“And?” Sibylla prompted.
“I fear there will be another rising.”
“Another rising?” Sibylla snorted. “When is there ever talk of anything else?”
“But this time is different,” Ailis said.
“Different? How?” Sibylla asked.
“By sending his men here, Somerled makes the first step toward an alliance,” Ailis said.
“An alliance with Somerled would not be a bad thing for Domnall. He’s the only one who has ever kept King David in check.”
“Aye,” Ailis agreed, her blue gaze looking increasingly fretful. “But I still fear what is to come.”
Though she didn’t confess it, Sibylla’s fears mirrored those of her cousin. If Domnall and Somerled incited an uprising, suffering would follow in a wide and devastating wake.
“Would ye have Domnall ignore his birthright?” Sibylla asked.
“Nae,” Ailis violently shook her head. “He wouldna be worthy of his blood if he did. For better or for ill, he must fulfill his destiny, but ye know as well as I do, that such pacts are always sealed with a marriage.”
“Marriage? Whose marriage?” Sibylla asked, her mind already racing.
“Likely Domnall’s,” Ailis replied, her eyes now misting. “But ye and I are also of an age to wed. In truth, it could be any one of us. Why else do ye suppose they came here?”
“They could have come for many reasons,” Sibylla protested. “And surely, Uncle Malcom would not undertake such a thing as a betrothal without first discussing it with us.”
“Uncle is Thane of Kilmuir,” Ailis reminded her, “and has final authority in these matters. He has no need to discuss any of it with us. He will always do what’s he deems best for the clan. If that means arranging a betrothal, there’s naught we can say or do about it.”
Was it true what Ailis suggested? That a marriage was already in the making? “But that’s the great question, isn’t it?” Sibylla murmured. “What is best for the clan?”
Would MacHeth choose to go on as they have in peace with poverty? Or would he choose bloodshed in the name of pride and independence?
Sibylla threw down the comb. “I would know my uncle’s mind on this.”
“Please, Sibylla,” Ailis gripped her arm, “dinna speak of this. He will surely suspect we were skulking and spying where we dinna belong.”
“Aye,” Sibylla agreed, recalling the fire she’d suffered on her own backside many times for that offense. “But I still intend to find out.”
After breakfast, Alex sat down to resume copying some psalms for a Book of Hours. Taking up a new goose feather, he shaved the plumes from the shaft with his pen knife, and then carefully honed the nib to a useable point. It was a routine he’d perfected over the past five years since his promotion from vellum scraper to apprentice scribe. His first year as an apprentice had been dedicated exclusively to learning the skill of pen making. He’d made thousands of them before he was ever permitted to apply one to parchment.
Alex dipped his finished quill pen in his ink horn and began the painstaking task of copying the psalter. Although he willed himself to keep his focus on this letters, his mind kept wandering over the events that had come together to shatter his tranquil existence—the new knowledge of his past, the sword, the simmering uprising—and Sibylla’s kiss. If pressed, he knew he couldn’t even say which of these had unsettled him more.
Sibylla and their passionate kiss, wouldn’t stay long from his thoughts. He’d had the purest intentions when he’d offered to teach her to read, but now he knew no good could possibly come of it. One kiss had nearly been his undoing. And avoiding her seemed impossible. He’d already tried and failed.
Though he wished he could refute them, his feelings for her were undeniable. But marriage was out of the question. Even if he were not impoverished, her family surely had a better match in mind—a noble husband with lands, power, and influence. They would want someone who would not only provide her with security but who would be an advantageous ally.
He laid down his quill and scanned his work for errors, only to realize he’d copied the same verse twice. He raked his hair with a deep sigh of dismay. It was no good pretending. There was only one solution—he must leave Kilmuir.
Alex found both MacHeth and his nephew in the great hall with Somerled’s men and some of the clan elders, about a dozen men in all.
“But Henry’s dead!” Domnall exclaimed. “Now is our chance!”
“If ye think to petition the king for your birthright, think again!” MacHeth replied. “Do ye really believe he’s going to open his arms to a bastard nephew, when he has a grandson, the blood of his own blood as an heir?”
