Virtue

by Victoria Vane

  MacAedh’s gaze became less fierce and more probing. “Many weeks? Ye go then to the Highlands?”

  “Aye,” Alex said. “We will be certain to pay our respects at Kilmuir.” It was as much as Alex dared to say, but he hoped MacAedh would comprehend Alex’s true purpose.

  MacAedh inclined his head in a silent show of acknowledgement.

  “Have ye had a change of heart regarding the king’s demands?” Alex asked, certain his conversation was monitored.

  “Hell will freeze before I pledge myself,” MacAedh replied between clenched teeth.

  “He will likely kill ye first,” Alex softly warned. “If there is aught ye would like to confess, ’twould be best to do so now.”

  “Since I might well be dead when ye return, I had best make my last confession.”

  Performing the sign of the cross, MacAedh then shut his eyes and recited, “Forgive me, Faither, for I have sinned…”

  Alex left MacAedh feeling fearful and frustrated. What if it was true? What if he returned to find his friend dead? MacAedh could very well starve to death if the king did not put him first to the sword. He felt so helpless that there was nothing he could do to free him. Domnall’s capitulation was MacAedh’s only hope. Would he come? Would he sacrifice his ambitions to save his kinsman’s life?

  Chapter Sixteen

  Castle Kilmuir

  Nearly a sennight of anxious days and sleepless nights had passed since Ailis’ departure, with still no word from anyone. Was this the lot of a woman, always to be left waiting in uncertainty? Sibylla felt so restless… and so empty.

  Her heart ached not just for Alex, but also for her stepfather, Fergus, and half-brother, Duncan. Would they be released? Or would they perish on some far away battlefield? She hated feeling so helpless.

  Ailis, at least, had taken her destiny into her own hands. Only Sibylla knew the real reason she’d volunteered to go to Kintyre. She wondered if Ailis would return. Sibylla hoped that her cousin was wrong about the pregnancy, and that she could reclaim her old life at Kilmuir. But even if she returned, nothing would ever be the same.

  On the morning of the thirteenth day, Sibylla went alone to Cnoc Croit na Maoile. Spreading her arisaid, she lay beneath the great oak and shut her eyes, willing herself to recall her first kiss with Alexander—a memory she’d locked away in her heart. The remembrance of it still heated her blood like a midsummer banefire.

  She loved him and he’d made her a promise. But would that promise now be broken? So many unexpected things had happened—all beyond their control. Their troubles were like distant thunder, warning of the approaching storm.

  She sat up and gazed down at the firth with a sigh, only to catch sight of a flicker of white, barely perceptible through the dissipating fog.

  A bird or a sail?

  Her heart raced as she shielded her eyes and squinted. After several breathless moments, the shape of a boat emerged. Was it just fishermen or could there finally be news from her uncle?

  Sibylla’s snatched up her plaid and flew down the path. Ignoring the briars tearing at her flesh, she ran as fast as her legs could carry her. Her lungs and legs burned by the time she reached the castle gate, yet she pressed on, bolting through the bailey and scuttling down the embankment to the sea gate where, indeed, a fishing boat approached. There were two men aboard, one of whom wore the black robes of a monk.

  Her heart leapt into her throat. Could it be MacAedh and Alexander?

  As the vessel moored, her rising hopes were quickly dashed. She choked back tears of disappointment as they tied the vessel. The first man she didn’t recognize, and the one in the robes had the bald head and stooped form of an old man. Father Gregor?

  Her steps once more quickened. Anxiously, she met him at the sea gate. “Faither, have ye news of Uncle and Alexander?”

  “Aye,” he replied, “But ’tis nae good. I must speak with yer brother, Domnall, at once.”

  “He is nae here,” Sibylla said.

  “When do ye expect his return?” the priest asked.

  “I canna say,” Sibylla answered.

  “I come on a verra urgent matter,” he insisted.

  “Then ye must speak with Màthair and Grandmother,” Sibylla replied. “Please come, both of ye, to the keep and refresh yerselves.”

