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?”
Domnall looked with uncertainty to his mother and stepfather. They clearly resented Fitz Duncan’s arrival and how he’d usurped the role of lord of the keep, but the castle and lands were still his by law, if not by right. If he chose, Fitz Duncan had justification to kill Fergus without any fear of consequences—which would leave Domnall’s mother a widow.
“Release my máthair!” Domnall interjected before Fergus could act.
Fitz Duncan’s head swiveled in Domnall’s direction. “Ah! So the cub has come forth to challenge the lion?” He released her with a laugh. “Bring the wine, woman,” Fitz Duncan ordered.
Domnall’s mother departed with a glare, presumably to carry out the command.
Fitz Duncan turned his attention back to Domnall, all thought of Fergus seemingly forgotten. “Come, lad, and let me have a look at you.”
Although Domnall’s first instinct was to avert his gaze, he forced himself to meet his sire’s scrutinizing stare. The eyes of the man who’d given him life were blue, but not the blue of a summer sky, but the icy hue of a loch frozen in winter. Deep creases etched the corners and also framed his mouth, but these were not to be confused with lines of laughter. His hair was shorn in the Norman fashion and touched with gray about the temples.
“How old are you?” Fitz Duncan asked.
“I’ve passed my tenth summer.” Domnall then countered with his own question. “Why have ye come?”
Fitz Duncan’s brows suddenly met in a frown. “I ask the questions.”
“What if I dinna want to answer them?” Domnall remarked with a look of blatant defiance.
“It matters not what you want. You will soon learn that any who defy my authority do so at their peril.” Fitz Duncan’s tone was deceptively soft but the steeliness of his gaze sent a clear warning. “You will be going with me.”
“Where are ye taking me?” Domnall asked.
“Carlisle. For the king’s Christmas feast. After that, you will go to serve one of my knights.”
“Why?” Domnall asked, feeling both dismayed and confused.
Indeed, all of his emotions were in tumult. Fitz Duncan had taken no part in his life until now. He hated his father but, at the same time, he couldn’t help feeling disappointed that the man would hand Domnall off to another to be trained instead of teaching him himself. Whatever flaws Fitz Duncan might have as a father, no man could question his abilities as a warrior and general.
“If ye dinna wish to keep me with ye, why take me away from here at all?”
“’Tis the Norman custom,” Fitz Duncan responded. “And the first step to becoming a knight.”
Domnall digested this with difficulty. Although part of him embraced the idea of training as a knight, the other part didn’t want to leave his home and his family.
“He is nae Norman,” Domnall’s mother interjected as she returned with a pitcher of wine. She hesitated for a moment, eyeing first Fitz Duncan and then his empty chalice as if considering whether to fill the cup or pour the contents of the pitcher over his head.
As if reading her mind, Fitz Duncan gave her his cold, humorless smile.
She licked her lips and reached for the cup, perhaps knowing that satisfying her spleen would not be worth risking Fitz Duncan’s wrath.
“Nevertheless, he will be reared a Norman,” Fitz Duncan replied. “Only knighthood will overcome his bastardy.”
Domnall winced. It was one thing to know of his illegitimacy, but quite another to hear it spoken, especially from his own father’s lips.
“Please! Ye canna take my son!” Gruaid threw herself to her knees. “Ye are a cruel and heartless man, Fitz Duncan, to deprive a máthair of her only son!”
“Cruel? Perhaps at times,” he confessed. “Heartless, most certainly. Tender emotions only tangle a man’s reason. But take heart, dear lady. I leave you with the consolation that you have regained a brother.”
“A brother?” she looked confused. “What do ye mean? Ye ken as well as I that my brother is long dead, killed by yer verra sword.”
“Don’t take me for a fool, Gruaid. I refer to your younger brother, Malcolm, who to my recollection will soon be coming of age.”
“I havena seen Malcolm in years. He could be dead for all I know.”
Domnall knew her statement for a bald-faced lie, as did Fitz Duncan. Although he lived in hiding, his uncle, Malcolm, was a regular visitor at Castle Kilmuir.
“On the contrary,” Fitz Duncan continued. “According to my sources, your brother is alive and well, and more than likely hiding at present in this very keep.” He stalled her protest with a raised hand. “Don’t’ waste your breath denying it. I know it to be true. But I am prepared to make a bargain.”
“What kind of bargain?” she asked.
“Malcolm MacAedh may return to Kilmuir,” he said, with a munificent gesture. “Indeed, I will even install him as Thane of Kilmuir, since I now have reasonable insurance for his future good behavior.”
“Insurance?” Her blue gaze suddenly widened with understanding. “Ye mean Domnall? Is this the real reason ye came to Kilmuir? To make a hostage of yer own son?”
Was that what Fitz Duncan feared? That there would be another Highland insurrection?
The land of Moray was, in fact, Domnall’s mother’s birthright, seized by the king and given to Fitz Duncan after the great rebellion. For as long as he could remember, Domnall had harbored the secret hope of one day winning it all back.
“A hostage?” Fitz Duncan chewed on the word. “I would prefer instead to make him a knight, loyal to the king… but that will largely depend on the lad.” He looked to Domnall.
“I will go,” Domnall answered. Although he had no wish to leave his home, he recognized that training as a knight would be the first step toward achieving his own aim. He didn’t know how or when, but Domnall swore that one day he would reclaim all of Moray in his mother’s name.
“I will stay here tonight,” Fitz Duncan continued, as if their hospitality was his due. “And we will ride out at dawn.” Fitz Duncan drained his cup and then slumped back in his chair with a yawn.
“Aye, Domnall replied. “I will be ready.”