Struck by the tense words, Alex stalled in the doorway. Had he imposed where he wasn’t welcome? His fears were dispelled when MacHeth acknowledged his presence.
“Come Alexander.” He nodded to the table. “Ye should also know of what we speak.”
Alex took a place at the end of the bench beside Magnus, the one-eyed giant, wed to MacHeth’s sister. Wordlessly, Magnus poured a cup of mead and slid it in front of Alex.
“Malcom is a feeble stripling who’s never even set foot in Alba, Norman from his head to his bluidy toes!” Domnall argued. “How many of the Highlanders would support him if I pressed my claim?”
MacHeth’s gaze narrowed. “Know this nephew, the moment ye step forward in opposition to his grandson, David will kill ye.”
“But the king has never been weaker,” Domnall continued to press his point. “His heir is dead, and the English are too busy fighting their own civil war to bother themselves with our concerns. The time has come to fight!”
Somerled’s men echoed his sentiment with murmurs and nods, while Magnus and the other clan elders kept an uneasy silence. While their first allegiance was to MacHeth, Alex suspected a few of them would side with Domnall if he chose to act.
Alex also experienced conflicted feelings, but this was not his fight. He was leaving Kilmuir.
“We are too weak to go to war,” MacHeth continued outwardly, calm and controlled, but his eyes betrayed the intensity of his conviction. “The southern kingdom is full of Sassenachs who will not rise to a Highland standard. They have an army of Norman knights at their command. I would not lead us into another slaughter.”
“Then what would ye have us do?” Domnall demanded.
“I would ask for patience,” MacHeth said. “We need a sound strategy. We cannot win with our swords alone. We must fight with our wiles.”
“Somerled is no friend of David Canmore,” Ranald interjected. “He also commands many ships. He might easily be persuaded in Domnall’s favor.”
Domnall’s gaze lit with interest. “Ye speak of alliance?”
Ranald offered a cagey smile. “I have been given leave to speak of such things, but tomorrow we will return to the Isles.”
“Ye do not heed Canmore’s summons to wait on him at Inverrary?” MacHeth asked.
His smile broadened. “Somerled does not heed Canmore.”
The message was clear. Somerled would never kneel to either David or his heir.
Ranald emptied his tankard and cast a slow and assessing gaze over the men seated at the table. “No doubt ye have much to discuss amongst yourselves.” He rose with a nod to his men.
MacHeth acknowledged him with an inclination of his head. “We’ll speak again after the feast.”
MacHeth and Domnall stared at each other in strained silence until the others had left the chamber.
“It seems that Somerled sent his surrogate here to offer his support,” Domnall stated triumphantly.
“Think lad!” MacHeth rebuked his nephew. “No king ever acts against his own interests. Somerled only offers because he thinks he’ll be able to control ye. If ye accept his aid, ye will only be trading one master for another.”
“And who was your master, Uncle?” Domnall countered. “My father who came at the king’s behest to take possession of your lands? The man who burne
d and pillaged and destroyed and then further humiliated ye by claiming your sister, though she was already promised to another?” He looked to Magnus who clenched his fists with a black look. “He took her away with him until she bore him a son—a son he disinherited the moment he had a Norman-bred replacement.”
Domnall continued, his eyes flashing. “Would ye have us go on merrily while they continue to dishonor and demean us by taking our lands? Our pride? Our religion? Our very way of life? How does it feel, Uncle, to send Moray men to fight in English wars, and to pay homage to live on land that is yours by right?”
Every man at the table stiffened in anticipation of MacHeth’s reaction.
With a blood vessel visibly pulsing in his forehead, MacHeth shut his eyes in what appeared to be a supreme exercise in self-control. Had the taunt come from any other man, Alex had no doubt he’d already be shorter by his head.
MacHeth finally responded in a low, ominous tone. “Only a fool has no regard for the counsel of those with greater wisdom and experience.”
