She wondered why. Searching his eyes, she asked. “Do ye trust no one, Alexander?”
“I trust in God and myself,” he replied.
“No one else?” His cynicism shocked her. He was too young to be so disillusioned. “Who betrayed ye?”
“’Twasn’t so much a betrayal as a broken promise,” he finally answered. “The hour grows long,” he continued, squelching any further questions. “Everyone will soon be awake and breaking fast.” He moved behind her and placed the knife in her right hand. “Ye must hold it by the blade, like this…”
Sibylla tried to concentrate on his instructions, but the touch of his hands on hers and the musky scent of his body, muddled her mind. Why did he, of all people, have such an overwhelming effect on her? He demonstrated the motions several times before urging her to try, but when she attempted a practice throw, her focus was so poor that the knife strayed way wide of the wooden target.
“I’m so sorry. Did ye see where it went?” she asked.
“Over yon.” He pointed. “Ye didn’t throw it far. We’ll find it.”
They spent the next few minutes on hands and knees scouring the grass for the lost blade. “I found it,” Sibylla declared in triumph, closing her fingers a bit too eagerly around the cool steel. “Ouch!”
His gaze flickered. “Ye cut yourself?”
“’Tis but a scratch,” she said. Embarrassed for him to see her injury, she returned his knife with her other hand.
“Let me see it.” Alex reached out to examine her wound. Sibylla’s breath caught as he pried her fingers open and lightly traced the cut. His hands were large and gentle with big palms and long tapering fingers. “’Tis not deep,” he reassured her, but then proceeded to cut a length of fabric from the hem of his robe which he used to bind her hand.
“I’ve ruined it,” she remarked in dismay.
He shrugged. “I have two others.”
“And that is all?”
“’Tis all I need,” he replied. “My life is simple, Sibylla. I have few possessions—this sgian-dubh, the clothes on my back, and a psalter. I have no prospects for anything more. ’Tis why the monastery suits me.”
She wondered why he’d felt the need to tell her that.
“Mayhap this wasn’t the best idea,” he said, tying the bandage off.
“Ye won’t teach me anymore? I’m not always so clumsy,” she protested, not daring to say it was he that made her so awkward—first the fall in the burn and now the accident with the knife.
“Nae,” he replied. “No more knives. I think books would serve ye far better than knife throwing.”
“Books? But I told ye I canna read.” Was he mocking her? Sibylla searched his face but found no sign of ridicule. “Are offering to teach me, Alexander?”
“Would ye like to learn?” he asked.
“Aye.” Her pulse raced. “I would indeed!” Her heart sank deep into her stomach. “But what if my uncle forbids it?”
“I don’t think he will,” Alex reassured her. “’Tis not so uncommon for a noblewoman to read. Do none of your kinswomen read?” he asked.
“Aye. I have seen Aunt Gruaid with a book before,” Sibylla said, growing more excited again. “I will ask my uncle at the first chance.”
“Go now,” he urged. “Afore ye’re missed. I don’t relish a skelping by MacHeth.”
Sibylla’s heart was so light she nearly skipped to the gate. In her father’s household, females had rarely been encouraged to speak, let alone think for themselves. Her lot had improved somewhat, since coming to Kilmuir, but she never would have expected anyone to take an interest in improving her education. She felt like a whole new world awaited her. And best of all, Alexander had offered to be her guide.
As he watched her flit off with a smile, Alex’s own grin faded. He didn’t know what had prompted his offer to teach her. He knew it was a mistake the moment the words slipped out, but she was so much more than a comely face. She had an astute and inquiring mind that deserved to be enlightened. ’Twas unfortunate that education had been denied her solely on the basis of her sex. But teaching her in secret would bode nothing but trouble. She must have her uncle’s permission, but would he grant it?
Were he in MacHeth’s place, Alex would not, at least not without a chaperone. Maybe Ailis or another cousin could come with her? If not, mayhap Sibylla could join her brother in his lessons. Domnall surely wouldn’t like it, but at least he could act as chaperone. Alex resolved to speak with him about Sibylla when he came for his lesson.
