children is nae small responsibility. Whether chief or king, yer people should always be yer primary concern.”
Nevertheless, Domnall still resented being left behind.
Some of the women appeared with provisions for their journey. Sibylla was among them. She took a bundle from her basket and went to Alexander. Domnall watched their interaction closely but could not hear their conversation as they exchanged some packages and wistful looks. What was this all about?
His sister and the monk harbored secrets. And these secrets were much to blame for the debacle with Ranald. Sibylla would not have resisted the betrothal if Alexander had never come to Kilmuir.
Why had his uncle not sent Alexander packing? And why had he taken the monk into his confidence? Once more, Domnall felt as if he were on the outside looking in. He had questions and his sister had at least some of the answers. Though he itched to confront her directly, now was not the time. He must wait until they were alone.
Domnall turned away from the men to dress his kill, but his mind continued to turn as he cut into the flesh and began to gut the pig. He watched Sibylla out of the corner of his eye as he finished eviscerating. Several of the castle dogs encircled him, watching with hungry eyes, and slobbering jowls, hoping for scraps.
Domnall continued to watch his sister as he skinned the animal. When he finished his work, she was alone at the castle gate. The procession of drovers and livestock was now nothing more than a cloud of dust on the distant horizon. The opportunity had come. And he would give her no quarter.
He crossed the bailey toward her with long, angry strides. “Sibylla! What the de’il did ye do to vex Ranald? Last eve, he was ready to take ye to wife, but this morn he said he would have none of ye!”
“Ye might better ask what he did to vex me!” she retorted with a jut of her chin.
“What do ye mean?” Her question confused him.
“He conducted himself last night like a dru
nken lout,” she replied.
“’Twas a feast.” Domnall shrugged. “Most of the men were drunken louts. What in particular gave ye offense?”
“He dinna like it when I told him I am promised to another,” she replied.
His temper flared. “Ye are nae promised to anyone but Ranald.”
Sibylla raised her chin. “I willna have him. I would go to the convent of Iona first.”
“We already had this discussion. ’Tis nae yer choice. Ye will make peace with Ranald. Everything depends upon it.”
“Everything?” She arched a brow. “Ye have nae faith that Uncle will succeed with the king?”
He took hold of her arm. “And what would ye ken of that? He told nae one outside the council that he goes to the king.”
Sibylla licked her lips. “I overheard—”
“Ye bluidy well spied!” he accused.
“I have every right,” she insisted. “Given I’m part of yer plan.”
“What did ye hear?” he demanded.
“Enough. I ken that Somerled offers an alliance. I also ken that Uncle and Alexander go to petition the king for ye.”
Hearing it from her lips only magnified his discontent. “I will nae be appeased. MacAedh would negotiate for a regency, but I want what is mine by right.”
“A regency?” Sibylla asked. “And ye would refuse this honor?” she asked.
“The king will ne’er agree to it,” Domnall said. “If he does, I still canna trust him.” He had very good reason not to, given past history. “Do ye recall how the king appeased Wimund with lands in Cumberland?” he said. “Nae one believes ’twas the Cumbrians who put out Wimund’s eyes and cut off his manhood.”
Sibylla reacted with a visible shudder.
Domnall purposely didn’t mention the king’s attempt to hang him. Sibylla knew nothing about that. Although Domnall had shared the tale with MacAedh and Fergus, he had spared his mother and sister the details of that ugly incident.
“If the king refuses to acknowledge me as his heir, ’twill surely come to blood,” Domnall said. “And that is why ye must wed Ranald.”
“Given that he left this morn, ’tis a moot point,” Sibylla argued.
“He agreed to give ye time to come around. He said he will be back in a month to claim his bride.”
“Ye canna trust Ranald,” she said, her eyes imploring. “He is nae an honorable man.”
“Why would ye say so?” Domnall asked.
“Because… because last night he tried to rape me!”
God’s blood! Her statement set him back on his heels.
“Aye,” she said. “He dinna succeed only because Alexander came along.”
Domnall’s pulse pounded a deafening tattoo in his ears. “If ’tis true, why the de’il did ye nae speak of it before he left?” Had he known of this before, Ranald would never have left Kilmuir alive, or at least not with his manhood intact.
“Ranald was drunk and likely dinna ken what he was about… I wouldna have a war over it. Please, Domnall. Let it be. There was nae real harm done. But do ye now understand why I willna have him?”
With a sigh, he released the hold on her arm. “Aye. I willna force the marriage.”
Sibylla looked as if a great weight had dropped from her shoulders, but it had landed on his. He’d regarded Ranald’s arrival as an act of Divine Providence, but now he felt as if he’d made a deal with the devil himself. If Somerled agreed to an alliance, Ranald would be back for Ailis. Domnall’s mind raced with how to deal with that.
He needed the support—but not this way. He must deal directly with Somerled himself. But it would be a wasted effort if the great warlord perceived him as weak. He had to negotiate from a position of strength. If only there was a way to turn the situation to his advantage. His mind began working the problem.
“Mayhap there is another way,” he murmured his thoughts.
“Another way for what?”
