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  Peeling the children from his body, he strode to Domnall with outstretched arms and a warm smile. The man was large and his embrace was hearty. “Welcome ye to Kintyre, Domnall Mac William. I am Somerled, and this is my wife, Ragnhilde, my sister Mariota, he indicated the second woman, and my two youngest sons.”

  The blonde woman inclined her head with a smile. The boys were now grappling with each other.

  “Thank ye, my lord,” Domnall replied humbly. “Yer welcome overwhelms me.”

  “Come. Sit.” Somerled indicated a cushioned bench by the hearth.

  As Domnall sat, he crossed the room to a table and retrieved a jug and two cups, handing the first to Domnall and then filled it with ale before joining him on the bench. “I kent well both yer uncle and yer sire,” Somerled said. “Both were allies of mine at one time or another, but Angus, I also called friend.”

  “I am glad to ken it,” Domnall said. He took a long draught of ale and worked to compose his thoughts.

  He truly hadn’t known what to expect when he requested an audience with the great warlord but this private meeting with Somerled, the husband and father, quite took him aback. The babe had begun to fuss. Ragnhilde rose with a politely murmured excuse and disappeared. Mariota took the boys by the hand and followed, dragging the two lads with her. Somerled looked after them with a soft smile that revealed his inner contentment.

  His gaze returned to study Domnall. His expression was benign but his eyes were piercing. “Do ye have a family?” he asked.

  “Nae,” Domnall replied. “But I hope I will one day. ’Tis a family matter that brought me to ye.”

  “A family matter?” His tawny brows rose. “I wondered what had drawn ye so far from Black Isle. Alas, if ’tis a bride ye seek, my sister has proven barren, and I yet have nae daughter to offer ye.”

  “Ye misunderstand,” Domnall said. “’Tis nae a bride I seek. I have come concerning yer son, Ranald.”

  “Ranald?” He cocked his head. “What is yer interest in the lad?”

  “There was an incident at Kilmuir. Has he nae returned yet?”

  “Returned?” He looked thoroughly befuddled by the question. “The lad just left with his máthair.”

  Domnall shook his head in utter confusion. “I dinna understand. I speak of Ranald Mac Somerled who came to Kilmuir a sennight ago bearing the news of Prince Henry’s death.”

  Somerled’s gaze narrowed. “To the best of my knowledge, there is only one Ranald Mac Somerled and he is a child of eight summers who has surely ne’er been to Black Isle.”

  Domnall felt as if he’d been poleaxed. The two men regarded one another in a long, stunned silence. Somerled drained his cup and refilled them both.

  “It seems ye have been deceived,” he finally remarked.

  “Aye,” Domnall agreed.

  “Which begs the question,” Somerled continued, “of who and why?”

  Domnall was still flabbergasted. “I dinna ken the answer.”

  Somerled slumped back in a listening pose. “Then mayhap ye should recount to me this entire tale from the beginning.”

  For the next hour, Domnall related the events that had transpired from the arrival of the men to their departure, sparing no details. Somerled was keenly attentive and only occasionally interrupted the narrative with a probing question.

  “One thing now becomes clear to me,” Somerled said. “Whoever it is that delivered news of Prince Henry’s death did so in order to gauge yer reaction to it—and yer loyalty.”

  “Bluidy hell!” Domnall cursed. “They were spies of the king? We took these men into our confidence. How could we have been so gullible?”

  “’Twas easy to be duped when they used my name,” Somerled remarked. “But there is something more in this that puzzles me. Whoever it was also kent that ye and I are nae acquainted. How would the king have such knowledge? Only someone close to me would ken these things.”

  “But who besides the king would desire to ken our allegiance?” Domnall asked.

  “The mystery deepens. There is far more here than meets the eye,” Somerled remarked. “Ye will be my guest while we sort out this puzzle together.”