The kitchen was empty when Alex arrived for breakfast, except for Sibylla’s grandmother, Lady Olith, who sat by the hearth with a rug spread over her legs. “So the young maister comes at last to break his fast?” she scolded. “There still be bannocks, but the parritch is cald.”
“Bannocks are fine, thank ye,” Alex said, helping himself to the bread and pouring a cup of cider.
He didn’t generally take his meals with the family, but preferred the kitchen. He’d come to Castle Kinmuir as a tutor, which placed him in a peculiar no man’s land of neither servant nor family member, something that fell awkwardly in between.
“So ye fancy, Sibylla?” the old woman remarked.
Alex nearly choked on his first bite. He was quick to wash it down with ale. “Nae, my lady. I’m bound for the priesthood.”
“Only the pope forbids the taking of a wife,” she continued, ignoring his rebuttal. “She carries the blood of two kings, but yer bairns will bear the blood of three.”
She made no sense, but Alex humored her. “I don’t seek a marriage, but even if I did, I would never look so high above myself as Sibylla.”
Ignoring his remark, the old woman continued as she stared sightlessly into the fire. “From your loins will spring two sons and many daughters. They will sire two great clans that will spread over the Highlands from east to west…but with this blessing also comes a curse—for your son’s sons will ever be at odds. Relentlessly, they will make war upon one another—until the very last drop of blood is shed.”
A cold shiver crept down Alex’s spine. Was the old woman a seer or was she simply mad? Likely, the latter. He swallowed the remainder of his meal and drained his cup. “Thank ye for the bannocks.”
Leaving the kitchen, Alex encountered MacHeth working at the near-by forge. With sleeves rolled back, he was pounding a red hot horse shoe into shape.
“Are ye the smith here, too?” Alex asked, surprised to see the Thane of Kilmuir engaged in such intense manual labor.
“Aye. Smith, carpenter, stone mason. I became master of all trades the day the king’s army came recruiting,” MacHeth replied darkly. “’Tis why this entire place is in such disrepair. There are too few men left to do all the work and still provide for their families.”
The bucket hissed with steam as he submerged the searing iron into the water. After a few seconds, he retrieved the shaped shoe and laid it down with his tongs. MacHeth then stood and wiped the sweat from his brow.
“’Tis how they keep us in check, by taking our men. ’Tis our payment in kind,” he added bitterly, “and how we remain here.” He nodded to the castle. “My father was Mormaer of all Moray, as was my brother, but we lost everything after the rebellion. If we refused to provide them with soldiers, we would soon find ourselves homeless.” His words revealed resignation but his tone bared deep resentment.
“What of Domnall and the others?” Alex asked. “Will they be taken as well?”
“Aye, when David seeks to invade England again.”
“Will he go?” Alex asked.
“He will be counted a traitor if he refuses,” MacHeth replied. “But I fear for his life. Few kinsmen of the Canmores ever die of natural causes. They have a remarkable talent for eliminating all who oppose them. Which leads to a matter I would discuss with ye.” Come,” he beckoned. “There’s something ye must see.”
Alex followed MacHeth through the bailey and past the castle to an ancient mausoleum guarded by tw
o, stone-carved angels who stood at the entrance. MacHeth unlocked the door to the tomb where presumably, generations of MacHeth’s clan had been laid to rest. He led Alex inside the dark, dank chamber.
“Why are we here?” Alex asked, growing horrified as MacHeth proceeded to pry open one of the caskets.
“Help me to lift this, lad.” MacHeth commanded.
Grunting under the weight, Alex helped MacHeth to remove the cover, but rather than the decayed remains he’d expected, the casket held a cache of ancient looking swords.
“Our only remaining treasures.” MacHeth said. “This is what we came for.” He retrieved a silver-hilted sword that he displayed in both hands. “’Tis one of seven swords forged of pure Damascus steel for the seven Mormaer’s of Alba. My father also had such a sword … they are called the kingslayers.”
“Kingslayers?
“Aye.” MacHeth nodded grimly. “Four treacherous kings have perished by these swords. This particular blade belonged to MacLeon of Mearns.”
