Reckless Scotland: A Scottish Medieval Romance Bundle Page 24
“Curse yerself? I dinna understand,” she said, feeling wounded by his words. Why did he seem to regret their act of love when she had suffered pain, but nevertheless had taken delight in it?
Alexander sighed. “Because I have only further endangered ye this night.”
“But I acted of my own free will,” Sibylla said.
“But what if ye are even now with child?” he asked. “If ye are, ye will both be in peril and ’tis all my fault.”
“I understood and accepted the risks in taking ye to husband.”
“Yer grandmother foretold this, Sibylla,” Alex said.
“She did?”
“Aye. I thought her touched in the head at the time… but now her words return to haunt me.”
“What did she say?” Sibylla asked, growing anxious. Her grandmother had an uncanny ability to predict things… mostly unpleasant things.
“She said we will have two sons and many daughters who will sire two great clans.”
Many children and two great clans? Sibylla couldn’t suppress a chuckle. “Then ye have naught to fear. Our babe is, indeed, safe.”
“But there is more,” Alex continued, looking grim. “She said they will also be cursed, that our sons will be at war with one another until the verra last drop of blood is shed.”
Sibylla felt the smile fade from her face. “Ye fear ’twill all come to pass?”
“I dinna ken what to believe,” he said, “but it fills me with disquiet.”
“Ye have kept much from me,” she said. “But ye ken as well as I, that ’twas God who brought us together, and now ye must have faith that He will bless and protect us.”
“Aye,” he agreed, adding with a twitch of his mouth, “’tis ironic, indeed, that ’twould now be ye who would bolster my faith.”
A soft knock sounded on the door just as they were lapsing into slumber. “Prayer time soon draws to a close,” Father Gregor whispered.
“One moment.” Alex rose and answered through the door as Sibylla scrambled to don her clothes. Alex dragged his own tunic over his head and then helped her back into her gown. “I wish it could have been different,” he murmured.
“Nae I,” she replied with a soft smile. “I dinna regret any of it… except the secrecy.”
“’Tis only for a time,” he said. “The prince is two years from coming of age to wed, and the king will nae live much longer. Once he passes, the betrothal could easily be broken.”
“I pray ye are right, Alexander. I fear the consequences if ye are wrong.”
He pressed a finger to her mouth. “Pray speak nae more of it. Faith, remember? We must both learn to take each day as it comes.”
She kissed his finger before removing it from her lips. “Be sure that I will count all of those days… and all of the nights that we are apart.”
The priest knocked once more. “Pray make haste, my lady,” Father Gregor urged. “Ye must return at once to the palace.”
“I must leave at daybreak, but will return to ye as soon as I am able,” Alexander promised and then sealed the pact with one last desperate kiss. “There is a storm brewing in the Highlands. I willna have ye face it alone.”
Epilogue
AT THEIR PARTING, Sibylla had fought the urge to throw herself into Alexander’s arms and beg him to take her home. Her heart ached for her family and home at Kilmuir. She even longed for her old life of gathering herbs and carding wool. Though her spirt was burdened with these memories, her sense of duty had prevailed. If she had any true hope of helping her family, she must stay put.
This had been a night of great revelations. She was housed in a royal palace and betrothed to a prince, while secretly wed to another. She had fallen in love with a lowly monk, only to learn he was a prince in disguise. Their fates were entwined in so many ways.
Would Alexander, like Domnall, seek to claim the throne? Or would he choose to remain anonymous and work from the shadows? There was danger in such a life, but she finally had a purpose, a destiny. One way or another, Scotland would soon be reborn.
Her dreams that night were filled with many strange things. The boy king, Malcolm, stood at Scone, a shining crown of gold atop his head. At his command, a great cloud descended. The fog was so thick it obscured even the Grampian Mountains. From the fog, a dark knight suddenly emerged. Sword in hand, he charged forth on a fire-breathing destrier, laying waste to everything in its path. Heavy with child, Sibylla found herself among the many women and children fleeing toward the mountains for fear of perishing from his fire and sword. Suddenly, a castle came into view, a fortress of impenetrable walls, hidden by mountains and surrounded by water, offering refuge.