Alex understood Domnall’s need for action, but his uncle was right about needing a plan if he intended to oppose a king with thirty some years of experience subduing rebellions.
“Fool am I?” Domnall flushed at the affront. “Even a fool can see that it’s not Somerled, but ye, who wants to control me! I am my own man! If ye will not fight—to hell with ye! I will raise my own army.”
Sibylla jumped back as the door flung open. Domnall’s face was flushed and his expression fierce. He nodded to Sibylla and then brushed by her without a word.
“Domnall, wait!” Sibylla called out, but he still failed to acknowledge her.
Doggedly trailing him, she followed his steps from the castle, through the bailey, and to the stables where he shouted for his horse.
“Where are ye going?” she asked.
He spun to face her. “How much did ye hear? I know ye were listening.”
“Enough,” she replied.
“The opportunity has come but he refuses to fight!”
“Uncle has reason for caution,” Sibylla said. “He has been through this before. Ye should heed his judgement. Do ye remember what they did to Wimund when he tried to press his claim? Do ye believe ’twas the Cumbrians that put out his eyes and cut off his manhood?” Sibylla shuddered at the recollection.
She’d never met her bastard half-brother, but the gruesome story had spread like a wildfire through the Highlands. If Domnall was bent on taking up his own cause, she prayed he wouldn’t come to a similar end.
“Uncle Angus was a great warrior! What has MacHeth accomplished? Nothing!”
“Uncle Angus died,” Sibylla reminded him.
“At least he died honorably. He died fighting to free Alba from oppression. MacHeth says we are too weak, but I think he lacks faith. He doesn’t believe the clans will come out for me.”
“How can ye be so certain they will?” she asked.
“They came out for Malcom Mac Alexander,” he argued. “If he hadn’t been betrayed, he might well have prevailed. Where is Duncan Og with my damned horse?” He strode to the paddock where several horses munched on their hay. He led one out by the halter and tethered it to a post.
“Duncan and the others lads went to Cnoc Croit na Maoile to build a midsummer banefire.”
Mumbling another curse, he disappeared into the tackle shed. He re-emerged a moment later with a saddle and bridle slung over his shoulder which he proceeded to put on the horse.
“Ye didn’t answer my question,” Sibylla pressed. “Where are ye going?”
“Where do ye think?” He lifted a booted foot to the stirrup. “I go north to raise an army.”
Chapter Seven
The midsummer celebration commenced with a feast. The great hall was brightly lit with oil lamps and blazing fires that filled the room with welcoming warmth. The long trestle tables were laden with baskets of fruits and cheeses, freshly baked breads, and roasted meats—suckling pig, beef, venison, and grouse.
MacHeth commanded the high table surrounded by his guests whose cups were kept filled with mead, heather ale, strong cider, and blackberry wine. Sitting at the same table were MacHeth’s sister, Gruaid, her second husband, Magnus, Ailis, and Sibylla. Domnall’s seat was conspicuously empty. Alex feared the worst. Had the hothead dashed off?
Alex’s felt his gaze resting longer than seemly on Sibylla. With her hair in a plaited coronet, crowned with ribbon and flowers and wearing a sea green tunic with gold embroidery, she appeared every inch the noble lady. And he wasn’t the only one to notice. The fair-haired and handsome, Ranald, made no secret of his admiration. Noticing him staring, Sibylla flashed an impish smile. Damn it! Was she consciously flirting with Ranald?
He’d never known feelings of jealousy before, but it was very much alive and twisting inside his gut. But a match with Ranald was surely the kind her uncle and brother would desire for her.
He’d never been more acutely aware of their social divide. Although he now knew that he was also descended from nobility, he could never openly make that claim—at least not without risk to his life. His mother had protected him from his uncle, who might still consider him a threat if his identity became known. Not to mention what the king might do.
Pulling his gaze away from her, Alex sought an open place at the next table with Sibylla’s youngest sister, Fiona, and her half siblings, Duncan and Donata, but Sibylla beckoned him back over. “Please sit with us. Domnall will not be here tonight,” she said.
“Why not?”
