Virtue (Sons of Scotland Book 1) Page 19

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

  “A whore?” Alex’s confusion instantly turned to rage. He was on the verge of throttling the old man. Friend or no, the priest had led Sibylla into danger. “How the de’il could this happen?”

  “It all came about so quickly.” The old man’s shoulders slumped. “And I can do naught to fix it. If ye have the king’s ear, mayhap ye can obtain her release.”

  “I will see it done,” Alex vowed as he spun for the door.

  *

  Hours had passed, but in the darkness of the jail Sibylla found it impossible to know whether it was night or day. The bodies of her cell mates were sprawled on the floor around her, some whimpering in their sleep, and others snoring soundly, while shadows flickered on the walls like dancing demons.

  How long would she have to wait until she had her time before the Chief Justiciar? Would he even understand her Gaelic or would she be summarily sentenced for prostitution? How could she even tell them she was innocent? That she was a virgin! These thoughts continued to torment her. She’d come to beg for her uncle’s life, but now would first have to plead for her own. If only she could get word to Alexander! The prince had only recently arrived. Was Alexander still at Dunfermline?

  The scrape of metal and the sputtering light of a torch drew her attention to the door. A key turned in the lock and then a tall, black form filled the doorway.

  “Lady Sibylla of Kilmuir?” a familiar voice called her name, adding in Gaelic. “Ye are to come before the bishop and make yer confession.”

  “Alexander?” Sibylla whispered his name on a sob as she struggled to her feet. With legs cramped from hours on the hard stone, and a voice gone hoarse from weeping, Sibylla could hardly speak, let alone stand. But her very being leapt with joy.

  He had come! God above had heard her prayers and had Alexander to her! Stumbling over bodies, she found her way to the door. Only the presence of guards kept her from launching herself into his arms.

  “Come with me,” he said.

  She was momentarily taken aback by his stiff and formal demeanor until she recalled his position at the abbey. He was a monk. He could not risk touching her or showing his emotion, but she could clearly see the strain of self-control in his gray eyes.

  She followed him through the dark, dank corridors to a door leading outside where she sucked in a lungful of fresh night air. “I will ne’er forget that stench.”

  “Why did ye come here?” he demanded, his voice and body now shaking with passion. “Did ye nae ken the danger?”

  “Aye but I had nae choice but to plead for my uncle,” she said.

  “We canna speak here,” Alex replied tersely. “Raise yer cowl and come with me. We will talk in the confessional.”

  In silence, Sibylla followed him, staying close as he navigated the palace grounds to a small, private chapel.

  “’Twas built for Queen Margaret,” he explained. “Nae one else has used it since her passing. We should nae be disturbed here.”

  “How did ye find me?” she asked.

  “After Faither Gregor explained all that transpired to the bishop, he was released. He called for me and told me what happened.” He clenched his hands by his sides with a groan. “How I ache to hold ye, Sibylla. I have dreamt of ye every night.”

  “Then hold me now,” Sibylla whispered. She longed to know the comfort of his arms and the taste of his lips.

  He shut his eyes and slowly shook his head. “I canna risk it. There are spies at court. Even now, they may be watching.”

  Sibylla looked about. “But the chapel is empty.”

  “Tis too dangerous to risk,” he murmured. “We would both be imprisoned… or worse. Please Sibylla,” his gray eyes were intense and pleading as they held hers. “I beg ye to be patient. If there is any way for us to be together, I swear I will find it.”

  “Was it ye who obtained my release?” she asked.

  “I dinna,” he said. “I only got the bishop’s permission to hear yer confession. I already acted at great risk to both of us.”

  “Why is that?” she asked.

  “Because I told the king I wasna associated with MacAedh. Ye must nae let on that ye ken me or the king will wonder how it is I am acquainted with MacAedh’s niece.”

  “Then ye are only my confessor,” Sibylla replied.

  “Aye, but ye will also have need of someone to speak for ye when ye appear before the Chief Justiciar. There are few here who speak the Gaelic. I will offer my services in the cause of justice.”

  “Ye mean I am nae free? I have to go back to that…” She choked back a sob. “That godforsaken place?”

