Virtue

by Victoria Vane

  Chapter Three

  “What do ye think of the new tutor,” Sibylla asked, keeping her tone casual, as she began carding the pile of newly-shorn wool. Though she hated to admit it, Alexander had become an object of the greatest curiosity to her. He was so unlike the men of Kilmuir with slate gray eyes as solemn and as unreadable as her uncle’s library.

  “He’s younger than I thought he would be,” Ailis remarked, her nimble fingers working the spindle to form the combed wool into fine thread.

  “Aye. I thought the same. Do ye think him comely?” Sibylla asked.

  “I suppose so,” Ailis paused, then added with a mocking grin, “if ye like a man with a chin as smooth as a bairn’s bottom.”

  “But monks canna wear beards,” Sibylla protested. “’Tis forbidden.”

  Sibylla’s mother looked up from her spinning. “Are ye sweet on the tutor, Sibylla? I dinna think monks are allowed to wed either.”

  “He hasna taken holy orders yet,” she said. “And I’m nae sweet on him… He’s just different from the others, ’tis all.”

  “Aye. He’s different a’ right,” her mother, Gruaid, remarked. “Since he arrived, he’s scarce left his room except at meal time. ’Tis nae seemly for a young man to bury himself all the time in books.”

  While the other men always seemed like restless animals whenever circumstances confined them indoors, Alexander, on the contrary, rarely ventured out of his rooms. The only times he left his chamber were for meals and prayer. She’d espied him every sunrise and sunset, a darkly cloaked shadow crossing the courtyard to the chapel. What did he do in there for hours at a time? Did he really prefer his solitude to their company or did he feel like an outsider here? Highlanders were known for embracing strangers. Had they been derelict in their hospitality? Had they not given him a proper welcome?

  “Mayhap Domnall can take him hunting?” Ailis suggested.

  “I think he doesna like to hunt,” her mother remarked, biting off a thread from the spool. “He’s ne’er gone with the lads.”

  “Probably because he eats no meat,” Sibylla said.

  “Ne’er the meat?” Ailis remarked in surprise.

  “Nae,” Sibylla answered. “Have ye nae taken notice? He eats only bread, fish, and vegetables.” She’d studied him well, covertly of course.

  “’Tis his upbringing with the monks,” her grandmother, Olith, remarked. “They have peculiar notions about the eating of flesh.”

  “But he’s nae at the monastery anymore,” Sibylla said. “Why canna he live like us?” Why would such a young man desire such a dull life?”

  “I dinna ken his mind, Sibylla,” her grandmother replied with a shrug.

  Sibylla ran her fingers idly over the soft clump of combed wool. “’Tis a fine spring day. Since he eats fish, mayhap he could be coaxed to catch some?”

  “If ye think to take him to the burn, ye’d best bring Domnall,” her mother said.

  Sibylla huffed. “But Domnall doesna have the patience to fish.”

  “Nevertheless, ye canna go alone with a young man,” she warned.

  “But he’s a monk!” Sibylla laughed.

  “Not yet,” her mother said. “He’s first a young man and ye are now come into womanhood. Nature can be a formidable force when the sexes mix.”

  “Then Ailis or Fiona will come with us,” Sibylla said.

  “But I dinna like to bait the hooks!” Fiona protested with a shudder.

  Sibylla huffed an impatient sigh. “Verra well, I’ll bait yer hook, and I’ll even take the fish off—if ye manage to catch one.”

  “What if he doesna want to go fishing?” Ailis asked after a time. “How do ye think to coax him?”

  “I dinna yet ken,” Sibylla replied, adding with a grin, “but I’ll think of something.”

  “Ye’ll go nowhere until yer work is done,” her mother said. “There are yet three bins of wool to card.”

  “A’right,” Sibylla reluctantly acquiesced and set her hands back to her task.

  It had taken the men several days to shear all the sheep and now the women’s work of spinning and weaving had begun. Sibylla found the work tedious, but Ailis, like her mother and grandmother, was becoming an artist at spinning and weaving. It still amazed Sibylla that her blind grandmother could still spin the finest thread.

