Virtue

by Victoria Vane

  As she left the armory, Sibylla’s heart was so light she nearly skipped to the gate. She felt as if a whole new world awaited her—and best of all, Alexander would be her personal guide.

  *

  As he watched Sibylla flit off with a smile lighting her face, Alex felt a grin stretching his own mouth. For the first time since his arrival, he was actually excited. He told himself it was only Sibylla’s eagerness and intellectual curiosity that stirred his enthusiasm. He didn’t dare question too closely whether it was truly the idea of teaching a willing pupil, or just spending more time with Sibylla.

  Since she enjoyed stories so much, perhaps he could begin her lessons by sharing one of his own favorites. She would probably enjoy Ovid’s fantastical tales more than Herodotus’ histories. Maybe he could even make a game out of teaching her letters and words. 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. She would be a joy to teach—if her uncle would permit it.

  Alex’s grin faded. She’d looked so elated by the idea that he hadn’t even considered MacAedh’s possible objection. Were he in MacAedh’s place, he would not allow it—at least not without a proper chaperone. Maybe Ailis or another of her female kin could attend her lessons with her? If not, mayhap Sibylla could join her brother? Domnall surely wouldn’t like it, but Alex resolved to speak with him when next he came for his lesson, or rather, if he came for his morning lesson. Although he’d sworn to keep his word, Alex was still dubious.

  Not wishing to rouse suspicion, Alex had tarried alone in the armory long after Sibylla had departed. The walled courtyard bore the evidence of many practice battles, such as he’d witnessed the day before. There were various circles where the grassy turf was worn to dirt and the thick oaken posts used for sword practice bore deep scars.

  Had he not been taken from Fettercairn, would he also have been taught these same martial skills? Countless times, he’d wondered how different his life might have been had he had a normal boyhood with a mother and a father. Until now, he’d had no exposure to such things. As a child he’d known only work and prayer. His hands were well-callused, not from sword bearing but from five years of scraping animal hides.

  In the short time since he’d arrived at Castle Kilmuir, he’d come to realize what he’d missed as a boy—the warmth and familiarity of a family. Although the monks regarded one another as brothers, they were nothing like a true family—at least not the kind he’d seen at Kilmuir—the kind he’d ached for as a boy. Over time, he’d learned to be content at the monastery but, in his heart, he’d always yearned for something more.

  Once he’d grown into manhood, he’d believed he’d put his boyhood yearnings behind him, but now he was even more painfully aware of what was missing. He was almost overwhelmed by a sense of loss for what had been taken from him.

  By the time Alex arrived for breakfast, the kitchen was empty except for Sibylla’s grandmother, Lady Olith, who sat by the hearth with a rug spread atop her legs. The hearth was barely smoldering. Thinking she might grow cold, he rose to throw another brick of peak onto the fire. The flames quickly flickered to life, filling his nostrils with its sweet, smoky scent as the fire began to consume the fuel.

  “So the young monk 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. It was the first time they had exchanged words and he felt oddly ill at ease in her presence. He generally avoided taking his meals with the family, preferring instead the kitchen. He’d come to Castle Kilmuir 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. But then again, he’d felt much like an outsider his entire life.

  “So ye fancy, Sibylla?” the old woman remarked, as if reading his thoughts.

  Alex nearly choked on his bannock. He was quick to wash it down with ale. How could the blind woman know of his growing interest in her granddaughter? She couldn’t have seen them together. Had Sibylla told her or had someone spied on them?

  “I’m bound for the monastery,” he replied. He’d never given much thought to anything else until now. But if he committed himself to the monastic life, he would never experience a wife or family. The thought brought him little joy.

  “So ye say.” Ignoring his rebuttal, the old woman continued, staring sightlessly into the fire. “She carries the blood of two kings, but yer bairns will bear the blood of three.”

  She made no sense, but Alex humored her.” “Even if I did seek marriage, I would ne’er look so high above myself,” he protested. Nevertheless, he couldn’t deny his growing attraction to Sibylla. She fascinated him in a way he couldn’t fathom.

