Chapter Seventeen
Castle Kilmuir
Scottish Highlands
“Prince Henry of Scotland is dead,” the young, golden-bearded man pronounced to the dozen men congregated in the great hall, news that set the entire table murmuring.
Domnall stared blankly at the stranger, almost unable to comprehend the words. Prince Henry was a man in his prime, yet to see his fortieth year. How could it be that Henry was dead, yet the king, an old man in failing health, still lived?
“Are ye certain ’tis Henry? Nae the king?” Domnall asked.
“Aye,” Ranald Mac Somerled answered. “’Tis confirmed by reliable sources.”
“Reliable sources” generally meant spies. For years, Somerled of the Isles and David Cenn Mór had employed a sophisticated network of spies to keep each other in check. Domnall no longer doubted the truth of it.
“How?” Domnall demanded. “Was he murdered?”
“’Tis only kent that he died in his sickbed,” Ranald replied. “There is nae proof of foul play, though there are whispers of poisoning.”
Was it possible someone had murdered Prince Henry? But who? Henry was the king’s only son. The next closest in line to the throne would have been Domnall’s own father. But William Fitz Duncan also was dead by foul means. The two deaths were proof that murder and intrigue were enjoyed as much at the Scottish court as at any other. Plotting, scheming, and conspiracies always existed amongst power-hungry nobles.
“’Tis grave news, indeed,” MacAedh remarked.
“Aye,” Ranald nodded. “The king grows old, his health is failing, and now it seems he is without an heir.” His icy blue eyes held a glimmer that belied his sympathetic tone.
Henry’s sons were mere lads, far from coming of age… which meant…
Domnall’s heart raced.
With David’s heir dead, was Somerled perhaps making the first step toward building a coalition against the king? He’d long hoped for such a day as this but, in his wildest dreams, he’d never imagined such an opportunity. Oh, he’d fantasized about it since his boyhood, but maturity, and almost dying at the end of a rope, had awakened him to reality. Yet this news changed everything. Domnall stole a covert glance at his uncle. Malcolm MacAedh was difficult to read at the best of times and, even now, he gave nothing away.
“If Henry’s dead, now is our chance!” Domnall voiced what surely everyone at Kilmuir must be thinking.
“If ye think to petition the king for yer birthright, think again!” MacAedh replied. “Do ye really believe he’s going to open his arms to a bastard nephew, when he still has a grandson, the blood of his own blood as an heir?”
“But Prince Malcolm is a feeble stripling who’s ne’er even set foot in Scotland,” Domnall argued. “He’s Norman from his head to his bluidy toes! How many Highlanders would support him if I pressed my claim?”
Looking for reassurance, his gaze darted around the table. Somerled’s men echoed his sentiment with murmurs and nods. It seemed there was little love lost between the men of the Isles and the King of Scotland.
“What say ye, Ranald?” Domnall asked the man beside him.
“’Tis the way of the English to crown boys,” Ranald answered. “But nae the way of the Scots.” He added with a ribald laugh, “If Prince Malcolm is crowned, I’d wager my sister’s maidenhead that he doesna rule more than a month.”
“The king has ne’er been weaker,” Domnall said. “He’s old, feeble, and his heir is dead. And this time, the English are too busy fighting their own civil war to interfere with our concerns.” Moreover, with Prince Henry’s death, David’s English lands were growing more vulnerable by the day. It would take all his efforts to keep them.
“’Tis true the Cenn Mór is old and his health fails,” MacAedh agreed, “but the time has nae yet come to take up arms. He still has a powerful army at his command led by Norman knights who are loyal only to him. His Norman knights will support the stripling, and dinna forget that the southern kingdom is full of Sassenachs who willna rise to a Highland standard.”
“Cenn Mór may have his knights,” Ranald interjected, “but Somerled commands many ships.”
Once more, Domnall wondered why these men had come here. Was this a test of his allegiance? “Do ye speak of an alliance?” Domnall asked, fighting to hide his eagerness.
Ranald offered a cagey smile. “I have been given leave to speak of such things. My faither is no friend of Cenn Mór. He might easily be persuaded in yer favor.”
MacAedh’s gaze narrowed. “But what would Somerled expect in return?”
“Peace and security,” Ranald answered. “He has fought on two fronts for a long time. ’Twould ease his mind greatly to have a friend… or better yet,” he smiled slowly, “a kinsman to the south, so he can more easily defend his lands to the north from the King of Norway.”
“A kinsman?” MacAedh asked.