“Another way to bind an alliance,” Domnall said. The solution came suddenly and almost made him laugh aloud. “By the hand of fate, Ranald has given me all that I need to ensure Somerled’s support!”
“I dinna understand,” Sibylla said. “What are ye saying?”
Domnall strode to the paddock to gather his horse and tackle. There was no time to waste! Ranald had a head start of half a day but he had no reason to make haste. Domnall, however, had a swift horse and every reason to hie to Kintyre before Ranald arrived home.
“Where are ye going?” Sibylla asked as he saddled his horse.
“Where do ye think? I go west to Kintyre.”
“Ye should await Uncle’s return,” Sibylla insisted.
“I will nae,” Domnall replied defiantly. “To do so would only forfeit my advantage. I must confront Somerled now, before Ranald has an opportunity to tell his version of the story.”
“What if he doesna believe ye?” Sibylla asked.
“’Tis a risk I am willing to take. Ranald has brought disgrace to his family name.” He lifted his booted foot to the stirrup. “And Somerled’s honor will demand that he make reparation for it.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Dunfermline Palace,
Fife, Scotland
It had been only a few years since Davina had seen the king, but he had aged at least twenty. Thin and frail with a sallow complexion and hollow cheeks, his body appeared wasted. The only thing that had not diminished was his air of absolute authority, uniquely possessed only by those born to rule.
Even from his sickbed, the king governed Dunfermline with an iron fist, demanding stringent adherence to worship. To her surprise he required not just the monks, but all who resided under his royal roof to observe the seven Canonical hours of prayer. Although Davina had personal reasons to doubt the pureness of the monarch’s heart, he outwardly conducted his religious practices with the discipline of a priest.
The routine at Dunfermline Palace was very much like her life at Haddington Priory. The main difference being the presence of monks, rather than nuns. Although Davina had expected to attend the princess and help with the children, much as she had done before, she also found herself with much time on her hands. At the priory, Davina had kept herself busy from before sunrise until the last hour of prayer, mainly because idleness gave her too much opportunity to think… and thinking too much only led to self-pity and discontent.
The princess, accustomed to being the queen of her own domain, with total freedom of movement, felt like a captive. She and the younger children were confined to private apartments located far from the king and their lives were controlled by a strictly regimented schedule. The king’s advisors had taken a very personal interest in their education. Each had been taken under the tutelage of the monastery, which left the princess with little say in anything regarding her offspring.
“’Tis intolerable here!” the princess complained. “I am kept almost as a prisoner, only allowed out of my rooms for prayer and only permitted to see my own children at supper.”
Although the king had emerged from his sickbed, he had not granted any private audience to the princess. Davina’s heart went out to the princess, though it came as little surprise. As Prince Malcolm’s mother, she would be viewed as a threat by those who wished to control the kingdom. But being pushed to the side only made the grieving widow increasingly prone to fits of temper.
“Change of any kind is always difficult, my lady, particularly in times of sorrow. Perhaps it would help to find some useful occupation to keep yer mind busy?” Davina suggested. “I used to tend the herbary at the priory. It soothed my spirit greatly when I was most distressed.”
“Are you oft distressed, Sister?” the princess asked.
They stood by Saint Margaret’s reflecting pool in the abbey courtyard. Davina glanced down at her reflection in the water, and suddenly felt as if a stranger gazed back at her. She suddenly felt restless and trapped as if she were living someone else’s life, instead of her own. Why had she come to this melan
choly place? What was her purpose here? Was it only to serve the princess or was there a greater plan for her?
“Only when I think of the past, my lady,” Davina confessed with a sad smile. “But I have learned to find comfort and happiness in serving others.”
“I enjoy needlework,” the princess said. “But I miss my rose garden. I enjoyed walking in it, cutting the blooms and even weeding it. Henry loved the garden as well…” She finished with a quiet sniff.
“Mayhap ye should inquire of the king if ye could plant a small, private garden here at Dunfermline… in memory of Prince Henry?” Davina suggested. “’Twould be good for ye to have a quiet retreat for reflection and prayer when yer soul is troubled.”
“’Twould indeed,” the princess agreed. “I will speak with the king. As for you, I think ’twas selfish of me to take you from the priory. Now that the children are under the monks’ tutelage, there is little left to occupy you, other than keeping me company. Perhaps you might inquire of the abbot if there is some small way in which you might serve the abbey?”
Her suggestion took Davina by surprise. While rarely unkind, the princess was not generally empathetic to those outside of her own family. It wasn’t entirely her fault. She had been raised to place her own needs first.
“Ye wouldna mind?” Davina asked.
“On the contrary, if you seek to employ yourself in the abbey, you are bound to hear things I am not privy to. I wish you to report to me anything that you hear.”
Davina suddenly understood. The princess’ suggestion was not so much for Davina’s benefit as it was to her own. “Ye wish me to spy for ye?”
“I am new to this court and the intrigues here,” the princess said. “But I refuse to be kept in the dark, which is why you must be my eyes and my ears. I need you to help me protect my son.” She clasped Davina’s hands in her own. There was a fervent fever in her gaze. “Will you do this, Sister Mary Malachy?”
Valor (Sons of Scotland Book 2) Page 17