  “Ye will have many bairns. From yer loins will spring two sons and many daughters. They will sire two great clans that will spread across the Highlands from east to west… but with this great blessing also comes a curse.”

  “A curse?”

  “Yer son’s sons will ever be at odds. Relentlessly, they will make war upon one another—until the verra 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. Alex swallowed the remainder of his meal and drained his cup. “Thank ye for the bannocks.”

  He wasn’t a superstitious man, but her words set him on edge. Though he tried to dismiss her ominous prophecy, he left the kitchen with a sense of disquiet even more powerful than what he’d felt when MacAedh had recognized his knife. Was there any truth in the old woman’s words?

  As he returned to his room to prepare for Domnall’s lessons, Alex’s thoughts kept straying back to the portentous prediction spoken by the old woman. It was ludicrous, of course. But why had she chosen him as the subject of her strange divination? Could there be any truth in it?

  Sibylla had asked him what he wanted most in life. He hadn’t answered because he didn’t dare confess to her that his greatest desire was to belong somewhere. He’d only come to Kilmuir for a short time and when he had fulfilled his obligations, he would return to his old life. When he returned to Portmahomack, his memory of Kilmuir would eventually fade with time, but would he ever forget the girl with the red-gold hair and sea green eyes?

  *

  Sibylla arrived at the dining hall to find breakfast was half-finished. She slinked into her seat, stealthily grabbed the last bannock from the basket, and then reached for the pitcher of cider.

  “Yer late, Sibylla,” her mother remarked with a look of concern. “Are ye unwell?”

  “Nae, Máthair,” Sibylla shook her head, hoping there would be no further questions.

  “Sibylla was up betimes,” Fiona chimed in. “She was already gone when Ailis and I awoke.”

  Ailis shot her a warning look. Why couldn’t Fiona ever hold her tongue? Stupid girl!

  “Is that so?” her mother asked, gaze narrowing. “What pulled ye from bed so bright and early, Sibylla?”

  “I—uh—” Sibylla stumbled over her tongue trying to come up with a reason. “I was gathering eggs,” she blurted as she poured a cup of cider.

  “Aye?” Her mother cocked a brow. “And just how many eggs did yer dead hen produce today?”

  Sibylla’s hand froze on the pitcher. How could she have forgotten?

  “What happened to yer hand?” Fiona asked.

  Sibylla gave Fiona a shushing look and nudged her shin beneath the table.

  “Ouch!” Fiona cried out. “What was that for?”

  “Sibylla,” MacAedh’s deep voice rippled ominously down her spine. “Since ye now find yerself caught in yer deception, perhaps ye’d like to honor us with the truth. Why are ye late and what happened to yer hand?”

  Sibylla dropped her gaze and licked her lips. She was a poor liar to begin with;
uttering another falsehood would only make matters worse. “I went to the armory,” she replied, careful to avoid any direct mention of Alexander.

  “Aye? And what were ye doing there?” he asked.

  “I wanted to learn how to throw a knife,” she answered. “I cut myself while practicing.”

  “If ye wanted to learn how to defend yerself, why did ye nae have Domnall teach ye?” She cringed as MacAedh’s gaze scanned the length of the dining hall. “It seems our tutor is also absent.” His remark was soft but his eyes were sharp. She squirmed on the bench as his inscrutable black gaze landed back on her.

  “Alexander often breaks his fast in the kitchen,” Sibylla remarked.

  “Sibylla has become far too familiar with our tutor’s habits,” her mother interjected.

  “I only asked Alexander to teach me,” Sibylla protested. “I dinna ask Domnall because he isna as skilled as Alexander.”

  Her brother’s face flushed. “He was lucky with his throw. ’Tis no kind of defense, Sibylla, to throw away yer weapon. If ye want to learn to protect yerself, I’ll teach ye proper.”

  “Thank ye, Domnall,” she replied, hoping the issue was closed.

  “’Tis nae seemly to meet a young man alone, Sibylla,” her mother scolded. “Were he nae a monk…” She looked to MacAedh.