“Aye.” Ranald nodded. “Blood ties are always the strongest.” He paused. “I have several unwed cousins and ye have two maiden nieces do ye not?”
“My sister is unwed,” Domnall blurted, tamping down the pang of guilt he felt for offering her up to gain a political alliance, but Sibylla owed as much duty to the family as he did. Although he could as easily have suggested his cousin, Ailis wasn’t in imminent danger of losing her innocence. Sibylla, on the other hand, was far too fond of the monk, Alexander, who had recently come to Kilmuir as a tutor.
Ranald cast a slow and assessing gaze over the men seated at the table. “No doubt ye have much to discuss amongst yerselves.” He drained his tankard and rose with a nod to his men. “Let us take our leave now.”
Domnall sat back and studied his uncle, hoping to discern his thoughts. MacAedh’s antipathy for the king was no secret amongst own his clan. Domnall even suspected the depths of MacAedh’s resentment exceeded his own, yet his uncle had never spoken of rebellion. Even now, his expression was unreadable.
MacAedh acknowledged Ranald with an inclination of his head. “We will speak again after the feast.”
No one spoke again until well after Ranald and his men had departed the great hall.
In silence, Domnall studied the faces of his few remaining kinsmen wondering their thoughts. Kenneth maintained a deferential silence but his eyes shone with eagerness, while Fergus stared broodingly into his cup. The others stared up at the ceiling or twiddled their thumbs. MacAedh was slumped in his chair with his eyes shut and head thrown back, looking as if he dozed, but no one who knew him would make that mistake. It seemed that no one dared to speak before knowing MacAedh’s mind.
“I was right,” Domnall declared. “Somerled sent his kinsmen here to offer his support.”
“’Tis nae enough,” MacAedh said, opening his eyes and staring directly at Domnall.
“Only because ye lack faith in me,” Domnall protested. “Ye dinna believe the clans will come out for me.”
Three years ago, Domnall had gained the respect and support of five fierce Highland warriors. Yet, he had no success to date in gaining the full support of his own uncle!
“Think, lad!” MacAedh’s rebuking tone set Domnall’s hackles up. “No man e’er acts against his own interests. Somerled offers his aid only because he thinks he’ll be able to control ye.” MacAedh paused, his attention diverted to the doorway.
Domnall turned to find Alexander standing on the threshold to the great hall.
“Come, Alexander.” MacAedh nodded to the table. “Ye should also ken of what we speak.”
Why? Domnall wondered why this conversation had anything to do with Alexander, a man they knew almost nothing about. And why the devil had his uncle taken on a tutor anyway? What need had Domnall at his age for books and lessons when he was only months from his majority? He was a man now, not some snot-nosed lad. It made no sense at all! It was a bloody waste of his time. He could serve himself far better practicing on the pell. The only time the world felt right anymore was when he held a sword in his hand.
It wasn’t that Domnall had no respect for higher learning. It just wasn’t for him. If he’d leaned in that direction he would long ago have sought to join the clergy. Domnall still wasn’t certain how far he trusted Alexander, especially after he’d been caught alone with Sibylla. No man preparing to take Holy Orders had any business spending time alone with a young female, regardless of the circumstances.
Why had his uncle taken such an interest in the stranger? And why did he now invite him into their inner circle? Domnall didn’t want to admit that part of his growing antipathy toward Alexander might be based in jealousy. Alexander was no more than a year older than Domnall, yet MacAedh seemed to regard him with far more respect than he showed his own nephew.
MacAedh and Domnall stared at each other in strained silence as Alexander took a place at the end of the bench beside Fergus, who wordlessly poured a cup of mead and slid it in front of him.
“Dinna ye ken, lad?” MacAedh once more addressed Domnall, “Somerled is a man with boundless ambition. If ye accept an alliance with him, ye will only be trading one master for another.”
“Aye? And who was yer master, Uncle?” Domnall countered. “The man who came at the king’s behest to take possession of yer lands? The man who burned and pillaged and destroyed and then further humiliated ye by claiming yer sister, though she was already promised to another.”
Fergus clenched his fists with a black expression. Though he didn’t specifically name him, everyone knew Domnall spoke of Fitz Duncan.
Twenty years ago, Domnall’s Uncle Angus had given his life, and his stepfather Fergus had lost both his right eye and the woman he loved to his mortal enemy, William Fitz Duncan. Now it seemed the opportunity had come, not only to reclaim Moray but to honor the thousands of Highland men who’d bled and died for it.