  Domnall was both confused and dismayed by the shocking turn of events, but it also seemed the cloud of intrigue that had descended over Black Isle had a silver lining. He had come to Kintyre with the hope of securing an allegiance with one of the most powerful men in the land, and now it seemed that those who had deceived him had inadvertently helped him to advance that very goal. Solving this mutual puzzle would surely help to solidify the bond.

  *

  Domnall enjoyed his host’s generous hospitality for the next few days. Somerled’s greatest pride was his massive fleet of galleys and birlinns, the only ships that had ever truly defeated the Viking longships that had plagued the coastline and Hebrides for centuries.

  Eager to show off both his ships and his realm, Somerled took Domnall across the isthmus to West Loch Tarbert, where they set sail on a brief tour of the isles. Somerled’s flagship was the pride of the fleet, a galley of forty oars. Fully manned for battle, it sailed with three men per oar, but they set out this day with only eighty.

  Having spent most of his life in the Borderlands, Domnall had made few sea voyages. Fortunately, he proved to be impervious to the merciless motion of the sea. It was exciting and exhilarating to stand on the prow with the wind and the spray, and the rhythmic sounds of eighty men sluicing through the water with their oars.

  They sailed Inner Sea south to Dunyvaig Castle, Somerled’s southernmost bastion on Islay, where they encountered another enormous flotilla. Domnall idly explored the island while Somerled spent a few hours with the acting governor of his castle. After enjoying a large repast, they set sail again, this time northward, where they made a similar stop at the northern coast of Islay and spent the night at Finlaggan Castle. All of Somerled’s castles were generously garrisoned with well-armed and well-disciplined men who were in apparent awe of their lord. It was easy for Domnall to see how Somerled had risen to power.

  “I make this journey frequently,” Somerled remarked to Domnall. “Poor communication is a chief hazard when one rules over islands.”

  Departing Finlaggan, they sailed through the Sound of Islay.

  “What is that island?” Domnall asked, pointing to the east.

  “Jura,” Somerled answered. “Unlike Islay, ’tis a barren isle covered with peat bogs. Look ye there,” Somerled indicated a smaller island within the sound. “We call that one Fraoch Eilean. ’Tis paradise when the heather is in bloom. ’Tis also ideal for controlling this channel. I have in mind to build another fortress there.”

  Domnall was quickly losing count of the number of fortresses and castles under Somerled’s control.

  Skirting north along the western coast of Jura, they turned eastward again and entered another channel.

  “We’re going to pass through Breachan’s Caldron,” Somerled said. “’Tis a great maelstrom that rages in this channel. Those who are unfamiliar with it navigate these waters at their peril.” Somerled added with a hint of a smirk, “’Tis a passage to test the mettle of any mariner.”

  “Why is it called Breachan’s Caldron?” Domnall asked.

  “Legend has it that a Norse Prince named Breachan was in love with a princess of the Isles. In order to win her hand, he agreed to a test of courage which involved anchoring his boat for three nights in the maelstrom. Wanting to prevail in this test, Breachan sailed back to his homeland to consult three wise men on how he could win the challenge. They advised him to acquire three anchor cables; one of hemp, one of wool, and one spun from the hair of virgins.

  “Weeks later, Breachan returned with his three ropes and sailed straight into the wild and whirling waters, where he cast the three anchors into the depths. The hemp snapped on the verra first night, but the vessel stayed afloat. Midway through the second night, the wool rope failed, but once more, the prince’s boat was spared.

  �
��On the third night, however, a great tempest arose that tossed him to and fro so violently that he had to tie himself to the mast.”

  “Did the anchor hold?” Domanll asked.

  “Alas, it didna,” Somerled answered. “The prince came to a tragic end when the final rope, whose strength was based on the purity of the virgin’s hair, shredded in the storm. Breachan was then overwhelmed by the waves, pulled into the depths, and drowned. His body later washed ashore and was buried in The King’s Cave on Jura. The moral of this story,” Somerled continued with a smirk, “is ne’er to place too much faith in a maiden’s vow of chastity.”

