Chapter Two
Kilmuir Castle, Black Ilse
Northern Kingdom of Alba
“What do ye think of the new tutor,” Sibylla asked as she began carding the pile of newly shorn wool.
“He’s younger than I thought he would be,” Ailis remarked, her nimble fingers working the combed wool into fine thread.
“Aye. I thought the same. Do ye think him comely?” Sibylla asked.
“I suppose so,” Ailis paused, then added with a mocking grin, “if ye like a man with a chin as smooth as a bairn’s bottom.”
“But priests can’t wear beards,” Sibylla protested. “’Tis forbidden.”
Sibylla’s mother looked up from her spinning. “Are ye sweet on the young priest, Sibylla? I don’t think they are allowed to wed either.”
“He’s not a priest yet,” she said. “And I’m not sweet on him… He’s just different from the rest, ’tis all.”
“Aye. He’s different a’ right,” her grandmother, Olith remarked. “In the sennight since he arrived, he’s scarce left his room except at meal time. ’Tis not seemly for a young man to bury himself all the time in books.”
“Mayhap Domnall can take him hunting?” Ailis suggested.
“I think he doesna like to hunt,” her mother remarked, biting off a thread from the spool. “He’s never gone with the lads.”
“Probably because he eats no meat,” Sibylla said.
“Never the meat?” Ailis remarked in surprise.
“Nae,” Sibylla answered. “Have ye not taken notice? He eats only bread, fish, and vegetables.”
“’Tis his upbringing with the monks,” her grandmother remarked. “They have peculiar notions about the eating of flesh.”
“But he’s not at the monastery,” Sibylla said. “Why can’t he live like us?”
“I don’t ken his mind, Sibylla,” her grandmother replied with a shrug.
Sibylla ran her fingers over the soft clump of combed wool. “’Tis a fine spring day. Since he eats fish, mayhap he could be coaxed to catch some?”
“If ye think to take him to the burn, ye’d best bring Domnall,” her mother said.
Sibylla huffed. “But Domnall doesn’t have the patience to fish.”
“Nevertheless, ye canna go alone with a young man,” she warned.
“But he’s a monk!” Sibylla laughed.
“Not yet,” her grandmother said. “And nature can be a formidable force between opposite sexes.”
“Then Ailis will come with us,” Sibylla said.
Ailis protested with a shudder. “But I don’t like to bait the hooks!”
Sibylla exhaled an impatient sigh. “I’ll bait your hook, and I’ll even take the fish off if ye manage to catch one this time.”
“Ye’ll go nowhere until your work is done,” Aunt Leitis said. “There are yet three bins of wool to card.”
It had taken the men several days to shear all the sheep and now the women’s work of spinning and weaving had begun. Many of the clan would need new plaids for the coming winter. Sibylla found it tedious but Ailis, like her mother and grandmother, was becoming an artist at the loom. It still amazed Sibylla that her blind grandmother could still spin the finest thread.
“A’right,” Sibylla exhaled a martyr’s sigh and set her hands back to her task.
“What if he doesn’t want to go?” Ailis asked after a time. “How do ye think to coax him?”
“I dinna yet ken,” Sibylla replied, adding with a grin, “But I’ll think of something.”
Lost in his work, Alexander startled at the unexpected rap on his chamber door, a reaction that left an ugly blob of ink on the precious velum. Using the hem of his sleeve, he frantically dabbed at the stain, but it only worsened the smear. Biting back the curse that sat precariously close to the end of his tongue, he glanced up to scold the intruder.
But rather than his recalcitrant pupil, he discovered her. His pulse raced for reasons he couldn’t comprehend. “Lady Sibylla. ’Tis my chamber.” He stood in protest. “Y-ye cannot come inside!”
“Why not?” she asked, stepping into the tiny room. “I’ve been in this chamber many times. It was once my playroom.” She looked over his shoulder to the writing table. Her gaze narrowed. “What are ye doing?”
