Virtue (Sons of Scotland Book 1) Page 21

  Only glancing up briefly, she once more downcast her gaze, and waited for the earl to interpret.

  “The king welcomes ye to Dunfermline and expresses his pleasure to see ye recovered,” the earl said.

  “Pray convey to the king that I appreciate his welcome and the services of his physician.”

  “Bien sur.” He inclined his head. “Je pourrais fair pas moins pour une parente.”

  “I could do no less for a kinswoman,” the earl repeated in Gaelic.

  The king’s gaze raked over her in slow scrutiny. “Est-ce que les barbares de Moray ne s’habillent pas pour le dîner?”

  Although she could not comprehend the entire question, Sibylla’s ear was keen enough to decipher a few words. Les barbares de Moray. The barbarians of Moray.

  “He wonders that ye dinna dress for the occasion,” the earl said, intentionally omitting the king’s insult.

  “This is the only gown I have,” Sibylla said. “Everything else was stolen from me.”

  Before the earl could communicate her answer the king asked another question.

  “Pourquoi êtes-vous venu au palais?” the king inquired.

  “He wishes to ken why ye have come,” the earl said.

  “I came to beg the king’s indulgence and mercy for my uncle’s life. When can I see him?” she asked, raising her eyes fully to the king’s face. She looked for a sign of softness or compassion in his cool blue eyes, but the king remained impassive and unreadable.

  “Nous parlerons plus tard de MacAedh,” he replied with a dismissive gesture. “Jai faim.”

  “He doesna wish to speak of yer uncle,” the earl said. “’Tis unwise to introduce a weighty subject to a hungry king.”

  She’d sensed by the king’s tone and gesture that he had no intention of indulging her request. Sibylla needed no further interpretation. Perhaps she had spoken too soon. She should have responded to his questions with trite flattery. She had much to learn about life in a royal court.

  The earl escorted her to an empty place at the high table where the nobles sat. Their expression told her all she needed to know. She was an object of scorn to the women and of curiosity to the men. The earl then went through the motions of formal introductions but the nobles’ unfamiliar speech and formal manners only made her feel more like a stranger in a foreign land.

  The dinner was an elaborate affair that featured French wines and multiple courses of exotic dishes. A boar’s head stared at her from one end of the table, and a roasted pheasant adorned with its original plumes sat before the king. She would have enjoyed it all immensely under different circumstances, but she was far too anxious to taste anything. The meal was a long and drawn out ordeal, lasting for several hours. Even the minstrels in the gallery above failed to distract her. Their sedate strumming only made her yearn for the lively tones of the pipes and drums.

  Although he initially made a point to interpret a few remarks for her, the earl quickly engaged in conversation with his peers, and soon forgot her presence altogether, not that she minded. It was an effort to make polite conversation with these people with whom she had nothing in common. Instead, she was content to silently study the king and his guests.

  At long last, the king stood, signaling the end to the meal. Looking in her direction, he murmured something to a servant and then departed the great hall. A moment later, the same servant approached the earl, apparently conveying a message. “The king will see ye in his private apartments on the morrow,” the earl said.

  “When can I see my uncle?” she asked again.

  Before he could answer, Sibylla spoke again. “There is a priest at Dunfermline who kens both Gaelic and Norman. Could ye please ask the king if he might attend me?” Sibylla asked, adding hastily, “’twould save ye all the trouble of translating.”

  “I have no pressing business,” he replied with a frown that suggested he read her mistrust. “But I will convey yer request to his majesty.”

  *

  The next morning, as Sibylla was washing, the chambermaid appeared bearing a bundle of brightly colored cloth. “C’est un cadeau du roi,” Heloise explained.

  Though she didn’t comprehend all of the words, Sibylla recognized the Norman word for king. Had the king sent her a gift?

  Sibylla suppressed a gasp of delight as the maid proceeded to lay the bundle on the bed. The deeply dyed hues and quality of the silk were far beyond anything Sibylla had ever seen. She reached out to touch the cloth, fighting the temptation to rub the soft fabric against her cheek. The clothes, a bliaut, girdle, and filet headdress, were distinctly Norman in style. The sleeves of the gown were particularly impractical, nearly dragging on the ground and the veil of chainsil was as transparent as gossamer. Had these garments belonged to the late queen?