But from the time Fitz Duncan had come and taken Domnall, MacAedh had allowed himself to be a puppet. He called himself Thane of Kilmuir, but it was an empty title. Malcolm MacAedh, the son of Aedh of Moray, descended from the kings of ancient Alba, now paid homage for the privilege of holding only a tiny fraction of what the family once possessed. Although he’d sworn never to pledge himself to King David, MacAedh’s actions defied his words—he paid his annual feus to the king along with every other landholder in the kingdom.
“How does it feel, Uncle, to send Moray men to fight in English wars, and to pay homage to live on land that is yers by right? Would ye have us go on merrily while they continue to dishonor and demean us by taking our lands? Our pride? Our verra manhood?”
Domnall challenged his uncle, knowing full well he risked MacAedh’s wrath, but he didn’t care. It needed to be said. This was an opportunity that would surely never come again and he’d be damned if he didn’t speak his mind!
MacAedh slammed his fist, violently rattling the tankards. With a blood vessel pulsing in his forehead, MacAedh shut his eyes on a mumbled stream of curses. A seemingly endless moment later, MacAedh responded in an ominous tone. “Only a fool has nae regard for the counsel of those with greater wisdom and experience.”
“Fool am I?” Though he sensed the danger in continuing to challenge his uncle, Domnall still refused to back down. “Even a fool can see that it’s nae Somerled, but ye who wants to control me! Just as my faither controlled ye!”
“That has naught to do with it,” MacAedh growled through his teeth.
“Then why dinna ye wish to fight?” Domnall challenged.
Was it apathy, indolence, or cowardice that restrained MacAedh? Did he not care enough anymore about the Highland way of life to fight the influx of Normans and their feudalism? Or had he simply grown too comfortable and complacent with his position?
“Battles are won by swords, but wars are won with wiles,” MacAedh answered. “We canna fight the Cenn Mór with our swords alone. We need a strategy.”
“But we have an offer of an alliance with the most powerful clan in the land,” Domnall argued. “If ye willna fight with them—to hell with ye! I am my own man! I will raise my own army.”
MacAedh rose from his seat like an erupting volcano, scattering the cups and trenchers. “As long as I breathe, I am still head of this clan!” he roared. “If ye wish to challenge me, ye do so at great hazard.”
The room stood still as the two men sized one another up like two stags in rutting season preparing to battle.
“Ye would have me fight ye?” Domnall refused to flinch. If he had to fight him to finally gain his respect… so be it. He was prepared to fight. MacAedh had Domnall by a couple of inches and maybe two stone, but Domnall had fought stronger and more experienced men before… and prevailed.
“Nae.” MacAedh shook his head, fire still raging in his eyes. “If ye wish to lead this clan… ye must kill me.”
Domnall struggled to swallow the sudden lump in his throat. This was not Ioan Fitz Ranulf he would face, ’twas his own kinsman, his mother’s only living brother. His gaze darted around the table. His stepfather, Fergus, looked uneasy, and the others appeared almost fearful. They all knew that whichever way this ended, the result would be disastrous and debilitating to the clan.
Yet, Domnall would neither be the first nor the last to accept such a challenge. The Cenn Mórs had all acceded to power through the might of their sword, and several of them had even slain their own kinsmen. But Domnall could not raise his sword against MacAedh.
After several seconds of agonizing, he exhaled in surrender. “I canna kill ye.”
“’Tis true ye canna,” MacAedh replied with the barest hint of a smile, “but ’tis good ye dinna wish to try.”
The entire room released a collective breath. Though the mortal moment had passed, the clash of wills nevertheless, continued.
“I canna comprehend ye,” Domnall declared in frustration. “Ye are the leader of this clan for nigh ten years. Why do ye continue to wear the king’s yoke? Once ye were old enough to lead the clan, why did ye nae shake it off and kill Fitz Duncan?”
MacAedh slumped back onto his chair with a sigh. “’Twasna so simple. I had the chance once. When Fitz Duncan came and took ye away, I could have killed him then, but doing so would only have put yer life in danger.”
“How so?” Domnall asked.
“Ye carry his blood,” MacAedh answered. “The clan would have expected me also to kill ye, but I wouldna avenge myself on my sister’s son. ’Twas but a few years later, he was slain by his enemies. Do ye see now how sometimes it behooves a man to forbear?”
Domnall had never before considered the difficulty of his uncle’s position. The Highlands had been nearly annihilated after the great rebellion. Without having the authority of the crown to keep Kilmuir, MacAedh could never have maintained the clan. They would long ago have been scattered… or died out altogether. Domnall realized now that he’d had no choice but to submit, at least outwardly. In MacAedh’s place, would he have done any differently? Probably not. But times were changing.
