Chapter Twenty-One
Dunfermline Palace
Sibylla quickly fell into the dull monotony of palace life. The king’s strict observance of canonical hours that demanded rising well before the sun and attending seven masses per day left her little time for herself. Though given the clothing and comforts of a queen, her life could not be more restricted had she entered a nunnery! She desperately longed for the simple life and freedom she’d known in the Highlands.
No doubt in preparation for her marriage, the king had commanded that she learn his tongue. Though Father Gregor had a firm grasp of Anglo-Norman, he was not permitted to instruct her, his Gaelic accent having offended the king’s ear. Instead, Brother Aubert, a native Norman and Assistant Prior of the abbey, was chosen to instruct her.
Twice each day, he appeared for her lessons. The morning hour was spent inside with a focus on grammar and vocabulary, while the in afternoon she practiced her polite conversation while strolling the palace gardens with the king. During these walks, he allowed no interpreter, but at least endeavored to speak slowly using simple phrases. Thus immersed, Sibylla rapidly caught on.
“Good afternoon, Lady Sibylla,” the king addressed her formally in Anglo Norman.
“Good afternoon, Majesty,” she replied. “How do ye fare?” she answered.
“My stomach gives me much complaint,” he answered, “but I am otherwise well.”
“Have ye taken herbs?” she asked.
“My physicians have prescribed a percutant. It does little good and keeps me abed.”
“Percutant?” Sibylla stumbled over the unfamiliar word.
“An agent that moves the…” he flushed and placed his hand on his lower abdomen.
“Och! Purgaid,” Sibylla nodded and replied in Gaelic. She continued in Norman. “There is, perhaps, a better cure,” she suggested. “Have ye tried mint tea? Or perhaps…” once more the Norman words eluded her. “Ubhal sùgh-ubhal fìon-geur?”
“Ye have much knowledge of herbs?” the king asked.
“Aye. We grow many in our gardens at Kilmuir,” she replied. “’Tis a rare illness that we canna cure.”
As they paused by the reflecting pool, Sibylla dragged her fingers idly through the cool, clear water. Some water crow foot grew in mats of white and yellow flowers on the surface with leaves branching out thread-like under the water. She felt a strange affinity for this plant that had sprung up where it didn’t belong. The species was oft considered a nuisance plant, but she hoped no one would pluck it out.
“I will try this tea,” the king replied. He then eyed her with another slow appraisal that always made her wonder at his thoughts. “What other skills do ye possess? Have ye any musical talents?”
“Nae,” Sibylla replied. “My cousin, Ailis, is the songbird.”
“Do ye dance?”
“Only a Highland jig,” she replied. “I ken naught of courtly dances.”
“Ah! ’Tis another deficiency that must be rectified. Courtly dancing teaches grace of movement. Do ye ride?” the king asked.
“I do!” Sibylla declared, excited to have finally found a common interest. “I also love to hunt.”
“Do ye, indeed?” The king lips curved in a subtle smile. “When I am well enough to sit a horse, I shall assemble a hunting party. ’Twill be good to show ye to advantage.”
“Show me to advantage? What do ye mean?”
Before he could answer, the Earl of Mearns appeared. Ruddy-faced and grim, he came barreling toward them. “Majesty, there is verra grave news!”
“Aye? What is it man!” the king demanded.
“A rider has come to notify ye that there was an attack. The Earl of Fife was mortally wounded and the prince is gone.”
“Gone? Explain yerself! What do ye mean gone?”
“He was bathing in the river when last seen. ’Tis believed he was struck by an arrow and drowned.”
“Drowned?” he gasped, all hint of color draining from his face. “I cannot breathe,” the king croaked. With his hand clutching his cheat, the king fell backward, only saved from falling into the reflecting pool by the earl’s interception. “Go!” the earl commanded Sibylla. “Fetch the physician!”
Sibylla hesitated. Should the king die, her prayers might be answered. Yet, conscience moved her to act. Lifting her skirts out of the way, she ran for help.
*
Castle Kilmuir, Black Isle
Alex locked the door behind him as he left the sleeping prince. Lady Gruaid had assured him that the wounds were clean and posed no threat to his life, and had promised to keep a watchful vigil. Alex didn’t completely trust Lady Olith, but the blind woman could do little harm on her own. He only hoped Domnall didn’t return in his absence. That could prove disastrous.
As an added safeguard, Alex had taken the sword with him, concealing it on his back under his cloak. Though he feared its discovery, the risk was far greater to leave it behind.
He departed from the sea gate as the sun was rising, manning the oars of a small fishing boat, much like the ones he’d sailed in the Tarbat Ness. Though his mind was clouded with worry, he’d always found something calming in the sound of waves slapping against wood.
Once he was far enough out, he raised the sail and prayed for a favorable wind that would take him swiftly to the port town of Inverkeithing on the Firth of Forth, only a few miles from Dunfermline. Hugging the coastline and traveling by boat could cut at least three full days from his journey, let alone give his injured feet time to heal.
The wind had picked up, whipping strands of hair into his face as it propelled the vessel smoothly across the water. His thoughts finally turned back to Sibylla.
If his negotiations were fruitful, the burden of Prince Malcolm would be off their shoulders quickly and she and MacAedh would be free to go home. He was certain that Domnall would be accused by the king and it would be nearly impossible to prove his innocence without learning who was behind it.