“Mearns? My mother, Annis, was from Mearns.” Alex’s gaze riveted to the inscription on the blade—Veritatem, Virtutem, Vindictae. “’Tis the same as my sgian-dubh. I don’t understand this.” With each revelation, Alex was only growing more overwhelmed and confused. “If this belonged to the Mormaer of Mearns, why would you have it?” Alex asked.
“I only know that he and my father both threw their support behind Donald Ban when he snatched the throne of Alba from his nephew, Duncan Canmore. MacLeon, was the one who delivered the death stroke.” He grinned. “The Canmores have good reason to fear and despise the men of Mearns and Moray.”
He extended the sword to Alexander. “Take it. I knew it was meant to be yours when I saw your sgian-dubh.”
Alex’s hands shook as he took possession of the ancient weapon. His heart raced as he examined the deadly blade.
“Who gave ye the dagger?” MacHeth asked.
“My mother,” Alex replied. He balanced the sword and took a practice swing. It felt awkward in his hands. “She gave me the knife when she sent me to the monastery. I was but four when my uncle came and took us away to a terrible place, high on a cliff that overlooked the sea.”
“How was it that ye went from there to the monastery?” MacHeth asked.
Alex hesitated to say more. Years ago, he’d promised his mother never to reveal his past or his family name, but was he still bound to that vow when she’d broken her word to send for him? Could he trust this man whose family history seemed to be so closely intertwined with his own? His instincts told him he could.
“There was danger,” Alex said, vividly recalling the fright in his mother’s eyes the night she sent him to the monastery. “She feared for our lives, but I was too young to understand why.”
MacHeth’s gaze suddenly narrowed. “What of your father? Who was he, lad?”
“My father was called Malcom Mac Alexander,” he replied. “I am named after his father. In truth, I barely even remember him.”
MacHeth’s eyes grew wide. “Ye are the son of Mac Alexander?”
“Aye. Did ye know of him?” Alex asked. He yearned to know what manner of man his sire was, and how he was regarded by other men.
MacHeth’s brow wrinkled. “Do ye ken naught of your own blood, lad?”
“Nay,” Alex said. MacHeth’s questions were beginning to frustrate him.
Alex recalled very little of his childhood before arriving at Portmahomack, and almost nothing of his sire. “I only know that he was constantly away, and my mother was always fretful and sad.”
“Aye,” she would be,” MacHeth replied sympathetically. “For your father was the grandson of Alexander, King of Alba.”
“He was the son of a king?” Alex was stunned.
“Aye, from his second marriage with a younger daughter of the Mormaer of Mearns. The marriage was legitimate but nullified by the pope on the trumped-up excuse that it wasn’t consecrated by the Catholic Church. The real reason was that Henry of England wanted his protégé, David Canmore, on the throne of Alba.”
With difficulty, Alex swallowed this new revelation. It had always tormented him that he knew so little of his family, but perhaps this new knowledge would torment him even more.
“Despite this, or mayhap because of it,” MacHeth continued, “many Highlanders stood behind your father when he chose to fight for his crown. My brother, Angus, was his greatest ally. He gathered four thousand men for his cause, but David Canmore had the backing of the English who defeated them with a great slaughter.”
“Did you know my father?” Alex asked eagerly. “What was he like?”
“I only saw him but once,” MacHeth replied. “Through my eyes, he was a braw and bold warrior, the kind born to lead men. He would have made a fine king.”
My father. Alex’s chest constricted with a profound sense of loss for someone he’d never even known. “Did he die in battle?”
MacHeth shook his head. “Nae. He escaped and continued the rebellion for another four years. He might have succeeded were it not for the betrayal of his own brother-in-law, Eachann of Mearns, who turned him over to the king in exchange for lands and titles.”
“Eachann of Mearns was my mother’s brother.”
Alex shut his eyes on an unbidden vision from his childhood—a big and fearsome man with a red beard and an ugly, jagged scar running down the length of his face. Now he understood why his mother had been so fearful. His uncle was the man who’d betrayed his father and then imprisoned them at Dunnottar.