  Unlike their treatment of the last messenger, the women of Kilmuir did not hold back their questions until after their guests had taken their fill of food and drink. This time, Father Gregor was compelled to recount his story between sips of ale and spoonfuls of mutton stew.

  “Will the king kill my brother?” her mother asked after the priest had related the tale of MacAedh’s imprisonment.

  “Though the king might have ye believe it so, ’twould nae serve his purpose to kill him,” the priest replied. “So long as Domnall is free, he will try to use MacAedh to coerce Domnall to renounce his claim and swear fealty to Prince Malcolm.”

  “What if Domnall refuses?” Sibylla asked. Were it in her hands, she would do all possible to save her kinsman, even if it meant begging for his life, but Domnall would never forgive the shame the king had cast upon them. Since their father’s death four years ago, Domnall had burned for the day he would reclaim what had been taken away.

  “Presumably, the king will try to appease him with lands,” the priest said.

  Her mother voiced Sibylla’s thoughts. “Domnall will ne’er give up his birthright without a fight.” Her brother might settle for the regency in the hope of achieving more, but he would never accept a bribe of lands and titles as their father had done. “He is even now seeking an alliance with Somerled in the event that the king refuses to acknowledge his claim.”

  The priest set his cup down and stared into the fire. “If word of this alliance reaches the king, MacAedh and Domnall are both as good as dead.”

  “What is to be done?” Sibylla asked.

  Why didn’t her brother and uncle simply give the king what he wanted? ’Twas only words! Then again, she was a woman, not burdened with the curse of male pride. Women and men viewed the world through very different eyes. Men craved power, while women most valued protection. And at present, the men of Kilmuir were powerless and the women had no protection.

  “I fear there is naught to be done,” Father Gregor replied. “The king has his spies and MacAedh is at his mercy unless Domnall bends to his will.”

  “Domnall will nae bend,” Sibylla said. “What of Alexander?” she asked. “Ye have made no mention of him. Is he also imprisoned?”

  “Nae.” The priest rubbed his bald pate with a sigh. “But ’twould be far better for him if he were.”

  “What can ye mean?” Sibylla asked.

  “Alexander has been taken into the king’s service,” the priest replied.

  “He was taken into service? Ye mean coerced?” Sibylla said.

  “He had little choice. Alexander is to accompany the young Prince Malcolm and the Earl of Fife on a tour of the Highlands. To refuse the king’s request would have aroused both the king’s displeasure and his suspicion.”

  “A tour of the Highlands?” Sibylla’s grandmother asked. “To what purpose?”

  “The king seeks to reform the monasteries. He believes we have spread heresy,” Father Gregor stated, a scowl hanging over his brow.

  “If he is sending soldiers on this Highland crusade, slaughter will follow if any resist,” the old woman said.

  “’Tis certain some will.” The priest heaved a melancholy sigh. “At the expense of martyrdom.”

  “Would ye be among them?” Sibylla quietly asked. “Those who would resist?”

  “Nae.” The old priest shook his head with a humorless laugh. “I am no martyr. I would rather step aside as abbot of Portmahomack than be burned for a heretic.”

  “Where will ye go?” Sibylla asked.

  “Dinna fret for me,” the old priest reassured. “One does nae live as long as I without learning something of the art of survival.”

  �
�And Alexander?” Sibylla asked. “Surely he also risks his life staying at court.”

  “Aye,” the priest agreed.

  “Then why does he do it?” Sibylla barely choked out the question. “He promised to return!”

  “He stays because he can do more good where he is,” the priest replied. “He hopes to soften the king toward MacAedh, and hopes to gain some influence over the prince. He was most insistent that I explain to ye why he canna leave court.” The priest laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. “He cares greatly for ye all at Kilmuir, but for ye in particular, Sibylla. He begs ye to understand.”

  “I do,” Sibylla said. Could the king be persuaded to release their kinsmen? If not, what would befall them?

  “We canna place all of our faith in Alexander’s ability to influence the king,” her grandmother said. “Do ye think for a minute they will hesitate to murder Highlanders who dinna renounce their faith or swear allegiance to the heir?”