Something stirred in the back of his mind, and slowly emerged as a face in a crowd—Ranald’s face. The day he and MacAedh had arrived, he’d seen Ranald at Dunfermline. Could he have played a part in this act of treachery? Was Domnall also involved? The timing alone suggested he wasn’t, but it would be nearly impossible to prove his innocence without learning who, precisely, was behind it. Someone close to the king had to have provided information. Who, other than Domnall Mac William, stood most to benefit by Malcolm’s death? His half-brother perhaps? Eachann of Mearns had put forth William the Atheling as successor. Could his uncle have played a part in this murder plot? Of all options, this was beginning to seem the most likely but without proof, he could say nothing… do nothing.
Alex thought of the sword on his back and the sgian-dubh hidden beneath his tunic. If he was convinced that his uncle was behind this treacherous act, did he have it within him to put a blade into Eachann’s cold, black heart? He didn’t know the answer but it seemed he was destined to find out.
*
Dunfermline Palace
Dunfermline, a sober and dreary place in normal circumstances, had taken on the character of imminent mourning. The palace servants crept about in silence as if afraid even to speak. And in the abbey, the monks fasted and held all night vigils of prayer and supplication for the king’s recovery. By the third day, the Earl of Mearns had called an emergency meeting of the king’s council.
Confined to her chamber, Sibylla waited nervously for news of the king, whose death would all but guarantee her freedom. On the fourth day after his collapse, Sibylla was surprised with a summons to the king’s chamber. She entered to find the king sitting upright in bed surrounded by the Earl of Mearns and several other men she didn’t recognize.
At the king’s nod of acknowledgement, she approached and knelt by his side in a show of respect. Though she’d never seen him in robust health, his appearance was ghastly, truly on the cusp of death. Though she despised him, she still couldn’t wish for his passing. “Y-ye sent for me?” Sibylla said, wondering why he’d sent for her.
The king looked to the Earl of Mearns who came forward to answer. “His Majesty’s powers of speech have failed, but his mind is yet lucid,” the earl explained. “God forbid,” he paused to make the sign of the cross, and then continued, “he does nae fully regain his health, he has signed several decrees to insure the future succession and stability of this kingdom… one of which involves ye.”
“Me?” Sibylla replied. “How can this have anything to do with me?”
“The king is much disturbed by the recent act of treason led by yer brother in yer province of Moray. This uprising can be dealt with in one of two ways. Yer kinsmen can be hunted down and executed, or permanently banished from the kingdom.”
“B-but ye have nae proof ’twas Domnall!” Sibylla protested.
“His Majesty, in the spirit of mercy and beneficence, is willing to first consider a peaceable solution. In the interest of uniting the northern and southern kingdoms, he has proposed a betrothal be announced between ye and Prince Malcolm.”
“Prince Malcolm?” Her stomach knotted with the pronouncement. Was this what the king had in mind all along when he’d mentioned her marriage? “B-but he is a child!” she protested.
“The prince has past his twelfth summer and will be of age to wed in two years. ’Tis not an unusually lengthy betrothal for a royal marriage,” the earl argued.
“But why me?” Sibylla asked, feeling almost hysterical. At eighteen, she was a woman grown. The prince was still a child. Moreover, she loved someone else, but ’twould be useless to speak of it. They would only laugh. Love was irrelevant in royal marriages.
“Ye are the granddaughter of both Duncan Cenn Mór and Aedh of Moray. There is no other female of superior royal blood in all of this kingdom. The king once had thought to bolster the bond with England with such an alliance, but ’tis still uncertain who will wear the English crown. Thus, he seeks, instead, to unify and strengthen Scotland.”
“But I am illegitimate,” she replied, biting back the urge to add, “thanks to the king”.
After the great rebellion, he’d sent his kinsman, William Fitz Duncan, to suppress the Highlands. He’d taken her mother to wife at the king’s urging solely to claim the lands of Moray, only later to divorce her, once more at this king’s command, in favor of a Norman heiress and her English lands. In so doing, both Sibylla and Domnall had been delegitimized and disinherited.
“The marriage will erase the taint,” the earl said dismissively. “And yer offspring will wear the crown of a unified Scotland.” The earl looked to the king and then continued, “If ye wish yer kinsmen to live, ye will consent to the marriage.”
She was starkly reminded of the sacrifice her own mother had once made for peace in the Highlands. If wedding the prince would bring reconciliation and restoration to her family, was she, also, prepared to become the sacrificial lamb?
Her heart raced. “If I agree to this, ye will free my uncle?”
“Nae,” the earl shook his head. “MacAedh will nae be free, but if ye agree, the king promises MacAedh will live… If ye dinna agree, he will die.”
“What of my brother?” Sibylla asked.
“For his treason, Domnall Mac William will be given his choice between exile or execution.”
Sibylla quaked inside as her dreams for the future crumbled to dust. She loved Alexander with all her heart and believed that they could have found happiness together in any circumstances. But a future together was hopeless.
If she refused the king, her uncle and brother would surely die. Even if it meant being with Alexander, she could never live with their deaths on her conscience. Her duty was clear.
“Aye,” she replied in a choked whisper. “I will wed the prince.”