She burned with both indignation and frustration that a marriage might already be in the making. Domnall had made no secret of his plans to use her to negotiate an alliance. Was the arrival of Somerled’s men a coincidence, or had her brother already been secretly at work?
She’d always suspected an arranged marriage would be her fate, once she came of age to wed, but that didn’t lessen her abhorrence of the idea. Perhaps she would have been more accepting of the notion if she didn’t long for something more. But the arrival of Somerled’s men and their proposed alliance seemed certain to seal her doom. She was naught but a pawn in the men’s game of domination and conquest.
Ranald cast a slow and assessing gaze over the men seated at the table. “No doubt ye have much to discuss amongst yerselves.” He then drained his tankard and rose with a nod to his men. “Let us take our leave now.”
MacAedh acknowledged Ranald with an inclination of his head. “We will speak again after the feast.”
Sibylla swiftly drew back into the shadows. Panic assailed her when she realized there was nowhere to hide. But why should she hide? ’Twas her home after all. She had every right to lurk in the passageways if she so chose. Nevertheless, explaining her lurking to her uncle might prove troublesome.
Hoping to be mistaken for a servant, she pulled her arisaid over her head and kept her eyes downcast as she headed in the direction of the kitchen. Though she’d sought to disguise herself, she still felt the men’s gazes following her as she passed. Feeling as if she’d run a gauntlet, Sibylla’s spine relaxed as she reached the door leading outside, only to stiffen again at the touch of a hand on her shoulder.
She glanced up into a pair of ice blue eyes.
“Was it ye I saw this morn in the window, lass?” Ranald asked.
Refusing to be caught in his snare, Sibylla lifted her chin and haughtily replied. “’Tis unseemly to speak when we havena been introduced.”
The corners of his eyes wrinkled with his grin. “I have my answer… As to the introduction, I am Ranald, third son of Somerled, Lord of—”
“I ken verra well the name Somerled,” she replied stiffly. “And I bid ye and yer men welcome to Kilmuir. Now if ye would excuse me…”
She made to pass but he blocked her way. His demeanor was not threatening, but the man was much larger and more physically imposing than she’d first imagined. He would easily intimidate if he chose to.
“Ye dinna return the courtesy?” he asked with an arch of a tawny brow.
“I dinna ken what ye mean,” she replied.
“Yer name, lass. Ye dinna give it to me.”
“Nae,” she replied. “I dinna. Do ye often seek to consort with yer host’s servants?”
She’d intended to put him in his place, but he flashed another irritating grin.
“Only the comely ones.” He then stepped back with a mocking bow. “I will ken yer name before the day is out,” he murmured as she passed.
“Humpf!” Sibylla snorted, her hackles rising. He was not only vulgar, but filled with arrogance and conceit. Her instincts told her he was not to be trusted. She prayed her brother would not seek to form an alliance with such a man, most especially if it meant her marriage.
*
“I WAS RIGHT,” Domnall stated triumphantly. “Somerled sent his kinsmen here to offer his support.”
“Tis nae enough,” MacAedh said.
“Because ye lack faith in me. Ye dinna believe the clans will come out for me. I will prove ye wrong!”
“Think lad!” MacAedh rebuked his nephew. “No man ever acts against his own interests. Somerled offers his aid only because he thinks he’ll be able to control ye.”
Struck by the tense words, Alex stalled in the doorway to the great hall. He’d come to speak to MacAedh but now feared he’d imposed where he wasn’t welcome. His worries were dispelled when MacAedh acknowledged his presence. “Come, Alexander.” He nodded to the table. “Ye should also ken of what we speak.”
Alex took a place at the end of the bench beside Fergus, the one-eyed giant who was wed to MacAedh’s sister. Wordlessly, Fergus poured a cup of mead and slid it in front of Alex while MacAedh and Domnall stared at each other in strained silence.
“Dinna ye ken, lad?” MacAedh continued, “Somerled is a man with boundless ambition. If ye accept an alliance with him, ye will only be trading one master for another.”
