Sibylla stared after him not knowing what to think. Was she a prisoner here or a guest? She’d been given a lavish chamber and her wounds had been tended by the king’s own physician. The earl had been polite but there was suspicion in his manner and coldness in his courtesy that told her he was motivated by command rather than kindness. At least he spoke her tongue.
A servant entered a few minutes later with a tray of food. The woman said nothing as she came to Sibylla’s side offering a bowl of watery gruel and a cup of cider. As unappetizing as it appeared, her stomach still responded with a loud grumble. Determined to regain her strength, Sibylla allowed the maid, Heloise, to assist her. Once she was strong again and permitted to leave her bed, she would finally achieve her purpose—a private audience with the king.
*
Alexander could hardly tear himself from Sibylla’s chamber. It had taken a force of will to sit by her side with a suitable air of compassionate detachment when his very soul cried out to take her into his arms. He’d nearly fallen apart in the jail when he’d found her, but if the captain of the guard had suspected anything more than friendship between Alex and Sibylla, he’d thankfully said nothing.
He felt almost as if he’d abandoned her in a lion’s den. Yet, he knew she would now receive the best of care with the king’s personal physician attending her. He could tarry no longer. The Earl of Fife and Prince Malcolm were ready to depart and the earl had already called for him. He’d had to suffice with a touch of her hand and a whispered goodbye. He prayed both for her rapid recovery and his swift return, but both were beyond his control.
Alex found both the earl and the prince at the king’s stables. Both were already mounted and the earl looked extremely perturbed. “I don’t like to be left waiting,” he retorted, adding with a look of condemnation, “One hopes this is not yer habit.”
“Nae, my lord,” Alex replied contritely. “I meant no disrespect to ye or his Highness.” He regarded the prince for the first time. He was pale faced, weak-chinned and slight of build. He also appeared as if he hadn’t yet entered puberty. This boy was the heir to the kingdom? “I beg yer forgiveness,” Alex continued. “There was an incident that required my assistance. A kinswoman to the king was in distress.”
“A kinswoman?” the prince remarked with a frown. “I was nae aware of any kinswomen at court. Who is she?”
“Her name is Lady Sibylla Mac William of Kilmuir. She only recently arrived in Dunfermline.”
“Mac William? I know not this name.” His frown deepened. “What is her relationship to the king?”
“She is a granddaughter of the king’s half-brother, Duncan Cenn Mór.”
He took a moment to digest the information. “So she is also my cousin?”
“Aye. That she would be,” Alex replied.
“I think I should like to meet her.”
“’Tis nae possible at present,” Alex said. “She was gravely injured and lies unconscious in the late queen’s bedchamber. ’Tis why I am late.”
“What happened to her?” the prince asked with a look of concern.
“She was attacked. I found her.” He saw no reason to elaborate.
He turned to the Earl of Fife. “As Chief Justiciar, I trust ye will ensure her assailant is suitably punished?”
“’Twill be done upon our return,” the earl pledged.
“Our return?” The prince’s gaze narrowed. “Ye would let such a grave matter rest?”
“Highness,” the earl addressed the boy with more than a hint of condescension. “By the time we finish the tour, this matter will no doubt have resolved itself.” He continued with a grim smile. “Prisoners at court rarely last beyond a month.”
His remark made Alex even more acutely aware of MacAedh’s deteriorating condition. “What of political prisoners?” Alex asked.
“If ye refer to MacAedh of Kilmuir, he will live as long as the king desires him to,” the earl answered blithely.
Alex swallowed that bitter reality with effort. Unless Sibylla could soften the king, it was entirely possible that MacAedh would be dead when he returned.
“MacAedh is also from Kilmuir? Is he my kinsman as well?” the prince asked.
“Aye,” Alex replied. “Lady Sibylla came to court to petition for his life.”
“What crime has he committed?” the prince asked.
“The worst of crimes,” the Earl of Fife interjected. “By refusing to swear allegiance to ye, he is guilty of treason.”