Alexander fought an almost overwhelming urge to snatch it away from her gaze. He’d never shown his work to anyone before. “Please! Ye must not be here,” he insisted.
“If ye answer my questions, I’ll go.”
Alexander exhaled in consternation. Why did she persist? He didn’t understand the reason, but her very presence unnerved him. Was it because he’d had so little interaction with females in his life, or was it just this particular female who made him feel so uneasy?
“Tis my work,” he finally replied. “It is my desire to become a scribe.”
“A scribe?” Her brow wrinkled. “What is that?”
“Scribes have many duties,” he explained. “They keep records and perform clerical duties for monarchs and churches, they record historical events and perhaps most importantly, they copy, translate, and illuminate the Holy Scriptures.”
“Illuminate? What do ye mean?” She reached over him for the sheet of vellum and held it up to the light.
“What is this?”
“’Tis my work. I’ve been copying and illuminating a number of psalms.”
“Tis beautiful work.” She gingerly stroked her fingertips over the gold scrollwork he’d added to the edges of the page. “It reminds me of the Pictish stone carvings at Rosemarkie. Have ye ever seen them?” she asked.
“Nae.” He shook his head.
“They are also very intricately wrought,” she remarked. “But why do ye need to do this?”
“It isn’t a need so much as a desire to honor the sacred texts,” he said. “It is believed that illumination helps those who can’t read to better comprehend the text.”
“But what need have we to read them when we have priests?” she asked. “The Pictish people had no holy books at all. Their priests were the keepers of all that is sacred and committed everything to memory.”
“Ye would trust all that the priest tells ye as God’s pure truth?”
“Don’t ye?” she asked.
“Nae.” Alex shook his head. “I would know the truth for myself. No man is incorruptible. No man is without sin. And keeping knowledge is the most effectual means of holding power and controlling people.”
“Is this true?” she asked, staring more intently at the drawing of the shepherd holding the lamb. “Can these pictures truly help people to read?”
He sensed something personal in her question. “Ye don’t read Latin?” he asked.
“Nae.” She licked her lips and averted her gaze. “I cannot read at all. My father forbade it. He said women had no business with books.”
“Not even the holy scriptures? Our Lord clearly commanded his disciples to share his word with all of the world.”
“But even those who are illiterate cannot truly be ignorant of God? His very creation speaks his existence.”
“Do ye believe that?” Alexander studied her face with growing fascination. Her eyes were large and luminous and her expression had grown more animated.
“Aye,” she replied softly, holding his gaze. “How can I not? Come.” She suddenly pulled on his sleeve. “Let me show ye a place where he speaks the loudest.”
“I cannot,” he insisted with a shake of his head. In truth, there was no legitimate reason he couldn’t go. He just knew he shouldn’t be alone with her.
“Why not?” she asked. “Ye’ve hardly left your room since ye arrived here. Surely Uncle Malcolm wouldn’t begrudge ye an hour or two.”
“I have much to do in preparing your brother’s lessons.”
“Not today!” Sibylla replied. Before he realized what she was about, she tucked his psalter into the bodice of her gown and spun toward the door. “If ye want it back, ye’ll come to the burn.”
Sibylla couldn’t stifle her laughter as she ran for the door. Taking his book was a reckless impulse, but he’d seemed beyond persuading. He was far too young to be so solemn. There seemed only one way to get him outside—so she ran as fast as her legs would carry her. She sprinted down the entire flight of tower stairs and through the great hall before she even dared to look behind her. Was he following?
“Lady Sibylla! Stop! Please!” he cried out.
“Nae!” she laughed “Tis too fine a day to be cooped up like the chickens!”
She was already panting but pressed onward through the bailey where she passed her cousin leading a cow toward the milking shed. “Come to the burn, Ailis,” she cried out. “And bring the fishing poles!”