  “Nae,” Sibylla replied softly. A marching army always meant certain bloodshed. “I will go to Dunfermline and plead with the king for Uncle’s life,” Sibylla declared.

  “Nae!” he mother protested. “I will nae have ye endangered.”

  “As the daughter of Fitz Duncan, the Cenn Mór will nae mistreat her,” the old woman said. “But dinna think he will soften.”

  “If he doesna, we have nae choice but to fight,” her mother said.

  “Then we must learn more of their plans and the route they will take.” The old woman looked to the priest.

  “Me?” Father Gregor replied. “Ye wish me to act as a spy?”

  She shrugged her bony shoulders. “Would ye rather see the monasteries burned to the ground and the monks flogged to death?”

  “I wouldna, could I help it,” the priest confessed. “But I willna have blood on my hands!”

  “’Twill nae come to blood unless, the king refuses to release MacAedh,” the old woman said.

  “I will do it,” Sibylla said. “If the king refuses to negotiate with us, I will endeavor to discover the prince’s travel route in the event we must fight.”

  “What if ye are first discovered?” her mother asked.

  “I ken well how to spy,” Sibylla reassured her mother. “I have crept about this castle since the day I arrived.”

  “Even if ye were to learn anything useful, how would ye send a message?” Sibylla’s mother asked.

  Sibylla turned to Father Gregor. “Would ye be willing to act as my messenger, Faither?”

  The priest looked hesitant. “If ye swear ’twill be no bloodshed, I will return with ye to Dunfermline.”

  “I canna promise,” Sibylla replied. “But ’tis our only hope of preventing it.”

  *

  Keeping his promise, Father Gregor left Kilmuir to warn the monks of Portmahomack of what was to come, and then returned a few days later, to accompany Sibylla to Dunfermline. For her protection, he brought the black robe of a monk. Thus disguised, the two made the long trek southward.

  “Ye must nae speak,” Father Gregor warned as they approached the city gates.

  Holding her tongue was easy enough. Sibylla was almost afraid to breathe as the gatekeeper peered out at them from behind the barred windows. He addressed Father Gregor in a tongue she recognized as Anglo-Norman, though she couldn’t understand the words. The priest’s reply was lengthy and equally incomprehensible.

  Though she kept her gaze downcast, she could sense the priest’s growing agitation as the gatekeeper’s inquiry continued. Her pulse raced. Had they done something to arouse suspicion?

  What is wrong? Why are they not opening the gate?

  “Prince Malcolm has just arrived. The king has decreed that nae strangers are to be admitted,” the priest explained.

  Nae! Nae! She wanted to scream. This could nae be happening! Should she reveal her identity and her purpose? She could do nothing to help her uncle if she could not even get inside. “What should we do?” she whispered.

  Though she kept her voice low, her whisper had caught the gatekeeper’s attention. Suddenly feeling his eyes upon her, she glanced up to see him nod to the soldiers flanking the entrance. With spears at the ready, they approached. Without warning, one of them ripped back her cowl to reveal her face.

  “Cette une fille!” the soldier declared with a look of surprise that quickly transformed to a lecherous leer. Though she didn’t understand his words, no command of his tongue was needed to know the soldier’s thoughts. He clearly had taken her for a harlot.

  The gatekeeper scowled at Father Gregor as another flurry of foreign words passed between them.

  “I told them ye came to pledge yerself as a nun, but they dinna believe my story,” the priest murmured to her in Gaelic. “They think yer my… er…” Father Gregor flushed clear to the top of his bald head.

  Believing the error was her best defense, Sibylla gazed up at the soldier with a wanton smile. But her confidence in the ruse began to waver when two armed guards flanked the priest, and crumbled altogether when another one clamped vise-like hands around her arms. “What is happening now?” Sibylla whispered.

  “I must answer to the bishop,” the priest replied, adding with a look of fearful resignation. “But ye will be taken before the justiciar.”

  “Why?” Sibylla asked as panic rose like bitter bile into her throat.

  “Because harlotry is nae tolerated at Dunfermline,” the priest answered. “If he finds ye guilty, ye will be stoned.”