“He’s gone. He rode out this afternoon.”
“Do ye know where he went?”
“I cannot say,” she replied, reaching for his cup and filling it with ale. “But I pray he has the good sense to return once his temper cools.”
“Sibylla, there’s something I must tell ye.” Alex had made the decision to leave on the morrow, but refused to sneak away like a thief in the night.
“What is it?” she asked, leaning closer.
His breath caught as he inhaled her sweet scent. If he didn’t leave, he’d soon be helpless to resist her. “I need to leave Kilmuir.”
“Leave?” Her eyes flickered. “Why?
“There’s something important I need to do.”
“And what is that?” she asked.
“I need to find my family.”
She looked puzzled. “But I thought ye had no family?”
“That’s what I believed,” he said, “But I’ve recently learned otherwise.”
“How?” she asked.
“I can’t explain. At least not yet. But I’m not who you think I am, Sibylla. In truth, I don’t even know myself anymore!”
“Where will you go?” she asked.
“I need to begin at the beginning. I’m going back to my childhood home in Fettercairn. I don’t know if any of my family still live, but if there is any chance…” He exhaled a painful sigh. “I have to know, Sibylla. My whole future depends upon it.”
“Will ye return here afterward?” Her gaze searched his face. “Ye could have a home here, Alexander…if ye wanted it.”
He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Sibylla. Given the circumstances, I don’t see how I can remain here.”
Her eyes clouded. “B-but I don’t understand. I thought we…” She glanced down at her hands and licked her lips. “Does this have anything to do with what happened yesterday?”
“Aye,” he replied. “That’s a very big part of it.”
“What about the promise ye made to me? And there are others—Duncan and Donata,” she nodded to the twins. “They canna read either.”
“I wasn’t thinking when I made the offer. It was ill-advised, given what’s transpired. I care for you, Sibylla. Deeply. But I’ve made my decision.”
“Ye made a promise.”
Her accusation cut like a dagger. “Can’t ye understand that? We canna be together. Staying here would just make things harder for both of us.”
Sibylla r
ose with a stifled sob. “My brother was right. Ye have no honor.”
“Honor is why I’m leaving,” he protested softly.
Ailis touched Sibylla’s arm as she turned to leave. “What is wrong?”
“I feel ill.” She shot Alex an accusing look. “Pray make my excuses.”
Alex wanted desperately to go after her, but he knew it would only create a stir and make matters worse. He forced himself to remain at the table, doing his best to keep up a front while the others feasted and reveled.
“What did ye say to overset her?” Ailis asked.
“I told her I’m going away.” It was the noble thing to do, but Sibylla’s stricken expression made him heartsick. Nevertheless, there was no point in delaying, he would notify MacHeth and depart—while his honor, and Sibylla’s virtue, were still intact.
“Och.” Ailis nodded with a knowing smile. “That explains everything,”
Hoping to end the awkward conversation, Alex took a sip of ale.
“I think she loves ye,” Ailis said.
Alex sputtered his drink.
“But if ye do not wish to court her, there are surely others who might.” Ailis nodded to the empty seat of his would-be rival, Ranald.
He was gone? Alex’s gut told him it was no coincidence. How could he have been so self-absorbed not to have noticed the bastard following her out?
His protective instincts told him to go. Now. He slammed his cup down. It was more than just jealously. Something didn’t seem right. He instinctively reached for his sgian-dubh. “Alert MacHeth if I don’t return in a few minutes.”
Too distraught to return to her bedchamber, Sibylla climbed the staircase leading to the ramparts. It was her second favorite place when she needed solitude to sort out her thoughts. The sky was clear and black as onyx, making the countless stars appear as tiny explosions of light. Staring up at the heavens, she filled her lungs with the salt-tanged and heather-scented air, and gazed out at the glittering waters of the firth.
Why did she care so much for Alexander? She could make no sense of her feelings. He’d only come to Kilmuir a short time ago, yet it felt as if he belonged here—as if they belonged together. She knew he felt it too. Why was he leaving? How could she convince him to stay?
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