Sibylla darted through the gates and then down the well-worn path leading to a wooded glen. Her lungs were on fire, but she kept running, refusing to slow until she arrived at her favorite place in the world—a lovely crystal clear pool at the base of a cascade. Out of breath, she finally collapsed on the mossy bank and waited. Had he followed her or had he given up? Seconds later, he came crashing through the trees like a raging bull.
“Ye had no right to take that!” he accused. “That codex is irreplaceable! Give it back to me,” he commanded, his voice quiet but quivering with fury.
A tiny shiver passed through her body as his piercing blue eyes bored into hers. She never could have imagined he’d react with such passion. Had she gone too far? “I-I meant no harm,” she said, retrieving the volume from her bodice. “I only wanted to get ye outside for a while.”
“So ye would resort to trickery?” He snatched it from her hands. “Why don’t ye just ask?”
“But I did!” she insisted. “Ye would not come. This is what I wanted to show ye.” She made a wide gesture to encompass the landscape. “Tis this place where God speaks to me.”
Alexander’ gaze flickered. Without a word, he raised his chin and did a slow and silent survey of his surroundings. His expression slowly changed, softened.
“’Tis my favorite place in the world,” she said. “’Tis also the best for fishing.”
“Fishing?” he repeated blankly.
“Aye! Don’t ye like to fish?” she asked.
“I do,” he replied, looking even less vexed.
He was quite comely, Sibylla decided, even if he did have a chin as smooth as a bairn’s bottom. “Would ye stay then?” she asked softly. “Ailis should be bringing the poles any minute.”
“What of your uncle?” he asked.
“He doesna like to fish.” She said with a grin.
He glowered again. “’Tis not what I meant.
“I know what ye meant,” she teased. “They will all know where we have gone. I told my aunt just yesterday that I would get ye to come fishing.”
His dark brows shot upward. “So I’m now the victim of a conspiracy?”
“Aye,” she laughed. “I’m afraid so. But ’tis only because we didn’t want ye to perish.”
“Perish?” He looked puzzled. “I dinna ken.”
“Since ye don’t eat meat, we need more fish. And this burn is the best spot on the whole of Black Isle for brown trout.”
“Aye? Ye don’t need bait or poles for trout,” he said. “Ye can catch them with your bare hands.”
Sibylla cocked her head. “I don’t believe ye. They’re too fast, not to mention slippery.”
“Ye must take the right approach,” he explained. “They like to rest under rock and ledges so ye begin by walking upstream and feeling under the ledges. Once ye find a fish, ye then work your fingers slowly up his body from the tail to his belly. If ye do it long enough, it’ll coax him into a dream state. That’s when ye reach for the head, grip hard, and pull him from the water.”
“Show me,” Sibylla challenged.
“Verra well.” Alexander placed his psalter on a boulder, then tied up his tunic, and climbed down the bank into the water. She almost laughed as his body stiffened in reaction to the icy water.
“Are ye just going to sit and watch?” he challenged.
“I want to see if it works first,” she replied. “If ye catch one. I’ll catch two.”
Her gaze tracked his every movement as Alexander crept slowly upstream, feeling under the rocks. “The fish will always face upstream,” she said. “If they don’t, water will enter their gills the wrong way and they’ll drown.” He suddenly froze and whispered over his shoulder. “I found a big one.”
Rapt with interest, Sibylla kicked off her shoes, and removed her stockings to join him in the water. Unlike Alexander, she could not hold back her gasp as she entered the burn.
He now had both hands in the water. “He’s ready,” he whispered. A second later, his hands shot out of the water with a wildly thrashing speckled fish that he promptly laid on a boulder. “Grab a stone and strike it on the head!” he commanded.
Sibylla did as he said. One solid blow and the fish went still. She stared dumbly at the limp body feeling a bit like a murderer.
“’Tis the kindest way,” he said. “I would not see it suffocate.”