“What reason has he to be against me?” the prince asked.
“Tis nae so much against ye as for his nephew, Lady Sibylla’s brother, Domnall,” Alex explained. “He believes he has a claim to the throne.”
“But I am the eldest son and heir of Prince Henry, the king’s eldest son and heir,” the prince voiced an indignant protest. “There can be no superior claim.”
The Earl of Fife regarded Alex with a silencing glare. “He is a pretender, Highness. They are wont to appear out of the woodwork any time the succession comes into question.”
“There is no question,” the prince said. “I am the designated heir to the crown of Scotland.” With a scrape of steel, he unsheathed the sword by his side. Raising it with bravado, he proclaimed, “Any who deny me will face my sword.”
The earl responded with an indulgent smile. “As your champion, they will first face mine. My horse grows restless. Mount up, Brother Alexander and let us be off.”
*
Over the next three days of riding with the prince and the earl, Alex spoke little and observed much. Thus far, Alex had seen little to inspire his confidence in the king’s heir.
The young prince had lived a coddled and pampered life. He was soft and used to a life of ease. Yet, he talked incessantly about Norman knights and their battles.
The young prince spoke in such a glorified fashion that Alex wondered if he’d ever actually witnessed bloodshed. At night, Alex had made camp among the prince’s retinue, a force comprised of dozens of highly trained knights who functioned as the prince’s personal guarde de corps along with two hundred foot soldiers. Though the earl commanded the troops’ respect, there were quiet murmurings among the men for having to answer to the whims of a fanciful child. While Alex refrained from comment, the Earl of Fife, one of the king’s most experienced warriors, responded to the lad’s fanciful chatter with trite remarks and indulgent smiles.
If the king’s plans of succession prevailed, there was no doubt in Alex’s mind who would truly be the ruler of Scotland. The Earl of Fife, descended from the great Mac Duff was the king’s closest friend and most trusted advisor. His guardianship of the prince’s life was further witness to the king’s faith in him. As regent, would he remain faithful to the prince or would he, as others before him, succumb to the seduction of power? Would he allow the prince to grow into the role of sovereign, or would the earl simply seek to shelter and control him? His actions would eventually reveal the true man.
Alex worried about the fate of his beloved Scotland. The Earls of Fife and Mearns were the only native Scots in all of the king’s court but both men had long ago abandoned the Gaelic tongue along with their Celtic heritage, and now would even betray the Celtic church. With the prince’s fanaticism for Norman feudalism, there seemed little hope of maintaining Scottish independence from England if Malcolm assumed the throne. Independence of any kind was not tolerated under the English feudal system. The king controlled everything. Even the centuries old monasteries were no longer safe and secure.
Much depended on the outcome of the prince’s tour. Should he fail to win over the people, or worse, further alienate them, civil war would surely follow. Although Alex detested the idea of war, weren’t some things worth fighting for? The right to worship? The right to live freely without fear of being conscripted into the king’s army?
Should he become regent, Alex believed that Domnall Mac William would put Scottish interests first, but Domnall was reckless and rash, and had proven that he
would not heed those with superior wisdom and experience. Would he truly be a better king? The question lingered long in his mind.
It had been little over a fortnight since he and MacAedh had driven livestock to Inverness, yet it seemed as if years had passed. As they approached the castle, Alex wondered if Fergus and the others from Kilmuir were still held captive, or if they had already been conscripted.
The moment the earl hailed the gatekeeper, the castle gates were thrown open for the approaching men. Fife might not be well liked in the Highlands but as Chief Justiciar, he commanded both fear and respect.
“My lord,” Alex addressed the earl as they dismounted in the outer baily. “When I first ventured from Portmahomack, I was offered protection by a number of men from Castle Kilmuir. They were being held here until the thane could resolve a tax dispute.”
“Aye? And what has this to do with me?” the earl asked.
“I would humbly suggest that if the prince wishes to establish goodwill in the Highlands, perhaps he might inquire if they are treated well?”