  Domnall joined in as his crew burst into raucous guffaws, but all of the humor vanished the moment the ship approached the malevolent whirlpool.

  Somerled’s gaze narrowed as if assessing a foe, and then a ghost of a smile played on the corners of his mouth. Domnall suspected then that Somerled could easily have chosen another route, but Breachan’s Caldron was a challenge for him, and he was not a man to back down.

  Very much the captain of his ship, Somerled manned the central rudder and shouted to his men. “Reef the sail! I need every man on the oars.” He turned to Domnall “And ye will beat the drum.”

  The next few minutes unfurled as a true test of man versus the turbulent and terrible sea. Furious waves washed over the hull and tossed the great warship about as if it were naught but a piece of flotsam. Though he struggled to maintain his feet, Domnall never faltered on the drum, beating a constant rhythm as the oarsman joined in a mixed chorus of panting and chanting.

  The captain, however, seemed very much a man in his element, with his head thrown back in almost maniacal laughter, as if mocking the gods.

  Domnall’s stomach lurched with a mixture of nausea and terror. But just when it seemed the maelstrom seemed to reach its peak of malevolence, the galley burst free of its grip. Domnall exhaled a long lungful of relief, the weary oarsmen cheered, and Somerled basked fully in his glory.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Dunfermline, Fife, Scotland

  Davina’s emotions were in turmoil as she prepared the ground for Princess Adaline’s rose garden. A small plot had been designated just outside a private chapel that was once used by Queen Margaret. Though she could have asked someone else to do the heavy labor, Davina was eager to once again have her hands in the cool earth. It was hard work but she had never minded physical labor. It made her feel useful.

  As she toiled in the garden, her mind struggled with the dilemma of Malcolm MacAedh. She could not stand by and do nothing for Domnall’s kinsman, but how could she help him?

  After spending several hours digging in the dirt and removing and stacking the larger stones, Davina rose and stretched her aching back. She was still no closer to finding an answer. There was no use appealing to the king. Even if she wasn’t out of favor, she had no power to influence him. She also had no desire to bring attention to herself.

  She did, however, have some influence with the princess. As Malcolm’s mother, the princess might, perhaps, have some sway over the king—if she could ever be granted access to him. But thus far, she had been denied an audience with him on the basis of his ill-health.

  Then again, MacAedh was imprisoned because he refused to swear allegiance to her son, Malcolm. The princess would not be sympathetic. Davina heaved a sigh. It seemed she was only chasing her own tail.

  After she’d finished in the garden, Davina once more made her trek to the kitchen and filled her basket with trenchers. In addition to the scraps from the kitchens, she added a skin of wine, a Book of Hours, a rushlight. Her plans, however, went awry the moment she entered the jail.

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

  Davina froze at the name.

  What was this? Had another of Domnall’s kin been imprisoned? And a woman, no less? Confused and cautious, Davina drew back into the shadows, hoping to observe without notice. A woman wearing a black cloak elbowed her way to the front of the cell.

  “Nae!” a man in monk’s robes protested as the captain prepared to release her. “’Tis nae the woman we seek.”

  “I am Lady Sibylla!” a toothless crone insisted.

  “She lies,” the monk insisted. “Where is she?” 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?”

  Alexander? Davina stifled a gasp. Alexander was the name of the monk who’d come to Dunfermline with MacAedh. But MacAedh had said nothing about a woman! The monk disappeared into the crowded cell and emerged moments later carrying a limp body in his arms.

  “Is that the woman you seek?” the captain asked.

  “Aye,” the monk answered. “She’s badly injured. I think she was struck in the head. She needs a physician.” He wore a look of helplessness mixed with something else that was far more than mere concern for a friend’s kinswoman. There was tenderness in his eyes that made her heart ache. The monk was in love with this lass. Davina was certain of it.

  The captain looked from the monk to the girl. “The earl will decide what is to be done. We’ll take her to him.”

  Who was she? She must be someone of importance if they would bring her before one of the king’s advisors. Davina was determined to make inquiries the moment she returned to the palace. In the meantime, she knew she must inform MacAedh.