  Although she kept her fingers busy, it wasn’t long before her mind wandered back to Alexander. His black tunics were coarse and worn nearly threadbare. Many of the clan would need new plaids for the coming winter, perhaps she and Ailis could make one for him also. Would he accept the gift, or might it offend him? She really didn’t know him well enough to guess. But it was well past time she learned more about the curious stranger who’d come to stay.

  *

  Alex impatiently paced his chamber. It was nearly an hour past the appointed lesson time and Domnall had yet to show his face. He was growing increasingly frustrated that his first trial outside of the monastery was already a failure. He’d come to Kilmuir to teach, but for the third day straight, his pupil had neither made an appearance nor sent word that he was otherwise engaged.

  As yet, Alex had said nothing about it to MacAedh. He’d hoped that Domnall would come around on his own, but it was appearing more evident by the day that his optimism was misplaced. Alex scrubbed his face with his hands and groaned in defeat. Domnall had given him no choice, he must go and discuss the matter with the Thane of Kilmuir.

  Just as he put his hand on the latch, a soft rap sounded on his door. Perhaps his recalcitrant pupil had decided to appear after all? Alex’s next breath stalled in his chest as he opened the door to find Lady Sibylla standing there. He couldn’t comprehend the nervous reaction he had to her. It struck him every time he saw her. Indeed, he was so disconcerted that he’d made a conscious effort to avoid her.

  “Lady Sibylla? ’Tis my chamber. Y-ye shouldna be here.”

  “But ye give me little choice, seein’ that ye ne’er leave it,” she replied with a smile that made his pulse leap. “I wish to speak with ye.”

  “B-but ’tis nae proper for ye to come here,” he protested.

  “Why nae?” she asked. “I’ve been here many times. It was once my favorite playroom. I was always fascinated with the view from here.” Ignoring his protest, she stepped past him and moved to the window.

  “See.” She pointed toward the firth. “’Tis much as I remember it. I believe it the best outlook from the entire castle, and the best place to spot dolphins. Look there,” she declared excitedly. Alex followed the direction of her pointing finger to where a group of bottlenose dolphins leaped out of the waves. He stood a bit too long beside her taking in the view of dolphins frolicking in the glittering sea beneath an endless azure sky.

  The aspect was indeed breathtaking, but he was already having trouble in that capacity with her standing so close. He quickly stepped away to organize his writing implements but, a moment later, he felt her presence looking over his shoulder.

  “What is all this?” She moved toward the writing table, a quizzical expression on her face.

  Alexander tracked her gaze to the open psalter and the sheet of parchment he’d been working on. “Please! Ye must nae be here,” he insisted. He’d never shown his work to anyone outside of the monastery before and felt an almost overwhelming urge to snatch it away.

  “Fine. If ye answer my questions, I’ll go.”

  Alexander gritted his teeth in consternation. Why did she persist? He didn’t understand the reason, but her very presence unnerved him. Was it because he’d had so little interaction with females in his life, or was it just this particular female who made him feel so uneasy?

  “’Tis my work,” he explained. “I’m illuminating psalms for a Book of Hours. ’Tis my desire to become a scribe.”

  “Illuminate? What do ye mean?” She reached over him for the sheet of vellum and held it up to the light. “’Tis beautiful work.” He flushed at her praise as she gingerly stroked her fingertips
across the intricate scrollwork he’d added to the edges of the page. “It reminds me of the Pictish stone carvings at Rosemarkie. Have ye ever seen them?” she asked.

  “Nae.” He shook his head.

  “They are also verra intricately wrought.” Her gaze never left the parchment as she laid it gently back on the table. “What is a scribe?” she asked.

  “Scribes can have a number of duties,” he explained. “They keep records and perform clerical duties for monarchs and kirks; they record historical events and, perhaps most importantly, they copy, translate, and illuminate the Holy Scriptures for posterity. Indeed, prayer books are our chief means of support at the monastery.”

  “But why do ye need to do this illumination?”