  “Nae for long if I can help it,” Alexander replied. He reached for her hand and held it tightly in his. “I wish I had the power to free ye, but mayhap I can at least get ye moved to another place.”

  “Thank ye, Alexander,” Sibylla said.

  “I must take ye back now, Sibylla or there will be questions. Can ye bear it a bit longer, mo chridhe?”

  The whispered endearment rippled through her like a sunburst after a storm.

  Mo chridhe. My heart.

  “Aye,” she replied, placing their joined hands over her own heart. “With ye close by, I can bear anything.”

  *

  Alex left Sibylla feeling as if his heart had been ripped out. Though she put up a brave front, her melancholy eyes and quivering lip nearly did him in. He would have given anything to trade places with her, but he had no choice other than to return her to the jail. He had already taken a big risk in speaking with her privately. He prayed that no one had followed them to the chapel.

  It was going to be a big enough challenge to secure her release without raising questions about their previous association. Her unexpected arrival complicated everything. He was due to depart the next morn with the prince, which gave him little time to help her. Father Gregor could do nothing. As penance for bringing a lone female to the monastery, the bishop had confined him to his chamber for three days of fasting and prayer, leaving Alex to navigate the treacherous waters alone.

  He was still a relative stranger to both the palace and the politics. Royal courts were notorious for petty rivalries and intrigues. One false step could be fatal. Who could he trust to help him?

  Returning to the abbey, Alex found the assistant prior snuffing the candles. Though their acquaintance had been brief, a sense of kinship had taken root between himself and Brother Aubert. How much faith could he place in such a short friendship? But who else could he turn to?

  “Brother Aubert,” Alex hesitated, licking his lips. “There is a delicate matter in which I require some assistance.”

  “Delicate?” The assistant prior’s brows rose.

  “Aye,” Alex said. “A lass who arrived with Faither Gregor was wrongfully imprisoned in the gatehouse jail. She is falsely charged with harlotry.”

  Brother Aubert’s dark gaze narrowed. “A grave charge, indeed. And ye believe her innocent?”

  Alex fought a glower. “I ken verra well she is innocent. I must obtain her immediate release. How can I go about this?”

  “If she is imprisoned, ye must appeal to the Earl of Fife, Chief Justiciar.”

  “Where can I find him?” Alex asked.

  “’Twill be a wasted effort. The criminal court is only convened once a month. Exceptions are only made by the king’s command.”

  “Then I must see the king,” Alex insisted.

  “The king is gravely ill,” Brother Aubert replied. “His physicians will nae allow anyone to molest him.”

  His frustration mounting, Alex rubbed his face with both hands. “Then what am I to do?”

  Brother Aubert frowned. “Tis a dilemma, indeed. If ye seek her release, there is one other to whom ye might appeal.”

  “Aye? And who might that be?” Alex’s stomach tightened even as he voiced the question.

  And rose fully into his throat as Bro
ther Aubert answered. “The king’s second closest advisor… the Earl of Mearns.”

  The Earl of Mearns? Alex’s heart raced. Had his treacherous uncle truly wormed his way into the king’s innermost circle? It seemed so.

  Until this moment, he’d had only vague fantasies of seeking out his traitorous kinsman. Though he had already briefly seen his uncle at court, Alex had not anticipated a direct confrontation. His instincts told him to avoid Eachann of Mearns. He faced grave danger if his identity were discovered. His uncle would surely regard him as a personal threat, not to mention what the king would do should he learn of the existence of another potential rival to his grandson.

  Though a confrontation might foolishly place his life at risk, what choice did he have? Regardless of the cost, he had to help Sibylla!

  “I must speak with him,” Alex said.

  “The hour is late,” Brother Aubert protested. “Surely ye dinna expect to rouse him from his bed?”

  “The prince departs in the morn and I am to accompany him. I must see her freed before we leave Dunfermline.”

  “I warn ye against it,” Brother Aubert advised. “He is nae a temperate man in the best of circumstances.”

  “I will risk his wrath,” Alex said. “I canna leave the lass to rot in that place until we return!”