  Was there nothing more he could say in her defense? Her mind raced. She could not afford to err again. “Tell them who I am!” she urged. “Tell them I must see the king at once!”

  The priest appealed to deaf ears and indifferent stares. They didn’t believe her. Worse, she had no proof to offer in her defense.

  Fear and foreboding welled inside Sibylla as the soldier tore her away from the priest and escorted her to a tiny room deep inside the gatehouse where several unsavory, genderless characters regarded her with speculation in their hollow eyes and mockery in their toothless smiles. The smells of urine, feces and unwashed bodies were enough to make her gag. Was she to be held in this common jail rife with rats and disease?

  “Nae! I must see the king!” she shrieked and kicked in protest.

  But her words were as ineffectual as her flailing limbs. While one man opened the door, the other restrained her and then shoved her inside. Hitting the stone floor Sibylla, scuttled away from the filthy, clawing hands into the corner, where she curled into a defensive ball, hoping and praying that someone would soon come to release her.

  Her plan was so simple! How could it have failed so miserably?

  Sibylla remained in her corner until long after darkness fell, when finally giving in to hunger, exhaustion and terror, she pulled her robe tightly about her, buried her face in her hands, and wept.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Dunfermline Abbey

  Alex laid down his quill at the sound of the bells summoning all of Dunfermline to evening prayer. Though he might have dubious motives, the king himself rarely missed a prayer service, and ensured that the hours of worship were strictly observed by all who resided there.

  Alex had easily fallen back into the monastic routine, but it felt meaningless now, as if he merely went through the motions. His heart ached for Kilmuir and the girl who awaited him there. And every passing day, this hollow in his chest seemed only to expand.

  Soon, the prince would be departing for the Highlands with visits at the monasteries at Rosemarkie and Portmahomack, both within a day’s ride of Kilmuir. If only he had some way to send word to Sibylla. If there was any way possible to see her, even for a moment, he vowed he would find a way to do it.

  “Brother Alexander?” Alex felt a hand on his shoulder as he exited his tiny chamber. “The bishop wishes to see ye,” Brother Aubert said.

  “But the king will expect me at prayer,” Alex replied. In the days since he’d arrived, he’d taken great care not to rouse th
e king’s displeasure. “Pray tell the bishop I will come afterwards.”

  “’Tis a matter of great import,” Brother Aubert insisted. “Ye will nae be missed. The king has taken again to his sickbed.”

  Alex nodded his acknowledgement. “Thank ye, Brother Aubert. In that case, I will go now.” Alex was vitally aware of his precarious position at court. What was so urgent that the bishop would have him forgo evening prayer?

  Much like a salmon traveling upstream, Alex made his way against the current of black robed figures bound for the cathedral. The corridors were empty and eerily silent by the time he reached the bishop’s private quarters. He knocked softly and awaited the reply.

  “Enter,” a voice called.

  Alex opened the chamber door and was surprised to find Father Gregor. His expression was grim and his color ashen. “My son,” the old man rose and greeted him with a look of sheer dread that sent Alex’s heart racing.

  “Where is the bishop?” Alex asked.

  “’Twas nae the bishop but I who sent for ye,” Father Gregor explained.

  “But I thought ye had returned to Portmahomack,” Alex said.

  “I did, but I was compelled to return.”

  “Did ye see Sibylla?” Alex asked. “Is all well at Kilmuir?”

  “Lady Sibylla is the reason for my return,” Father Gregor answered. “She came to Dunfermline to plead for MacAedh.”

  “She is here?” Alex’s gaze darted expectantly about the room. “Where is she? I must see her!”

  Father Gregor drew a breath and blurted. “There was incident.”

  “An incident? What do ye mean an incident? Is she hurt?”

  “’Twas all a grave misunderstanding. I tried to tell them the truth, but they dinna believe me. ’Tis only now that I was even allowed to explain myself to the bishop, but he will nae let me see her without permission from the king.”

  “Where is she?” Alex demanded. He needed answers and the priest was sputtering nonsense!

  “In the gatehouse jail,” Father Gregor replied. “The guards mistook her for a… whore.”