The gates opened and another man came forth, his arms open wide, as if welcoming the weary. As she approached, his face became clearer. He was tall and lean with dark, shaggy hair. And though his face was bearded, she could never mistake Alexander’s earnest, gray eyes. He rushed toward her, tugging her into a passionate embrace. Feeling as if her heart would burst, Sibylla awoke with a start.
It was all so vivid, so real, and terrifying. Yet, in the end, Alexander offered her safety and protection. Was it all just imagined? Or was it, in truth, a vision of things to come?
The End
Valor
The Sons of Scotland Book 2
Victoria Vane
Dedication
To my sons, Sean and Brandon, the heroes of my heart.
Valor
The Sons of Scotland Book 2
What does a man profit if he achieves a kingdom but sacrifices love?
A king’s grandson robbed of his rightful inheritance…
Domnall Fitz William, the descendant of two kings, has spent his life desperately seeking the approval of the man who disowned him, and preparing for the day he will reclaim what was taken from him.
A knight’s daughter who longs for justice…
As a young child, Davina of Crailing lost everything she loved—her family murdered and her home burned. As an orphan and heiress, Davina is taken in as a ward of the king, but his motives are far from benevolent.
Anything worth having comes at a great cost…
In desperate need of a champion and protector, Davina turns to Domnall, but saving Davina will come at a great cost. When forced to choose, will he leave Davina on her own to avenge the past, or will he surrender his own ambitions to find the missing piece of his heart?
Foreword
My journey to Medieval Scotland began with idle curiosity about my previously unknown Scottish roots, but what started as a simple exploration quickly bloomed into near obsession—and the Sons of Scotland were conceived.
While my books are fictional, the trials, triumphs, and tragedies of my true to life Highland heroes, Alexander Mac Malcolm, Malcolm MacAedh, and Domnall Mac William, are very much based upon historical facts. In these stories, I hope I have succeeded in breathing life back into these long ago men of ancient Moray who clung tightly to their Celtic heritage and played a significant role in the struggle for the destiny of the Medieval Kingdom of Scotland.
PART ONE
Chapter One
Crailing Tower, Southern Kingdom of Scotland,
December 23, 1140 A.D.
AT THE SOUND of the cock’s crow, Davina bolted from her bed. Any remaining vestiges of sleep were exorcised the moment her bare feet made contact with the icy stone floor. Gripping her arisaid for warmth, she rushed to the window to gaze out toward the stables where two horses stood tethered. Good! They had not yet departed. Perhaps there was still time to change her father’s mind.
Forgoing stockings, Davina hastened to don her woolen cote and lace her boots. She then flew down the staircase and through the keep toward the kitchen where they would surely be breaking their fast. They were just rising from the table as Davina entered.
“Davina?” her father regarded her with surprise. “You have come to see us off?”
“Nae, Faither,” she confessed. “I’d hoped to convinc
e ye to take me with ye.”
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been allowed to venture beyond the castle walls.
He shook his head. “The roads are not safe enough.”
“But ye take Ewan!” she protested, glaring at her brother. “He’s only a year older than me.”
“He is a lad.”
“What difference does it make?” she asked.
“All the difference. The world is a far more dangerous place for the gentler sex.”
“But I willna slow ye down,” she argued. “I am a far better rider than Ewan.”
“You are at that,” her father conceded with the barest hint of a grin. “But my word is final. You will remain here.”
Nothing could have surprised Davina more than her father’s announcement that he and Ewan would travel to Carlisle for the Christmas feast, leaving her virtually alone for Christmas. While her father and brother celebrated at the king’s castle, she would be all alone, save for a few servants! It seemed so unfair! Nevertheless, her father’s expression quelled any further protest.