Alex seethed with rage. His father had been betrayed and maybe killed by the same kinsman who’d held Alex and his mother hostage. His entire life had been destroyed by his uncle’s greed. Never in his life had he ever wanted to kill a man—until now.
“Did they kill my father?” he asked, uncertain if he wanted to know the answer. Although he’d felt abandoned, he’d still harbored hope all these years that his parents yet lived. What would his life have been had events not taken such a tragic turn? Would his father have won the throne of Alba?
“No one knows,” MacHeth replied. “He was taken south to Roxburgh Castle and no one has seen or heard anything of him these past sixteen years.”
“Then he could still be alive?”
“I would not place great hope in it,” Macheth said.
“Why has this been kept from me all these years?” It was all too much to comprehend.
MacHeth laid a consoling hand on Alex’s shoulder. “I ken this must be hard on ye, lad. In truth, ye’ve been as ill-used as Domnall. As to Father Gregor, he was probably sworn to shield ye. Perhaps ’tis why he encouraged ye to come to me, in hope that ye would eventually discover the truth for yourself. Ye can trust me to keep your secret whatever ye decide,” MacHeth promised. “As to the sword, ’tis your choice whether to train with it or bury it.”
Alex gazed down at the sword that felt so unwieldly in his hand. Had it come to him by divine Providence? Did the bloodlust of generations past pulse in his own veins? Was he fated to avenge his father?
Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.
“I don’t know what to think.”
MacHeth eyed him for a long moment with his arms crossed over his chest. “Perhaps the greater question is, now that ye know all this, what will ye do?”
Chapter Five
Following his fateful meeting with MacHeth, Alex spent the next two days in his room, fasting and praying. MacHeth had revealed much to him—too much. And his mind still whirred with unanswered questions.
Never had he been in greater need of wisdom and guidance, but there was no one he could trust. No one he could confide in. All his life, he’d sought counsel from Father Gregor, the man who’d deceived him by his silence.
When Domnall finally appeared for he lessons, his attention was half-hearted at best. Alex tried to focus on the history lesson, but was far too distracted by his own thoughts. Everything he’d believed and the life that he’d known was all false. He’d never unders
tood why the abbot had discouraged him from taking his vows once he’d turned eighteen, as other novices had done. It was because he knew all of this!
“So the Roman’s set out to conquer foreign lands just as the Norman’s have done,” Domnall remarked.
“Aye. They had brilliant generals who not only conquered but built roads. These roads ensured the expansion of their empire,” Alex replied, trying once more to focus. “The Normans followed a similar strategy. They conquered England by building castles of stone and used them to claim the land piece by piece.”
“The Normans have taken much of the southern province, but no one has ever conquered the Highlands. The Romans, the Norsemen, and then the Saxons all tried to claim Alba and failed. My mother’s ancestors fought them all,” Domnall said, pride gleaming in his eyes. “Why do ye want to be a priest?” he suddenly asked.
“Why?” Alex repeated half to himself, realizing he no longer had an answer.
After sixteen years at the monastery, he once would have said it was the only logical path. Although he’d never been particularly pious, he loved the tranquility and the creative aspect of illuminations. It was once his great passion, but so many things in his life had changed in the course of a fortnight. Now he wasn’t certain of anything.
“I have never known another life,” Alex finally answered—until now.
In the short time since he’d arrived at Castle Kilmuir, Alex had come to realize what he’d missed as a boy—the warmth and familiarity of a real family. And now that he knew, he was almost overwhelmed by a sense of loss for what had been taken from him.
“Ye’re bluidy good with that knife of yours,” Domnall said. “I wonder what ye could do with a sword?”
Alex instinctively glanced to where it lay beneath his cot. Was the remark coincidental? Or had MacHeth told Domnall? “Why do ye ask?”
Domnall shrugged. “I dunna ken why any man of sound mind and body would choose such a life? How can you prefer books to battles?”
“I am no warrior,” Alex replied. Yet, he had sprung from warrior stock. Had he been given the choice, would he also have followed a warrior’s path? His ancestors had shed the blood of kings. He wondered at their motives. Were their actions inspired by idealism or by avarice? Were they heroes or assassins?
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