“Aye? And who was yer master, Uncle?” Domnall countered. “The man who came at the king’s behest to take possession of yer lands? The man who burned and pillaged and destroyed and then further humiliated ye by claiming yer sister, though she was already promised to another.” Domnall looked to Fergus who clenched his fists with a black expression, and then back to MacAedh before he continued. “How does it feel, Uncle, to send Moray men to fight in English wars, and to pay homage to live on land that is yers by right? Would ye have us go on merrily while they continue to dishonor and demean us by taking our lands? Our pride? Our verra manhood?”
MacAedh slammed his fist, violently rattling the tankards. Had the taunt come from any other, Alex had no doubt he’d already be shorter by his head. Every man stiffened in anticipation of his response to the ultimate insult.
With a blood vessel visibly pulsing in his forehead, MacAedh shut his eyes in what must have been a supreme exercise in self-control. After a moment, he responded in an ominous tone. “Only a fool has no regard for the counsel of those with greater wisdom and experience.”
“Fool am I?” Domnall flushed. “Even a fool can see that it’s nae Somerled, but ye who wants to control me! Just as my faither controlled ye!”
“That has naught to do with it,” MacAedh ground through his teeth.
“Then why dinna ye wish to fight?” Domnall challenged.
“Because battles are won by swords, but wars are won with wiles,” MacAedh answered. “We canna fight the Cenn Mór with our swords alone. We need a strategy.”
Fergus and the other clan elders looked uneasy. While their first allegiance was to MacAedh, Alex suspected more than a few of them would side with Domnall if he chose to act against the king.
“But we have an offer of an alliance with the most powerful clan in the land. If ye willna fight with them—to hell with ye! I am my own man! I will raise my own army.”
MacAedh rose and roared like an erupting volcano, scattering the cups and trenchers. “As long as I breathe, I am still head of this clan. If ye wish to challenge me, ye do so at great hazard.”
“Ye would have me fight ye?” Domnall asked.
“Nae.” MacAedh shook his head. Although he’d quickly regained his self-control, the fire in his eyes betrayed the depth of his rage. “If ye wish to lead this clan… ye must kill me.”
Alex’s gaze riveted to Domnall as he tried in vain to read his thoughts. Domnall regarded his uncle with a look of uncertainty mixed with alarm. His gaze darted around the room, as if weighing the cost of swallowing his pride.
He was young and rash. Would hubris goad him to accept this challenge? Alex’s breath froze in his chest, certain blood would be shed.
After several agonizing seconds, Domnall’s shoulders slumped. “I canna kill ye,” he said, still defiant, but with far less bravado.
“’Tis true ye canna, but ’tis good to ken ye dinna wish to try,” MacAedh replied with the barest hint of a smile.
The room released a collective breath.
“There is much ye dinna understand,” MacAedh said. “After the rebellion that killed my brother, Angus, William Fitz Duncan came to Kilmuir with fire and sword. The only one who might have acted against Fitz Duncan was also at death’s door.” He looked to Fergus who sat stone faced. “Fitz Duncan had orders from the king to kill us all, and surely would have done so, were it nae for yer máthair’s sacrifice.”
“My máthair?”
“Aye.” He nodded. “In the end, ’twas my sister, Gruaid, who saved the clan.”
“Ye were then the rightful heir to Moray. Wh
y did he nae kill ye?” Domnall asked.
“I went north into hiding. I spent the next ten years waiting for the day I would kill him.”
“Once ye were old enough to lead the clan, why did ye nae?” Domnall asked MacAedh. “Surely ye must have had the chance to do so in all of that time.” Domnall said.
“Aye,” MacAedh agreed. “I had the chance. Once. But to do so would only have put yer life in danger.”
“Me?” Domnall looked puzzled.
“Aye. Ye are his blood. If I had killed Fitz Duncan, the clan would have expected me also to kill ye, but I would nae avenge myself on my sister’s son. ’Twas but a few years later, he fell in battle. Do ye see now how sometimes it behooves a man to forbear?”
“What would ye have me do, Uncle?” Domnall asked, looking considerably less sullen.
“I would ask for patience,” MacAedh said. “Cenn Mór surely kens he’s vulnerable, but dinna underestimate him. He’s held power for five and twenty years. He’s canny enough to realize that should he die leaving only a boy to rule, the kingdom would rise up in arms. The Highlanders willna accept Cenn Mór’s grandson, and the Islanders will seek to overthrow him.” MacAedh sat and steepled his fingers in thought. “If the king wishes to keep the peace and secure his legacy, he might be persuaded to designate ye as regent to the prince. Should he do so, bloodshed would surely be avoided.”