Fighting back tears, Davina followed them to the stables. The morning frost crunched under her feet and the icy air stung her lungs as she crossed the bailey. In the last week, winter had arrived with a vengeance. Even now, the sky began to spit fluffy white flakes of snow that tickled her face and clung to her eyelashes as her father secured their saddlebags in preparation to depart. Davina watched in silence only broken by the sound of mud sucking at the horses’ hooves and the occasional equine snort as they readied to mount their horses.
Ewan’s shaggy brown gelding tossed his head impatiently as her brother fumbled to raise his foot to the stirrup. “Be still,” Ewan snapped and jerked on the reins which only served to further upset the horse. Ewan wasn’t a bad sort, but he’d changed since Andrew’s death. It was as if he now competed with a ghost for his father’s affection.
Davina’s throat tightened as her father and brother turned toward the gate. As her sire cast a last look at Davina, something in his expression softened.
“We will return to celebrate the New Year. Behave in my absence, and mayhap I’ll bring you back a present.”
“A gift for the New Year?” Davina’s gloom instantly brightened.
“Only if I receive a good report,” he answered. Spinning his horse, he then urged the bay into a brisk trot. Ewan followed suit, bouncing in the saddle in his struggle to keep up.
Although still disappointed that she couldn’t accompany them, Davina held to the consolation that at least she would be warm and safe until they returned. And maybe, just maybe, her father would return with a pony in tow.
She hoped it would be white and have blue eyes. She’d always wanted a pony with blue eyes. She would name it Skye after the Isle of her máthair’s birth.
Chapter Two
Castle Kilmuir, Black Isle, Scottish Highlands
“CANNA YE REACH it?” Sibylla called out impatiently.
Standing on a tree bough, Domnall glanced up at the cluster of white berries that remained just out of reach, and then back down to where his sister stood with a basket raised above her head ready to catch the raining mistletoe.
“I can reach,” Domnall replied. But as he stretched his arm further toward his intended prize, the limb suddenly dipped under his weight. He looked down again, wondering whether the risk of a broken neck was worth the reward.
Gathering mistletoe at Cnoc Croit na Maoile was a yuletide tradition, but unlike his sister, Sibylla, and their cousin, Ailis, he didn’t care so much about the ancient rites as he did about the challenge of climbing the highest trees. Domnall was always up for a challenge, always pushing himself to the limits, admittedly sometimes taking foolhardy chances.
He unsheathed his knife and was preparing to scale another limb when his cousin, Kenneth, shouted up to him. “Domnall! Ye are summoned to the keep. Yer faither sends for ye.”
“My faither?” Domnall frowned. “Fergus is nae my faither.”
“’Tis nae Fergus I speak of,” Kenneth answered. “’Tis Fitz Duncan.”
Domnall’s gut instantly tightened. They had neither seen nor heard from the man in nearly four years. Fitz Duncan was a Norman Sassenach who had come only to conquer and subdue the highlands. Domnall and his sister, Sibylla, were merely byproducts of that conquest.
“Fitz Duncan?” Sibylla repeated. “Our faither has come back to Kilmuir?”
“Aye,” Kenneth replied. “And he brought many men.”
“What about me?” Sibylla asked, licking her lips. “Did he ask aught of me?”
“Nae. He sends only for Domnall,” Kenneth replied. “That’s all I ken about it.”
Watching the exchange, Domnall could see the hurt on Sibylla’s face before she turned away to hide it. For what reason had his faither come to Kilmuir? And why had he sent only for Domnall? There was only one way to find out.
“Are ye coming down or nae?” Kenneth called up to the tree.
“I’m coming,” Domnall answered.
Sheathing his sgian-dubh, Domnall lowered himself belly to branch, and then let his legs hang down. He was at least twelve feet up. It would be wiser to climb down but that would take longer… and wouldn’t impress anyone.
Domnall released the branch and dropped.
The impact was jarring and his knees buckled but he somehow managed to maintain his balance and land on his feet. It wasn’t as graceful as he’d hoped for, but Kenneth seemed duly moved.
“Domnall! Ye could have broken yer neck,” Sibylla scolded.
“But I dinna.” Domnall grinned. “Race ye back?” he challenged Kenneth. “I’ll even give ye a head start.” Even then, it wouldn’t be much of a contest. He easily bested his cousin in almost all physical pursuits.