  Sibylla considered the king’s offering with mixed feelings of appreciation and resentment. Had the king sent the clothes out of consideration for her, or out of his own embarrassment that one of his kinswomen had sat at his table so poorly attired? More likely the latter. Although she was grateful to have a change of clothing, she bristled at the idea of adopting Norman dress. Why should she try to look the part when she would never be accepted by them? Although she would like to have demurred, Sibylla donned the clothes in the end. It would be a foolish thing, indeed, for her to rebel against the king’s wishes when she needed most to earn his favor.

  Heloise assisted her with the garments that felt strange on her body, particularly the couvrechef with the silver filet. At home in Kilmuir, she’d never covered her head with a veil. None of the women had, but the thoroughly Norman king would expect her to don the modest headdress.

  When Sibylla gazed once more into the mirror, she hardly recognized herself. Though she appeared elegant and regal in the rich clothing, she felt as if she betrayed her heritage by wearing them. Nevertheless, she could not afford to displease the king if she had any hope of helping her family. She was determined to use any means at her disposal to persuade him to release her uncle.

  A soft knock sounded on the antechamber door. Heloise answered it, returning a moment later. “C’est un prêtre,” she announced.

  “A priest? Faither Gregor?” Sibylla asked.

  The maid shrugged and pointed to the antechamber.

  “Lady Sibylla?” The old priest’s eyes widened when Sibylla entered. “I scarce recognize ye. Indeed, ye have quite the look of a queen.”

  “Thank ye, Faither,” Sibylla replied, “But I feel verra much out of my element.”

  “Dinna let him ken,” the priest advised. “The king will look for weaknesses to exploit.”

  “Are ye to come with me?” she asked.

  “Aye. The king commands me to attend ye.”

  “Did he?” It was Sibylla’s turn for surprise. Although she had asked the earl to convey her request, she hadn’t truly expected the king to grant it. “Then let us nae keep his Majesty waiting.” She wondered what was behind these two unexpected acts of kindness. What could he possibly seek to gain from her?

  The king was reading a document when the servant announced her. When he didn’t immediately acknowledge her, she made a detailed visual survey of the room. The walls were darkly paneled and contained many shelves of books. Was it, perhaps, a council chamber? A fire smoldered in a hearth at one end, beckoning her to its warmth, yet, Sibylla sensed that she should not initiate any uninvited movements.

  After a time, he laid down the parchment, only to take up a quill pen and write. Was this some kind of test? She continued to silently watch him as he melted a blob of wax and then impressed his seal. It was only after he laid his implements down that he finally recognized her presence. Sibylla resisted the urge to fidget as he eyed her with studied scrutiny. “Je ne vous ai pas vu à la messe.”

  “He desires to ken why ye dinna attend mass,” Father Gregor said.

  “’Tis nae my habit,” Sibylla answered.

  “La piété est une vertu sainte,” the king replied, adding in a commandin
g tone. “Vous assisterez à chaque heure de prière.”

  “He expects ye to attend every hour of prayer,” Father Gregor said.

  Normans prized modesty and piety in noblewomen, and life in this king’s court revolved very much around worship. While Sibylla had never considered herself particularly religious, she knew that she must act the part if she wished to gain favor.

  “Les vêtements vous conviennent,” the king remarked with a nod.

  “He says the clothes suit ye,” Father Gregor murmured.

  “Please thank him for his generosity,” Sibylla said, glad that something she’d done had finally warranted his approval.

  “Quelle langues parlez-vous?” the king asked.

  “I dinna speak anything but Gaelic,” Sibylla replied to the question without need of interpretation. Her answer was true enough. Yet, since she’d arrived in the king’s court, old memories had begun to stir. As a small child, her father had demanded that she and Domnall speak only Anglo-Norman but, after he’d left, they had quickly abandoned the tongue in favor of their mother’s native Gaelic. Though the words did not come readily to her tongue, her ear was quickly becoming attuned to the language.