  “Monk or nae, the lad should ken better,” MacAedh responded with a scowl. “I’ll be having a word with Alexander.”

  Sibylla’s heart sank into the pit of her stomach. Would Alexander be punished? Or worse, would he be sent away? “Please, Uncle,” she pleaded. “He did nothing wrong. He was only obliging my request.”

  “It that so?” MacAedh’s expression was fraught with warning. “Then it best nae happen again.”

  “I understand, Uncle,” she murmured.

  What had she done? By teaching her to read, Alexander had offered her an escape from her dull, predictable life. But now it appeared she’d already sabotaged any chance that her uncle would allow it. She tried to console herself that MacAedh’s current displeasure would soon be forgotten, but it was highly unlikely he’d permit any further private interaction between them. Sibylla didn’t know which bothered her more, losing the opportunity to read, or the chance to be alone with Alexander.

  *

  Scrubbing his face, Alex sat down at his writing table determined to apply himself to something constructive, only to find his concentration faltering. Though he tried to focus on the history lesson, he was far too distracted. An impatient rap on his chamber door came as a welcome diversion from his thoughts.

  He rose quickly but before he could answer, Domnall flung it open, announcing with hands mounted on his hips, “I’ve come for my instruction.”

  “Ye needna regard it as punishment,” Alex replied. “If ye give it half a chance, ye might even enjoy it.”

  “That’s doubtful.” Domnall flung himself into a chair with a loud sigh. “I’m no scholar! Why canna my uncle understand that?”

  “He only acts in yer best interest,” Alex said.

  “But I’ve ne’er taken to books. I havena the patience for it.”

  “Perhaps ye havena read the right ones?” Alex suggested. “Have ye heard of Homer? Surely ye would enjoy The Odyssey and The Iliad.”

  Domnall’s scowl deepened. “I’ve little enough use for Latin and none at all for Greek.”

  “Ye ken naught of the Spartans? Of the Trojans?” Alex shook his head with a tsk. “’Tis a pity. The study of past wars often allows us to gain valuable insights.”

  “Why should I care about ancient history?”

  “Why, indeed, should ye care about ancient conflicts? What value could there possibly be in studying a confederation of quarrelsome city states who defeated the powerful empire who would have enslaved them?”

  Domnall’s brow wrinkled. “What history is this?”

  “The Greek conflict with Persia,” Alex answered. “The Battle of Thermopylae, although ultimately lost by the Greeks, is the ultimate example of the power of a patriotic force defending its homeland. The Spartans fought with unparalleled courage against overwhelming odds. Herodotus tells us this tale in great detail.”

  “But I dinna read Greek,” Domnall said.

  “Then ’tis fortunate for ye that I do,” Alex answered with a smile. It wasn’t that Domnall lacked intelligence, but he’d seemed to have no motivation to learn. He was the grandson of a king. Knowledge of history would serve him well if he ever wished to claim his birthright.

  He opened the book and began to read, easily translating the work into a vernacular that Domnall could comprehend. For the first time, Domnall became actively engaged in asking questions and seeking answers. He was particularly fascinated with Herodotus’ account of the Greco-Persian wars. Until this moment, it had seemed that coming to Kilmuir was all a waste of time, but now Alex felt as if he’d come to Kilmuir to serve a greater purpose—to help prepare Domnall for his future.

  After an hours-long discussion of famous battles and conquests of antiquity, Alex closed finally closed the book. “Same time tomorrow?”

  “Aye.” Domnall nodded. “As long as ye dinna try to force feed me Latin.”

  “Mayhap we’ll just continue with Herodotus,” Alex agreed.

  With a look of relief and a murmur of thanks, Domnall turned toward the door.

  “Domnall?” Alex stalled him as he laid his hand on the latch.

  “Aye?”

  “Would ye be willing to allow Lady Sibylla to attend yer lessons?”

  Domnall frowned. “Why?”

  “Because she told me that she canna read.”

  Domnall shrugged. “Many people canna read.”