“I dinna need a head start.” But even as he spoke, Kenneth bolted for the path leading down to the castle.
*
BY THE TIME he arrived at the castle, Domnall’s heart felt like it would burst from his chest, but it wasn’t just the exertion of running. Fitz Duncan hadn’t set foot in the Highlands since he’d left to marry a Norman heiress with all her English lands. What could his sire want with his bastard son after all this time?
As he crossed the bailey, he passed by a company of strangers tending their horses. Some were Norman knights, but their reluctant-looking grooms appeared to be Highlanders. Is this why his father had come north? To conscript more Highland soldiers to fight in England’s civil war?
The last time Fitz Duncan had come north, he’d conscripted a massive force of Highlanders to invade northern England. Although he had led his Gaelic forces to victory at Clitheroe, they suffered great slaughter a few months later at the Battle of the Standard. Many of the men of Kilmuir had lost their lives. At ten years old, Domnall was too young to fight, but one day he vowed he would be an even greater warrior than Fitz Duncan.
Domnall paused to run a hand through his tangled hair and tugged at his tunic. He was rumpled and dirty from tree climbing. His mother would surely scold him, but what did he care how he looked to the man who’d disowned him? Fitz Duncan could go to the devil for all he cared.
Jutting his chin and squaring his shoulders, Domnall marched inside toward the voices in the great hall.
“Ye canna take him!” His mother stood before Fitz Duncan, looking both fearful and defiant.
Wrapped in a bearskin mantle, Fitz Duncan was slouched in a chair by the hearth, chalice of wine in hand. Neither Fitz Duncan nor his mother had yet noticed his arrival. Fitz Duncan took a long swallow, and then set his cup down with slow deliberation. “I can and I will. He is my blood, after all.”
“The blood ye disowned!” she said.
Two years ago, his new wife had borne him another son which legally negated any future claim that Domnall might make of his father. Had something untoward happened to Fitz Duncan’s precious heir? Why else would he be here?
Fitz Duncan shrugged. “An unfortunate circumstance.”
“Ye have nae claim to the lad. Ye forfeited the right.”
“On the contrary, I forfeited nothing. I am still Mormaer of Moray and an English earl besides. And now that Domnall is old enough, I will see him raised amongst my own people.”
“To what purpose?” Domnall’s mother voiced his own question.
“So that he will learn to fight and serve his king,” Fitz Duncan answered.
“And die on a distant battlefield?” she asked in a choked voice.
“Is that all ye care about? Fighting and killing?” Her face was pale and her movements erratic. Domnall had never seen her looking so distraught.
“More or less.” Fitz Duncan replied with a blithe shrug. “’Tis what I do best.”
His mother glanced up and briefly caught Domnall’s eye. “What if the lad doesna want to go with ye?”
“It matters not what he wants.” Fitz Duncan raised his cup tauntingly. “But it seems I am in want of more wine.”
“I am nae yer servant,” she spat. “Fetch it yerself!”
Fast as lightning, his hand shot out to clamp on to her arm. Just as swiftly, a giant shadow took to his feet, hand poised at his hip. Until that moment, Domnall had not even noticed his stepfather’s presence. Fergus was a fierce warrior who’d lost an eye fighting against King David’s forces in the great rebellion—forces that Fitz Duncan had led.
Domnall’s heart leaped into his throat in anticipation of impending bloodshed.
Physically, Fergus was clearly dominant, yet, Fitz Duncan appeared utterly unconcerned by the threat. Was he truly a man without fear or was he just filled with his own greatness? His expression betrayed nothing as he cast a languid gaze up at the behemoth Highlander.
“Unless you have a burning desire to lose other body parts to my sword, you will stand down.”
Though his bearing was relaxed, tension surrounded Fitz Duncan, reminding Domnall of a cat preparing at any moment to pounce. Fitz Duncan was a dangerous man.
Fergus’ gaze flickered from Fitz Duncan to his wife. “Gruaid?”