  More fearful than ever of arousing suspicion, Davina was mindful of following her established routine. She would visit the common cells first, distribute food and pray for the lost souls, before working her way to the last cell housing the lone prisoner.

  When she finally reached MacAedh’s cell, she was faced with minimal resistance from the sentries. Although they always checked her basket and prayer books, they had never actually searched her person. Mayhap ’twas out of respect for her status as a nun, or more likely, fear of God’s displeasure for defiling a “bride of Christ”. Whatever the reason, she was glad of their superstition and used it to her advantage.

  “You may enter,” the first guard stated after a brief search of her basket.

  Upon entering his cell. Davina found the prisoner in much the same state as before.

  But this time, he greeted her with the faintest flicker of a smile. “Sister, I am heartened to see ye again,” he spoke once more in his heavily-accented French.

  “I have brought ye some wine,” she replied in kind, and knelt down to offer him the skin. “I also brought a prayer book in hope ’twill comfort ye.”

  “Alas, I canna read Latin,” he replied.

  She was quite certain ’twas a lie. She was equally certain he understood her intention. The man was very intuitive.

  “Then mayhap I can translate it into Gaelic for ye,” she said. The pretense of translating the scriptures would give them more time to speak and in a language the guards did not comprehend.

  Davina opened the book but it was too dark even to pretend to read it. She closed it with a sigh. “Please, will ye light this for me?” she asked the sentry. “I wish to read scriptures to the prisoner.”

  The guard grumbled, but complied.

  Setting the lit rush in its holder, Davina once more opened her book. She spoke again in Gaelic, careful to keep her voice low and her tone level as if reading prayers. “We have but a short time, mayhap ten minutes until the light burns out,” she said. “I bear news that I believe concerns ye.”

  “Aye?” he prompted.

  “When I entered the guardhouse just a short while ago, I encountered a monk called Brother Alexander. He carried an injured lass away from the jail. I heard them call her Lady Sibylla of Kilmuir.”

  “Sibylla?” His face went ashen. “’Tis my niece! How can this be?”

  “I ken naught of the circumstances,” Davina said. “But they were taking her to the palace to be tended.”

  He turned his face away with an anguished sound. “Is there nae end
to this? Does God now curse my entire family?”

  “He works in ways we dinna always understand,” Davina said. “But I dinna believe He curses ye. Ye must nae abandon yer faith, MacAedh of Kilmuir. I doubt nae that ’twas He who sent me specifically to comfort ye.”

  “Why would ye believe this?” he asked.

  “Because yer nephew once aided me in a time of need. Mayhap now is my chance to repay the debt.”

  “How do ye ken Domnall?” he asked.

  “When I was but a child of nine, my family was butchered. ’Twas Domnall and his sire who found me. I was then made a ward of the king.”

  His expression became suddenly wary. “Ye are the king’s ward?”

  “Nae,” she vigorously shook her head. “I was but am nae longer. I offended the king and was sent to a nunnery.”

  His brows pulled together with a quizzical look. “Ye didna enter the convent of yer own volition?”

  “Nae. ’Twas my punishment when I refused to wed the man he chose for me.”

  “’Tis a foolish thing to defy a king.” He rattled his chains with a wry smile.

  “I couldna do differently,” she said. “The man he chose was the verra same who murdered my family. Even then, I was only saved from that fate because yer nephew intervened on my behalf. There is much more to the story, but there is nae time to tell the whole of it,” she said. “Suffice to say, I am forever grateful to him and wish to help ye in any way I am able.”

  “There is naught ye can do for me,” he replied with a sigh. “I am at the king’s mercy.”

  “He is nae well-kent for his mercy,” she replied bitterly.

  “I would ask one small boon,” he said after a time. “Can ye mayhap bring me word of Sibylla?”

  “I will see how she fares.” The rushlight was sputtering. Their time had run out. “I must go now,” she said, closing the prayer book. “But I will return soon.”