  “But she wants to learn,” Alex argued, surprised by his lack of concern. “Why deny her such a simple desire?”

  Domnall’s gaze narrowed. “Why are ye so concerned with my sister?”

  “I would concern myself with anyone who voiced a yearning to learn,” Alex replied.

  “Is that why ye met her in the armory this morn?” Domnall asked.

  “She told ye?”

  “MacAedh forced her confession,” Domnall said.

  “Forced?” Alex swallowed hard. He hadn’t read the thane as a violent man. “If anyone is to be punished, it should be me,” Alex replied, resolved to confess the truth and face whatever penalty MacAedh would mete out.

  “’Tis nae what ye think,” Domnall assured him. “She received only a reprimand, but MacAedh wishes to speak with ye when we are finished. MacAedh chooses to give ye the benefit of doubt, but dinna take it as weakness.” He added in warning as he turned for the door, “Ye’ll deeply regret it if ye ever cross MacAedh or any member of this family.”

  Chapter Six

  After searching the castle, Alex found MacAedh, in the outer bailey working the forge. With sleeves rolled back, the thane of Kilmuir tapped the hammer on the anvil.

  Sparks snapped in the air as he began molding a bar of white hot iron into shape.

  “Ye sent for me?” Alex said.

  “Aye,” MacAedh said, his dark eyes unreadable. “I would ken yer interest in my niece, Sibylla.”

  “I was only obliging her request to show her how to throw the sgian-dubh.”

  “And that is why ye met her secretly in the armory?” He glanced up briefly before striking another forceful blow with his hammer.

  “I realize now that it was ill-advised,” Alex confessed. “I should have asked ye first. I meant no disrespect.”

  “Sibylla should have asked,” MacAedh corrected. “But that lass has a way of bending others to her will.” He illustrated his point by bending his iron into the rough shape of a horseshoe. “Ye are nae the first of her victims, nor will ye be the last. Be mindful of feminine wiles, Alexander. A man can all too easily get caught up in their snares.”

  “But ye’ve managed to avoid them?” Alex remarked.

  “Aye,” MacAedh responded with a dry laugh. “I’ve been fortunate thus far, but no doub
t my days of unfettered freedom are numbered.”

  The thane’s answer surprised him. He’d always believed that nobles put a high priority on siring sons. “Ye dinna wish to take a wife?” Alex asked. “To have bairns?”

  “Aye. Eventually,” MacAedh said. The bucket answered with a hiss of steam as he submerged the searing iron into the water. “But my life is too uncertain. I wouldna take a wife unless I could offer security.”

  “Security? But ye are Thane of Kilmuir,” Alex said.

  “I am, indeed, thane… and carpenter… and stone mason… and smith,” he replied with a humorless laugh. “I became master of all trades the day the king’s army came recruiting. They always conscript the smith first. ’Tis how they keep us in check, by taking our men and any means we have of making weapons.”

  He retrieved the shaped iron from the bucket and laid it down with his tongs. He said nothing more until he’d doused the inferno that blazed inside the forge.

  MacAedh then stood and wiped the sweat from his brow. “’Tis our payment in kind,” he added bitterly, “and how we remain here. If I refused to provide soldiers, we would soon find ourselves homeless. ’Tis also why this place is in such disrepair.” He nodded to the castle. “There are too few men left to do all the work and still provide for their families. We have had a reprieve for the past two years but the moment the English are done fighting themselves David Cenn Mór will send his men north to recruit.” His words suggested resignation but his tone bared deep resentment.

  “Is that why Domnall and the others train?” Alex asked. “Will they be conscripted?”

  “They train for their own purpose,” MacAedh answered cagily. “But any who refuse to join the king’s army will be counted as traitors against the crown. This places Domnall in a dangerous position. If he were to go south, even in the king’s service, I fear for his life. Few kinsmen of the Cenn Mórs ever die of natural causes. They have a remarkable talent for eliminating anyone they view as a threat to their power.”

  “Is Domnall a threat?” Alex asked.