  Moreover, he could not deny the deep pull he felt inside his gut to look into the eyes of the man who’d betrayed his father and destroyed his life.

  *

  “Who dares disturb me at this hour?” a baritone voice roared from within the next room. Alex could not decipher the servant’s reply but, a moment later, the earl emerged from his bedchamber looking disheveled and murderous. Though Alex was tall, he was slight of build. Eachann, in contrast, was a massive mountain of a man. With his size, scars, and long, thick beard, he was intimidating even in his night shirt, but his current displeasure appeared to be on the cusp of a physical assault.

  “Who are ye and what do ye want?” Eachann thundered.

  Once more recalled to his childhood nightmares, Alex fought the impulse to look away. “I am Brother Alexander, come with a request from Faither Gregor of Portmahomack to release a prisoner from the gatehouse jail.”

  “What the de’il has this to do with me? Go ye to the Chief Justiciar!”

  “The Earl of Fife departs in the morn with the prince and willna hear the case,” Alex replied.

  “Why should I interfere?” Eachann said. “This means nothing to me. The matter will rest until he returns. Now be off with ye!” He waved his hand as if swatting a fly.

  “But she is the niece of MacAedh of Kilmuir,” Alex blurted, “come to court to plead for her uncle.”

  As expected, that bit of information snagged his attention.

  “The niece of MacAedh?” His gaze narrowed with speculation. “And precisely what is her kinship to Domnall Mac William?”

  “She is his sister, Lady Sibylla,” Alex replied, making a concerted force of will to meet his uncle’s bloodshot gaze. “I believe the king would be most displeased were he to learn his cousin was placed in the gatehouse jail.”

  “Aye?” Eachann’s lips curved into a slow, menacing smile. “That does signify, indeed.” Barking an order for his dressing robe, the earl then sent for the captain of the guard. “Escort this monk to the gatehouse,” he commanded, “and bring the lass back to me.”

  Alex departed with the captain, wondering what Eachann intended to do with Sibylla. She said she’d come to beg for MacAedh’s life. He had little confidence that she would succeed. Surely Eachann would retain her now that he knew who she was, but it was equally certain he would not return her to the common jail. If nothing else, Alex could rest in that accomplishment. She might not be free, but as a kinswoman to the king, she would not be mistreated… at least not as long as they felt they had a use for her.

  Alex was not allowed to enter the cell this time, but instructed to identify her for the captain. The jail was overcrowded, making it difficult to find her amongst the throng of bodies. It sickened him to know she was here. He’d believed her safe at home and had even hoped for a chance to meet with her once they arrived in Black Isle, but it seemed that fate had played against them.

  “Lady Sibylla of Kilmuir,” the guard shouted into the crowd. “Come forth.”

  A woman wearing a black cloak elbowed her way to the front. Something wasn’t right. Alex recognized the garment Sibylla had worn, but the face was that of a stranger. “Nae!” he protested as the captain prepared to release her. “’Tis nae the lass we seek.”

  “I am Lady Sibylla!” the hag insisted.

  “She lies,” Alex said. “Where is Sibylla?” he demanded. Not waiting for an answer, he snatched the torch from the captain’s hands and pushed his way into the cell. “Sibylla? ’Tis Alexander. Where are ye?” Frantically he searched the throng of beggars, thieves, and prostitutes. In the furthest corner a body lay slumped in an unnatural position. Sibylla?

  His heart lodged in his throat.

  Rushing toward her, he threw down the torch and scooped Sibylla into his arms. A sensation of warm wetness covered his hands. Blood? Good God! “Sibylla, mo ghaol!” he sobbed. “What has happened to ye?” Had the hag murdered Sibylla for a cloak?

  Although she remained unresponsive, her chest rose and fell in steady but shallow breaths. The captain soon appeared with the pretender by his side. “Is that the woman ye seek?”

  “Aye,” Alex said, gazing helplessly down at Sibylla’s still form. How could this have happened? It had only been a couple of hours since he’d left her. Nevertheless, he was racked with guilt for failing to protect her.