  “It isna a need so much as a desire to honor the sacred texts,” he said. “It is believed that illumination helps those who canna read to better comprehend the text. Our Lord clearly commanded His disciples to share His word with all of the world. The mission of the monastery at Portmahomack is to spread the written word of God to everyday people.”

  “But what need have we to read them when we have priests?” she asked. “The Pictish people had no holy books at all. Their priests were the keepers of all that is sacred. They committed everything to memory.”

  “Ye would trust all that the priest tells ye as God’s pure truth?”

  Her forehead wrinkled as if she’d never considered the question. “Dinna ye?” she asked.

  “Nae.” Alex shook his head. “I would seek the truth for myself. No man is incorruptible aside from the Lord. No man is without sin. And keeping knowledge is the most effectual means of holding power and controlling people.”

  “And ye believe that these pictures can help the illiterate to read? Is this true?” she asked, staring more intently at his sketch of a shepherd holding a lamb.

  He sensed something deeply personal in her question. “Ye dinna read Latin?” he asked softly.

  “Nae.” She licked her lips and averted her gaze. “I canna read at all. My faither forbade it. He said women have no business with books. But even those who dinna read canna truly be ignorant of God,” she said. Her tone and expression had grown more animated. “His verra creation speaks His existence.”

  Alexander studied her face with growing fascination. “Do ye believe that?”

  “Aye,” she replied softly. “How can I nae?” She gestured once more to the window and the seemingly endless sea and sky.

  For a breathless moment, she held his gaze with her large, luminous eyes. If he let himself, he could so easily drown in those sea-colored depths.

  “Come, Alexander.” She suddenly, almost urgently pulled on his sleeve. “There’s something ye must see. Let me show ye a place where He speaks the loudest.”

  “I canna,” he insisted with a shake of his head. In truth, there was no legitimate reason he couldn’t go. He just knew he shouldn’t be alone with her. She stirred too many unfamiliar feelings. Although he’d never felt this kind of attraction before, he recognized the danger.

  “Why nae?” she asked. “Ye’ve hardly left yer room since ye arrived here. Surely my uncle wouldna begrudge ye an hour or two.”

  “I have much to do in preparing yer brother’s lessons.”

  “Nae today!” Sibylla replied.

  Before he realized what she was about, she tucked his psalter into the bodice of her gown. “If ye want it back,” she called over her shoulder as she flung open the door, “ye’ll come to the burn.”

  *

  Sibylla couldn’t stifle her laughter as she ran for the stairs. She hadn’t planned to take his book, but he’d seemed beyond persuading any other way. Stubborn creature! She’d acted on the reckless impulse for his own good. Alexander was far too young to be so solemn. There seemed only one way to get him outside—so she ran as fast as her legs would carry her. She sprinted down the entire flight of tower stairs and through the great hall before she even dared to look behind her. Was he following?

  “Lady Sibylla! Stop! Please!” he cried out.

  “Nae!” she laughed “Tis too fine a day to be cooped up like the chickens!”

  She was already panting but pressed onward through the bailey where she passed her younger sister, Fiona, leading a cow toward the milking shed. “Come to the burn,” Sibylla cried out. “And bring fishing poles!”

  Sibylla darted through the gates and then down the well-worn path leading to the thickly-wooded glen. Her lungs were on fire, but she kept running, refusing even to slow down until she arrived at the burn. Out of breath, she collapsed on the mossy bank and waited. Had he followed her or had he given up?

  A few seconds later, she had her answer when he came crashing through the trees like a raging bull.

  “Ye had nae right to take that! That psalter is irreplaceable! Give it back to me,” he commanded, his voice quivering with fury.

  A tiny shiver passed through her body as his gaze bored into hers. For a moment, Sibylla simply stared back at him. She never could have imagined him reacting with such passion. Did this silly book really mean so much to him?

  Feeling contrite, she retrieved the volume from her bodice. “I-I meant no harm. I only wanted to get ye outside for a time.”

  “So ye resorted to trickery?” He snatched it from her hands. “Why dinna ye just ask?”

  “But I did!” she insisted. “Ye wouldna come.”