“Ye would have me as regent to the Anglo-Norman stripling?” Domnall’s eyes once more blazed. “I have as strong a claim as he!”
“Aye, but Cenn Mór will nae see it that way. The Cenn Mór was raised with the Sassenachs. We must think as he thinks.”
“How?” Domnall asked.
“When the English kings wish to control their rivals, they make hostages of their sons and raise them in their own court, eventually earning their trust and friendship. Yer own grandfather, King Duncan, spent fifteen years in England and returned as an English vassal. David as well, pledged fealty to the English until he had the strength to break with them and reclaim his independence.”
Domnall scowled. “So ye would have me pledge a false allegiance?”
“Nae. I would have ye serve the prince and quietly build yer own support amongst the earls. ’Tis the nobles who will ultimately decide who will be king. The stripling’s claim will weaken once Cenn Mór is in his grave. Patience, Nephew, nae blood, will win yer throne.”
Domnall stood, eyes alight. “I will go to the king.”
“Ye willna,” MacAedh replied. “If anyone is to seek an audience, ’twill be me.”
Domnall responded with a scowl. “Ye willna let me speak for myself?”
“Nae.” MacAedh shook his head. “Now is when ye must understand the need for caution. ’Tis possible the king will understand the benefit of such an arrangement if he wishes to unify the north and south. If so, he will respect yer birthright and try to make a bargain, but ’tis just as likely he’ll seek to eliminate the threat of a rival to the young prince. But understand this, Nephew, the moment he perceives any opposition to his grandson, he will kill ye.”
“He can try,” Domnall defiantly repeated his uncle’s earlier words.
“Nae,” MacAedh retorted. “He will succeed. Ye are too great a threat.”
“But I’m his own kinsman!” Domnall argued.
“Blood bonds have ne’er stopped a Cenn Mór before,” MacAedh replied, slanting a covert look to Alex.
In that moment, Alex knew his chance had come. He had questions about his family that only those close to the king could answer. By going to court, he would not only be able to serve MacAedh and Domnall in some small way, but he would also have the chance to make some discreet inquiries of his own.
“I would go with ye,” Alex blurted before he’d even realized he’d spoken.
“Ye?” Domnall canted his head with a dubious look. “What has any of this to do with ye?”
“How fluent is yer Latin?” Alex countered.
“I have nae command of that tongue.”
“What of yer French?” he followed.
“I have forgotten most of it,” Domnall replied.
“Then how do ye expect to communicate?” Alex asked.
Domnall responded with a sullen stare.
It was common knowledge that the king surrounded himself with Normans and priests. Few Scots were part of his inner circle, and of those few he trusted, none were Highlanders. As a monk, Alex knew he would have far better access to those close to the king than either Domnall or MacAedh.
“Alexander has a point,” MacAedh said. “The Gaelic isna spoken at court, and I trust no one there to interpret for me. I will take Alexander. As for ye,” he turned back to Domnall, “as my tanist, ye must remain here… in the event I dinna return.”
Chapter Ten
SIBYLLA RETURNED TO her room to find her mother and Ailis laying out their best gowns. “What is this?” she asked.
“Ye and Ailis are to wear yer finest for the feast this eve,” her mother declared.
“Why?” Sibylla demanded. Was her mother also complicit in the secret marriage scheme? She could hardly recall the last time she dressed in fine embroidered linen instead of plain homespun. Midsummer always commenced with a feast, but current activity in the castle suggested this was far more momentous than the solstice celebration.
“We have guests,” her mother answered with a dismissive shrug. “Ye must strive to make a good impression.” She eyed Sibylla with a disapproving head shake. “Ye do look a sight.” She waved impatiently to the dressing table. “Sit and I’ll fix yer hair.”
“Ouch!” Sibylla cried out as her mother yanked at a tangle. “Must ye be so rough about it?”
“I wouldna have to be if ye took more care,” her mother chided. “Do ye think to conduct yerself like a wild beast and win a husband?”