“What would ye have me do, Uncle?” Domnall asked.
“I would ask ye for patience,” MacAedh said. “The king surely kens he’s vulnerable, but dinna underestimate him. He’s held power for five and twenty years. He’s canny enough to realize that should he die leaving only a boy to rule, the kingdom would rise up in arms. The Highlanders willna accept Cenn Mór’s grandson, and the men of the Isles would seek to overthrow him.”
MacAedh sat and steepled his fingers, deep in thought. “However… if the king wishes to keep the peace and secure his legacy, he might be persuaded to designate ye as regent to the young prince. Should he do so, bloodshed would surely be avoided.”
Regent to Malcolm? The idea of propping up a weaker man, no, not even a man, but a mere beardless lad, rankled Domnall to the extreme. “Ye would have me as regent to the Anglo-Norman stripling? I have as strong a claim as he!”
“Aye, but Cenn Mór will nae see it that way. He is, in every sense, a Sassenach. We must think as he thinks,” MacAedh answered. “As a young prince, he pledged fealty to the English, but only until he had the strength to break with them and seek his independence.”
Domnall scowled. “So ye would have me pledge a false allegiance?”
“I would have ye do as David did, and serve the prince while quietly building yer own support amongst the earls. ’Tis the nobles who will ultimately decide who will be king. The stripling’s claim will weaken once Cenn Mór is in his grave. Patience, Nephew, nae bloodshed, will win yer throne.”
Domnall stared at his uncle, realizing now how badly he’d miscalculated MacAedh. He did not think as a warrior, but with a politician’s pragmatism. ’Twas mayhap not the glorious coup that Domnall had envisioned, but it seemed a solid plan.
“I will go to the king,” Domnall said.
“Ye willna.” MacAedh refuted him with a head shake. “If anyone is to seek an audience, ’twill be me.”
“Why?” Domnall demanded. “Why willna ye let me speak for myself?”
“Understand ye this, Nephew. The moment he perceives any opposition to his grandson, he will kill ye.”
“He can try,” Domnall defiantly repeated his uncle’s earlier words.
“Nae,” MacAedh retorted. “He will succeed. Ye are too great a threat.”
“But I’m his own kinsman!” Domnall argued.
“Blood bonds have ne’er stopped a Cenn Mór before,” MacAedh replied. “Now is when ye must understand the need for caution. ’Tis possible the king will understand the benefit of such an arrangement if he wishes to unify the north and south. If so, he will respect yer birthright and try to make a bargain, but ’tis just as likely he’ll seek to eliminate the threat of a rival to the young prince.”
Once more, his uncle spoke with reason. ’Twas entirely possible the king would kill him. Especially since he’d already tried once before. Domnall might not be so lucky the second time.
Alexander spoke. “I would go with ye.”
“Ye?” Domnall canted his head to the monk. Why had he interjected himself into this discussion? “What has any of this to do with ye?”
“The Gaelic isna spoken at court,” Alexander said. “I am fluent in both Latin and Norman.”
“Alexander has a point,” MacAedh said. “I trust nae one at court to interpret for me.”
As much as he resented this turn of events, Domnall had no choice but to concede. He was a man of action. It went against his grain to allow his fate to be managed by others. He despised being left behind to wait, but ’twas common knowledge the king surrounded himself with Normans and priests. Few Scots were part of his inner circle and of those few he trusted, none were Highlanders. As a monk, Alexander would have far better access to those close to the king.
“I will take Alexander,” MacAedh said, then turned back to Domnall. “As my tanist, ye must remain here… in the event I dinna return.”
As my tanist. With those words, MacAedh had formally declared Domnall as successor to the leadership of Clan MacAedh. But it brought Domnall little joy.
Although he’d been home for nigh three years, Domnall still felt like a stranger in his own family. He didn’t know where he fit in. By right, he should be the leader of his clan. His father, had been the Earl of Moray, but the title of earl meant little in the Highlands. Blood, however, meant everything. As the only living son of Aedh of Moray, Malcolm MacAedh was the acknowledged leader.
Domnall was growing increasingly restless and easily agitated living in MacAedh’s shadow. In truth, he felt as if he had no direction, no purpose.
When they departed the great hall that night, Domnall determined to seek out Ranald for a very private conversation. Although Domnall had agreed to do as his uncle asked—for the nonce. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t work on a contingency plan should he fail.