The prince looked eagerly to the earl who considered the question. “Who, precisely, are these men? Might they present a danger to the prince?”
“One of them is brother-in-law to MacAedh, Thane of Kilmuir,” Alex said. “The others are mere lads, much of an age with the prince. They are farm boys and drovers. They present nae danger.” Alex held his breath, hoping the earl would concede to allow the prince to see the captives.
“I would nae advise contact with MacAedh’s kinsman,” the earl replied. “As to the others,” he shrugged. “I will let the prince decide.”
“I would speak with them,” the prince declared. “’Tis good for the peasantry to see their future king.”
“Nevertheless, ye will take a bodyguard,” the earl commanded. “Be aware, Highness, that though they be lads, Highlanders are a dangerous lot and as like to turn on ye as rabid dogs.” The prince’s gaze flickered with uncertainty as the earl added, “One must ne’er hesitate to slay a rabid dog.”
With a slight bow to the prince, the earl then turned to his men. Prince Malcolm’s gaze followed the earl as he conferred with two knights. A moment later, the two knights joined Alex and the prince, following at a discreet distance as they entered the castle.
“I will be a great knight one day,” Prince Malcolm declared, his eyes shining.
“Ye will sooner be a king,” Alex said.
“But anyone can be a king,” the prince replied, surprising Alex with his indifference. “One need only be born to one. But only the bravest and most virtuous of men become knights. Knights are sworn protectors of the king and guardians of the kingdom. They defend the poor and helpless. There is no higher calling,” the prince insisted.
“What of the clergy?” Alex softly asked. “Is the work of God nae the highest calling?”
The prince looked only momentarily chagrinned. “God has chosen me for the highest calling of all. I will be king.”
“A great king does nae always have to wield a sword,” Alex said. “Compassion and mercy are oft more effective in winning the people.” Alex carefully planted another seed. Only if the prince wished to appear beneficent, would he be able to secure the captives’ freedom.
“What need I to win the people when I have been given the throne?” the prince asked.
Alex wondered if the prince spoke out of ignorance or conceit. Did he not understand the danger of such disregard and hubris?
“With God’s blessing,” the prince continued, “I will be both the greatest knight and the most glorious king Scotland has ever known.”
*
The conditions of the castle prison were much like the gatehouse jail, with far less crowding. MacAedh’s kinsmen were grouped together in one cell while a few other men occupied the next. Upon Alex’s entrance, their eyes widened in recognition that quickly turned to speculation as they took notice of the prince.
“Rise to greet yer prince,” the guard commanded.
Fergus rose from the floor with a fierce, single-eyed glower that made the prince step back in alarm. The boys followed suit, eyeing the young prince with open curiosity while Prince Malcolm returned their regard with wariness mixed with distaste.
To his disappointment, Alex made little headway in his mission to persuade the prince to release MacAedh’s kinsmen. Instead of stirring the prince’s mercy and compassion, as Alex had hoped, his efforts were met with apathy and aversion.
“They dinna appear diseased,” the prince remarked. “Do ye suppose they have lice?”
“If they do, ’tis only because they canna bathe,” Alex replied.
“Other than their stench, they appear none the worse for wear,” the prince hastily remarked. “I have seen enough of the jail. I’m parched. Let us repair now to the great hall for some wine.”
Once they’d arrived at Inverness, the Earl of Fife had instructed the men to set up camp within the bailey, while the prince had quickly abandoned the tents in favor of the comforts of a castle bedchamber. Though he had eagerly made camp with his men the first few nights of the march, it hadn’t taken long for the novelty to wear off. He complained much about the lack of comforts in the tents, and had voiced his displeasure about the food.
Alex saw little of either man over the next few days. While the earl and prince entertained themselves with the governor of the castle, Alex spent his free ministering to the men in the jail and in spiritual service to the troops.
“What is the word of MacAedh?” Fergus had asked once they finally had a moment of privacy.
“The king demands an oath of allegiance. If MacAedh continues to defy him, he lives on borrowed time. The king will only let him live as long as he thinks he’s useful.”