“Husband?” Sibylla hissed. “Why does everyone suddenly go on so about husbands? ’Tis tedious.”
In truth, the idea of marriage wouldn’t be half so annoying if Sibylla had any hope at all of obtaining her heart’s desire, but three days had passed since her unexpected encounter with Alexander at Cnoc Croit na Maoile. Three days followed by as many sleepless nights with Domnall’s dire threat echoing in her mind. And now the arrival of Somerled’s son had made that vague threat a looming reality.
“Tedious?” her mother repeated. “Why are ye in such an ill temper?”
“I’m nae in a temper,” Sibylla denied, then shrieked as another hunk of hair snarled in the comb. “But I’d have nae hair on my head if I let ye finish.” Sibylla turned to face her mother. In truth she’d never seen her so tense. “What is wrong, Máthair?”
Her mother tossed the comb down with a sigh. “Ye and Ailis are both of an age to wed… but I wouldna force it upon either of ye were it my decision.”
Taking up the silver comb, Sibylla began gently working at the ends of the knot. “But surely, Uncle would nae permit such a weighty matter as a betrothal without first discussing it with us.”
“Nae lass,” her mother said. “If he means to arrange a betrothal, there’s naught ye or I can say or do about it.” She looked suddenly sad. “Just as I had nothing to say in the matter of my marriage. Were ye not nobly bred, mayhap ye would have some choice, but ye have the misfortune of bearing the blood of two kings.”
“But what if I already love someone else?” Sibylla softly asked.
Her mother’s gaze flickered. “Alexander?”
“Aye,” Sibylla confessed.
“Does he return yer regard, lass?”
“I believe he does,” she replied.
“Has he spoken to MacAedh?”
“Nae,” Sibylla shook her head. “Alexander says he canna offer marriage.”
“Then ’tis a moot point. Of all men, Sibylla, why must ye set yer heart on the one ye canna have?”
Sibylla considered her mother’s question. He’d made it clear that he had no thoughts of marriage but that didn’t change her feelings. “
’Tis beyond my control. I didna wish to love him.” Sibylla continued even as tears threatened. “But if I canna have Alexander, I want no one.”
“Och lass,” her mother’s gaze softened with compassion. “I also loved another when I was given away in wedlock to yer faither.”
“What happened to him, the man ye loved?” Sibylla asked.
“I was told he was killed at Stracathro in the last rebellion. When I later learned that he lived, it mattered little. Our promise to one another counted for naught when compared to the needs of the clan.”
“Ye were forced to wed a man ye dinna love?”
“Aye.” She shook her head sadly. “I could ne’er love such a cold, calculating and compassionless man as William Fitz Duncan. He was a Sassenach and a soldier first and foremost. He wed me only to keep the peace in the Highlands. ’Twas a true de’il’s bargain. My only consolation was ye and Domnall. But yer faither wronged ye both.”
“He wronged ye too,” Sibylla said. She had few memories and no warm feelings for her dead father.
“I dinna mind the dishonor,” her mother replied. “I was happy to be free of him.”
“What of the man ye loved?” Sibylla asked. “Did he ever wed?”
“Aye.” Her mother’s face broke into a slow, soft smile. “He wed… me.”
“Fergus?” Sibylla gasped. She’d had no idea of the history between her mother and her stepfather, whom she’d nicknamed “the silent giant”. “He was yer first love?”
“Aye, my first and my last. He may have lost an eye in the rebellion, but he’s twice the man that William Fitz Duncan was.” She took Sibylla’s hand in hers. “Ye have a duty to yer clan, just as I had, but if ye and Alexander are truly destined to be together, it will come about. It just may be in God’s time instead of yer own.”
*
ALEX HAD VOLUNTEERED to go with MacAedh without any real consideration of his own motives, but his thoughts turned inward as he departed the great hall. He was not the same man who’d come to tutor MacAedh’s nephew. Although he didn’t have a clue what the future would bring, his heart had changed. He could no longer passively accept his lot in life, not when he finally had the opportunity to act. He was resolved to learn what had really become of his father and mother and to see justice done, one way or another.
Reckless Scotland: A Scottish Medieval Romance Bundle Page 11