  The king’s brows met in a frown. “Votre père a été négligent. Il aurait dû considérer vos perspectives de mariage.”

  “Yer faither was negligent,” the priest said. “He should have considered yer marriage prospects.”

  “My faither ne’er took much interest in our welfare,” Sibylla remarked dryly.

  She wondered why the king would concern himself with her marriage prospects. He’d granted much land and many titles to foreigners in exchange for their fealty. Did he now think to use her to entice another Anglo-Norman noble to settle in Scotland? No! She refused to be used as a political pawn.

  “C’est le devoir d’une noble femme de faire un bon mariage,” the king remarked.

  “’Tis a noblewoman’s duty to make a good marriage,” the priest said.

  “B-but I dinna wish to wed!” Sibylla said.

  “Vos souhaits ne sont pas pertinents,” the king replied with a subtle smile.

  The priest regarded Sibylla with an apologetic look. “The king says yer wishes are irrelevant.” Seeming to comprehend her answer, the king nodded. “Le droit du roi est également de faciliter ces questions.”

  Sibylla’s throat tightened. What right had he to make such decisions on her behalf?

  “It is a king’s privilege to facilitate such matters,” Father Gregor said. “’Tis the custom the king to arrange marriages between noble houses,” he explained. “And ye are nae only nobly bred but are also a kinswoman.”

  “But my uncle is my guardian,” Sibylla insisted. “I have him to look after my interests. I only came here to plead for his life. Why canna I see him?” The king’s continued refusal only increased her anxiety. Was he hiding something from her? Was MacAedh already dead? “Please, yer Majesty,” she dropped to her knees to beg.

  “Vous êtes maintenant sous ma tutelle. Vous ferez ce que je vous commande,” the king replied.

  She had no difficulty comprehending his final words.

  “Ye are now under my guardianship… and will do as I command.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Black Isle, Scottish Highlands

  On the third day after arriving at Inverness, the earl gave the increasingly restless men the command to decamp. They were bound for the old Céilí Dé monastery of Rosemarkie, one of the early Celtic Christian settlements that the king wished to eradicate.

  After hours of brisk marching under the blazing August sun, they came to halt at the River Beauly, where the men dismounted to rest and water the horses. While some soldiers, stripped of hauberks, chose to refresh themselves in the cool water, others rested under a leafy canopy of shade trees. The prince had abandoned the weight of his chain mail and stripped to his braies for a swim.

  Unwary and unarmed, they were unprepared when the battle horn sounded.

  With war cries intended to terrify the horses, Highlanders dropped from trees and sprang out from hiding deep in the thickets. Rearing and spinning in terror, many of the horses broke through the ranks of men and bolted. Drawing swords, the knights quickly assembled to counter the attack, while the prince frantically splashed in the river.

  Amidst the melee, a wail of bagpipes sounded the call for the second wave of attack. More men materialized, some on horses, others bearing Norman-style bows. Under a fatal shower of arrows, men began to fall. When the prince’s bodyguard disappeared beneath the water, Alex tore off his robes and dove into the river, swimming toward the panicking prince, whose wild kicking and thrashing threatened to drown them both. “I’m hit! I’m hit!” the prince shrieked.

  “Swim or perish!” Alex shouted as he pulled the boy away from the melee and further into the water to a place where the river reached out its arms and dragged them deeper still. Sucked into the swirling currents, they struggled to remain afloat as the river pulled them eastward. With limbs and lungs burning, they swam on, pulled by the outgoing tide into the Beauly Firth.

  Raised by the sea, Alex was an excellent swimmer but fatigue quickly set in, further hampered by the prince who was as dead weight pulling him down. Had he escaped the brutal attack only to drown in the river? Alex’s survival instincts screamed to save himself, but his conscience would not allow him to release the floundering prince.

  They would live or die together.