  “Be gone with ye!” The captain struck the imposter full in the face. “Happens all the time,” he remarked to Alex with an indifferent shrug. “Tis why the earl sent ye with me. Does she live?” he asked, looking skeptical.

  “She’s badly injured,’ Alex replied. “I think she was struck in the head. She needs a physician.”

  The captain looked from Alex to Sibylla. “The earl will decide.”

  As he carried her back to the earl’s chamber, Alex could hardly swallow the cruel irony that the life of the person he cared most about was now in the hands of the man who’d all but murdered the only other people he’d ever loved.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Sibylla was aware of warmth and a feeling of weightlessness as if she floated on a cloud, yet she couldn’t manage to open her eyes. Her head felt as if it were an anvil struck incessantly by a hammer. There were unfamiliar voices speaking indistinguishable words. Where was she? A hand clasped hers and then a whisper in her ear penetrated the fog. “I must leave ye now, mo ghaol. I have nae choice but I promise I will be back.”

  Alexander. He was there with her?

  She tried to cry out his name, but only a whimper sounded from her lips. A moment later, she felt a brief squeeze of her hand and then nothing.

  She didn’t know how much time had passed before she roused to consciousness again, but this time her eyes obeyed the command to open. The last thing she recalled was the stench and horror of the gatehouse jail. But now she found herself lying on a heather-stuffed mattress and her head resting on a goose down pillow in an enormous lavishly-appointed bedchamber.

  “Tis the queen’s former apartment,” an unknown gruff voice answered her unasked question.

  A wave of nausea assailed her as she turned her head in the direction of the voice. She retched several times but her stomach had long been empty.

  “Mayhap ’twill help if ye take some wine.” The amorphous voice became the body of a man as he advanced into her line of sight. He was large and fierce-looking with a long, jagged scar that ran from his brow to his chin, but there was something strangely familiar about his gray eyes.

  “Ye speak Gaelic,” her voice emerged as little more than a croak.

  “Aye,” he answered, shoving a cup toward her.

  Sibylla tried to sit up, but dizziness overcame over her. She fell
back against the pillow. The stranger silently studied her with thumbs hooked in his belt.

  “Who are ye?” Sibylla finally asked.

  “I am Eachann of Mearns, an old acquaintance of yer family.”

  “My family or my faither?” Sibylla asked. “I dinna recall yer name.”

  “I was well acquainted with both Angus of Moray and yer faither.”

  “My uncle and faither were enemies,” she remarked. “I wonder, does that make ye my friend or my foe?” If he was friend to one of them, he would have to have been foe to the other.

  “Ye speak yer mind too freely,” he remarked with a dark look. “Tis a dangerous habit.”

  “If my candor offends ye, I suppose I have my answer,” she replied. His expression showed disapproval with more than a hint of contempt. Was it because she spoke her mind or because she was a woman? Likely both.

  “Why am I here in this bedchamber?” she asked.

  “’Twas by the king’s order,” he replied. “Ye have been asleep for two days.”

  “And the monk, Brother Alexander?” she asked. “Where is he?”

  “He is gone from Dunfermline,” he replied.

  “When will he return?” she asked.

  “I dinna ken,” he answered.

  Her bows furrowed. “But he said he would speak to the Chief Justiciar on my behalf.”

  “Ye face nae charges,” he said. “The king dismissed them.”

  “Oh?” Sibylla could not hold back her surprise. “I must thank him.”

  “Ye will have yer chance soon enough.”

  “I will get to speak with him? I came here to plead for my kinsman.”

  “He kens why ye came.”

  “And?” she asked. “Will he let me see my uncle?”

  “Ye are nae well enough.”

  “I am fine now!” She sat up and threw her legs over the side of the bed, only to clutch the post when her weak legs refused to support her weight. Chagrinned, she dropped back onto the bed. “I will be fine,” she insisted, refusing to surrender completely. “I just need some food.”

  “Ye will stay in the bed until the king’s physician decrees otherwise,” he commanded. “A servant will bring ye a tray.” He turned toward the door and then paused. “When ye are well enough, ye will dine with the king.”