“Ye made it look so simple,” she said. She was truly amazed at the ease in which he’d caught it. “Why would anyone fish any other way?”
He shrugged. “’Tis now your turn.”
Crouching down, Sibylla slowly waded upstream, holding one hand out for balance as she reached under the shelf of rock on the bank. The footing in the stream was slick with algae, and the water soon weighted down her skirts which made the task much more difficult than she’d thought. After several minutes, her fingers came in contact with a soft and slippery form. “I found one!” She stifled a squeal.
“Aye?” Alexander grinned. “Now slowly stoke his body.”
“How do ye know it’s a he? Maybe it’s a she?” she replied.
“I don’t ken what difference it makes,” he mumbled with a shake of his dark shaggy head.
“It’s gone still,” she murmured.
“Then now’s the time. Reach with both hands and grab its head. Hold tight, for it will fight ye the moment it awakens.”
Sibylla put both hands around the fish, the biggest she’d ever caught, and plucked it out of the water. The moment its head broke the surface, it began thrashing fiercely. Maintaining balance and holding the fighting fish proved too great a challenge. With a shriek, Sibylla fell backward into the water, where she sputtered, kicked, and flailed, but still refused to release the fish.
“Let it go, lass!” Alexander cried, his eyes wide with panic as he waded toward her. “I would not have ye drown for a bluidy fish!”
He was there in seconds. His hands came around her waist as he plucked her up and out of the water as easily as he’d landed his catch. For a dazed and breathless moment, Sibylla stood staring up at him with the fish flopping between them.
“I wouldn’t have drowned,” she continued with a grin. “At the worst part, ’tis only thigh-deep.”
Alexander gazed down with a look of chagrin. “So ’tis.”
“But it doesn’t lessen the deed,” she said softly. Suddenly solemn, she gazed into his eyes. “Thank ye for your chivalry.”
His body went still. And his breathing quickened. In that instant, she knew something had awakened, something strange and unfamiliar—a sudden awareness of every breath, every heartbeat. Did he feel it, too?
Her desperate grip on the fish went slack. Letting it slip from her fingers, Sibylla rose up on her toes and grasped the woolen fabric of his tunic. Eyeing his mouth, she slowly licked her own lips.
He shut his eyes on a groan. “Please, Sibylla, I—”
“Nae.” She pressed a finger to his mouth. “Don’t say it.”
“Sibylla!” Ailis’s voice called out, startling them apart.
“Over here,” Sibylla called out in reply.
“I thought I’d never find ye,” Ailis grumbled as she dragged the poles. Her eyes widened when she caught sight of her cousin. “Ye’re drookit! Did ye take a swim in the burn?”
“Aye, but ’twas not my idea,” Sibylla said wryly. “We were catching fish, and I slipped.” She held up the single trout.
“I’ve never seen such fine catch!” Ailis gushed. “How did ye do it without the poles?”
“’Tis our secret.” Sibylla flashed Alexander a conspiratorial wink. To her dismay, he didn’t even break a smile. Instead, he took up his codex and tucked it under his arm.
“I must return now. I’ve much work to do.” He nodded and departed, once more stiff and formal. Sibylla watched him go with a tightness in her chest. What had gone wrong?
“When ye decide ye want to be kissed, Sibylla,” Ailis said. “’Twould probably be best if it were not a priest.”
“I wasn’t trying to kiss him!” Sibylla protested, a lie, though she would have denied it to her dying breath.
Ailis had been kissed, so she’d wanted also to experience a kiss, but not just any kiss. She’d particularly wanted Alexander to kiss her—but he hadn’t. Would he have done it if Ailis hadn’t appeared? Sibylla feared she would never know.
“Nae? That’s not how it looked,” Ailis said, unconvinced. “He’s not for ye, Sibylla, don’t ye ken that?”
“Aye, but have ye ever wanted something ye can’t have?” she replied wistfully. “It seems the knowing only makes ye want it all the more.”