  His body was ready to surrender to the depths when a large piece of driftwood appeared—a bobbing beacon of hope sent by God Himself. With a hope-inspired burst of energy, Alex swam toward it. Wrapping his arms fast around it, they clung like barnacles to a sea wall. Clinging to the log, they floated until the firth closed its gaping mouth. Kicking and paddling into the shallows, they finally found solid footing beneath the water. Releasing the log, Alex dragged the prince with him to the bank where he collapsed into the oblivion of exhaustion.

  *

  Alex awoke to find his face encrusted with sand and a curious seagull standing on his chest. “Shoo!” he shouted and sat up to spit the grit from his mouth. Where the devil was he? Like a tidal wave, his memory of the attack crashed over him.

  A voice moaned beside him. The prince? The lad was clutching his shoulder and the sand beneath him was stained with crimson.

  “Ye are wounded?” Alex asked.

  “’Twas an arrow,” the prince answered with a wince. “It passed right through my arm.”

  Alex frantically sought something with which to bind the wound, but he and the prince both wore only braies. There was nothing else with which to make a bandage without leaving one of them naked. He was about to make the sacrifice, when he recalled the sgian-dubh tied to his leg with a thin leather binding. It was just big enough to tie above the wound.

  “Tis nae life threatening,” Alex reassured the boy once the bleeding had been staunched. “At least so long as it doesna putrefy.”

  “We were ambushed!” the prince declared, looking outraged.

  “Aye,” Alex answered. “’Twas an ambush.”

  But who had attacked? Could it have been Domnall with Somerled’s men? The call to battle had sounded with Highland pipes and the war cries were Gaelic. Yet, something about that theory didn’t sit right with Alex. There were archers amongst the men. Normans employed archers. Highlanders made war with battle ax and sword. And how had they known where the army would rest?

  There were too many questions and too few answers. But Alex was certain that whoever had set upon them had intended to kill the prince. And whoever did this would soon hunt them down like wolves after wounded prey.

  He didn’t yet know the fate of the king’s army. They had been taken by surprise. Had they been defeated or had they prevailed in the end? He had no way of knowing. The only thing he knew for certain was that he had to find some place safe for the prince. If they could only reach the monastery of Rosemarkie, they could claim sanctuary. Any church would provide
a safe haven that even a soldier would dare not defy, but it was too risky to travel west.

  Looking about, Alex sought any landmark that might tell him how far east the river had carried them. His breath hitched in his chest as his gaze traveled upward from the banks of the firth to a distant promontory. Cnoc Croit na Maoile?

  They couldn’t possibly be so close to Kilmuir! Yet his heart told him it was so.

  The Beauly River had carried him home.

  *

  It was half a day’s walk to Kilmuir, made far more difficult supporting the injured prince. Though his bare feet were blistered and bleeding, and his body was battered and sunburned, Alex felt instantly reenergized the moment the keep came into sight.

  “What is this place?” the prince asked.

  “Someplace we will be safe,” Alex replied.

  “Are they yer kinsmen?” the prince asked.

  “Nae,” Alex answered. “They are kin to yer own cousin, Lady Sibylla. Her máthair and grandmother reside here.”

  The prince pulled back with a look of terror. “Ye would save my life only to take me to the home of the man who plotted my murder?”

  “’Twasna Domnall Mac William who plotted that attack,” Alex said. “I am certain of it. ’Twas carried out by someone who wanted it to look like Domnall did it.”

  “Who?” the prince demanded.

  “I dinna ken,” Alex replied. “But I swear I will discover it. Ye must trust me, Highness. I wouldna endanger yer life.”

  “Why should I trust them?” he asked, still suspicious.

  “Because ye have nae other choice,” Alex replied. “Ye are injured and need care.”

  Still, the prince balked. He thrust his chin and declared, “If anything happens to me, my grandfather will decimate the Highlands.”

  “Aye,” Alex agreed, knowing the threat was no idle boast but a very real possibility. “I ken verra well and pledge on my own life that they willna harm ye.”

  *

  “How fares our bonny Prince Malcolm?” Lady Gruaid asked Alex as he entered the solar to confer with the women of Kilmuir. The women had unquestioningly ministered to both of their bodies with food, drink, healing herbs and bandages—not to mention clothing.