Fergus shook his head. “Were I but free I would take men to Dunfermline…”
“Ye would ne’er succeed,” Alex said. “The walls are thick and the knights are plentiful.”
“What of Domnall?” Fergus asked. “With all his bluster and bravado, does he now do nothing?”
“I ken naught of Domnall,” Alex replied. “He left Kilmuir right after we departed for Inverness. He was determined to press Somerled for an alliance. I dinna ken if he has even returned to Kilmuir.”
“So he kens naught that his uncle is imprisoned?”
“Aye,” Alex answered. “But Sibylla has interceded.”
“Sibylla?” Fergus said. “How?”
“She went to Dunfermline to plead for MacAedh’s life and is now a ‘guest’ of the king.”
“Then the Cenn Mór has us by the short hairs,” Fergus declared with a humorless laugh. “It seems our only hope lies with Domnall and Somerled.”
Chapter Nineteen
Once Sibylla had regained her strength, she began to explore. The queen’s apartment included two rooms, her bedchamber and a private solar. The bedchamber was grander than any Sibylla had ever seen. The bed was bigger and softer and surrounded by curtains to keep out the draft. Yet, she missed the warm bodies of her cousin and sister. She even longed for Fiona’s snoring.
Rather than rush mats, the floors were covered with elaborate woven rugs that felt like silk under her bare feet. She’d never experienced such luxury. It seemed almost a travesty to walk on them. Queen Mathilda was a Norman. Had they come all the way from France?
Almost reverently, she moved about the chamber. There was a dressing table with a boar’s hair brush and a silver comb. Had these also belonged to the late queen? She fingered the objects wondering what kind of woman she was.
Gazing at herself in the queen’s polished silver hand mirror, Sibylla was painfully self-conscious of her drab appearance. Although Heloise had assisted in dressing her hair, the plain tartan homespun gown was all she had. She wished she’d at least had her tartan arisaid. She would have proudly flaunted her clan colors before the king, but all of her clothing and personal belongings had been stolen from her in the jail. She was probably lucky they hadn’t stripped her completely na
ked.
A light knock sounded on the door and the maid entered with a shallow curtsey. Having experienced Sibylla’s numerous blank stares, the servants had, by now, all but given up on verbal communication with her. She gestured to the door, indicating that it was time for Sibylla to descend to the great hall. The maid led her to a staircase where she was surprised to find the earl waiting for her.
“My lady? The king awaits.” He offered his burly arm in a gallant gesture that seemed almost mocking.
Tonight, she was dining with the king. This was finally the opportunity she’d hoped for, but she hated that she would be forced to put all of her faith in the Earl of Mearns to interpret for her. From the start, her instincts had warned her to be wary of him. Though he would have her believe he was on her side, he was no friend to her family. If he was, he surely would have made some attempt to help free MacAedh. But Eachann of Mearns had his own agenda.
She was sorely in need of an ally, but who could she trust?
She wondered if Father Gregor was still at Dunfermline. If so, perhaps she could convince the king to let him stay at court with her. She must find a way to ask.
Unlike the Castle Kilmuir that was nightly filled with laughter, music and chatter, the great hall of Dunfermline was almost eerily quiet. Her entrance was noted with low murmurings and whispers accompanied by the courtiers’ condescending stares and smug smiles. She’d never felt more alone and vulnerable. Sibylla wanted to turn and run, rather than face their ridicule, but pride squared her shoulders and forced her chin up. Releasing the earl’s arm, she floated across the floor as if she were the queen of this domain and dropped into a deep obeisance to the king. Though her heart despised her act of hypocrisy, she was determined to go through all the proper motions. Her kinsmen’s lives could very well depend on it.
From his seat on the dais, the king gifted her with a benevolent smile. “Bienvenue, ma cousine. Je suis soulage a voir vous avez recouve.”
Only glancing up briefly, she once more downcast her gaze, and waited for the earl to interpret.
Virtue Page 20