  “Because I have nae time for—”

  “For this?” She made a wide gesture to encompass the magnificent landscape—the mossy-banked burn snaking gracefully through a glen shaded by a tall canopy of verdant green hardwoods, and the rushing white cascade that emptied itself into a crystal clear pool.

  Alexander’ gaze flickered as he took a silent survey of his surroundings. Sibylla said nothing as she watched his expression slowly change… soften.

  “’Tis a beautiful place,” he quietly assented.

  “’Tis what I wanted to show ye. This is where God speaks to me,” she said.

  “Do ye nae seek him in the chapel?” he asked.

  “Do ye think he hears me better there than here?” she asked.

  “Nae,” he confessed.

  “I like it better here,” she said, adding with a grin, “’tis also the best place to fish.”

  “Fish?” he repeated blankly.

  “Aye! Dinna ye like to fish?” she asked.

  “I do,” he replied, looking less vexed and more uncertain. She was intrigued by his solemn, gray eyes, but she wished he would smile. She’d yet to see him smile or hear his laughter. Sibylla didn’t know why she was so curious about him. Perhaps it was just the contrast of his quiet manner compared to her volatile brother and boisterous kinsmen.

  “Would ye stay then?” she asked softly. “Fiona should be bringing the poles any minute.”

  “What would yer uncle say?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “He doesna like to fish.”

  His glower returned. “’Tis nae what I meant.”

  “I ken what ye meant,” she teased. “They will all ken where we have gone. I told my máthair just yesterday that I would get ye to come fishing.”

  His dark brows shot upward. “So I’m the victim of a conspiracy?”

  “Aye,” she laughed. “I’m afraid so. But ’tis only because we dinna want ye to perish.”

  “Perish?” He looked puzzled. “I dinna ken.”

  “Since ye dinna eat meat, we need more fish. And this burn is the best spot on the whole of Black Isle for brown trout.”

  “Is that so? Ye dinna need bait or poles for trout,” he said. “’Tis simple enough to catch them with yer bare hands.”

  “Aye?” Sibylla cocked her head and studied him. Was he in earnest? She couldn’t quite tell. “I dinna believe ye,” she finally said. “They’re too fast, nae to mention slippery.”

  “Nae so if ye take the right approach.”

  “A’right,” Sibylla challenged. “Show me how ’tis done.”

  “Verr
a well.” Alexander carefully placed his psalter on top of a large boulder, and then tied his tunic above his knees. She noticed that he wore no shoes, but many Highlanders did not in the summer months. Her gaze tracked upward to his long, muscular calves that were well proportioned to his height, at least half a head taller than Domnall. His whole body was lean and his features were angular, but that would surely blunt with maturity—not that he was in any way unpleasing. On the contrary, she found him quite comely—even if he did have a chin as smooth as a bairn’s bottom.

  “Are ye just going to sit and watch?” he asked as he climbed down the bank.

  “I’ll wait and see if it works before I freeze myself,” she replied, biting back a laugh as his body braced in reaction to the frigid water. “But ye can be certain, if ye catch one. I’ll catch two.”

  Her gaze followed his every movement as Alexander crept slowly upstream, feeling under the rocks. “They like to rest under rocks so ye begin by walking against the current and feeling under the ledges,” he explained. “And they always face upstream. Otherwise, water would enter their gills the wrong way and they’d drown.” He suddenly froze and whispered over his shoulder. “I found a big one.”

  “Aye? What now?” she asked, rapt with interest.

  “Ye slowly work yer fingers up his body from the tail to his belly. If ye stroke just the right way, ye can coax him into a dream state. That’s when ye reach for the head, grip hard, and pluck him from the water.”

  Growing more excited, Sibylla kicked off her shoes, and removed her hose to join him but, unlike Alexander, she could not hold back her gasp as she entered the icy burn. By the time she’d waded to his side, he had both of his hands under the water.

  “He’s ready,” he whispered. A second later, his hands shot up with a wildly thrashing speckled fish that he quickly landed on a boulder.

  “Ye made it look so simple,” she said. She was truly amazed at the ease in which he’d caught it. “Why would anyone fish any other way?”

  “’Tis a skill that takes practice to master. ’Tis now yer turn.”