Chapter Twenty
After a successful hunt, Domnall returned to the keep with a Highland boar slung over his saddle-bow. The hunt had brought back bittersweet memories of his youth and his first boar hunt with Fitz Duncan. He’d both despised and revered his father back then. His sire had never shown Domnall any real love or affection; perhaps Fitz Duncan was incapable of those emotions. But his very hardness had taught Domnall to depend upon himself.
Hunting had given him a temporary distraction from his troubles, but his dissatisfaction with his situation returned the moment he arrived back at Kilmuir, and found the men preparing to drive the cattle to Inverness.
Quickly unsaddling his horse, Domnall sought out his uncle to try once more to persuade MacAedh to let him go. He found MacAedh conferring with Fergus, Kenneth, and a few drovers amongst the dissonant choir of bleating sheep and lowing cattle.
“I wish to go with ye,” Domnall declared, “at least as far as Inverness.”
“And who will be in charge in my absence?” MacAedh asked.
“Fergus could stay behind,” Domnall suggested.
“Nae,” MacAedh answered, “as my tanist, it is for ye to see to things in my absence.”
“See to what?” Domnall scoffed “There is nae one left here but the women and children.”
Declaring Domnall as his tanist was an act of appeasement that meant little, at least to Domnall. It was as empty a title as the Thane of Kilmuir. Like his uncle, he had no authority beyond what another man bestowed upon him.
MacAedh shook his head with a sigh. “Ye still have much to learn, Nephew. The safety and welfare of the women and children is nae small responsibility. Whether chief or king, yer people should always be yer primary concern.”
Nevertheless, Domnall still resented being left behind.
Some of the women appeared with provisions for their journey. Sibylla was among them. She took a bundle from her basket and went to Alexander. Domnall watched their interaction closely but could not hear their conversation as they exchanged some packages and wistful looks. What was this all about?
His sister and the monk harbored secrets. And these secrets were much to blame for the debacle with Ranald. Sibylla would not have resisted the betrothal if Alexander had never come to Kilmuir.
Why had his uncle not sent Alexander packing? And why had he taken the monk into his confidence? Once more, Domnall felt as if he were on the outside looking in. He had questions and his sister had at least some of the answers. Though he itched to confront her directly, now was not the time. He must wait until they were alone.
Domnall turned away from the men to dress his kill, but his mind continued to turn as he cut into the flesh and began to gut the pig. He watched Sibylla out of the corner of his eye as he finished eviscerating. Several of the castle dogs encircled him, watching with hungry eyes, and slobbering jowls, hoping for scraps.
Domnall continued to watch his sister as he skinned the animal. When he finished his work, she was alone at the castle gate. The procession of drovers and livestock was now nothing more than a cloud of dust on the distant horizon. The opportunity had come. And he would give her no quarter.
He crossed the bailey toward her with long, angry strides. “Sibylla! What the de’il did ye do to vex Ranald? Last eve, he was ready to take ye to wife, but this morn he said he would have none of ye!”
“Ye might better ask what he did to vex me!” she retorted with a jut of her chin.
“What do ye mean?” Her question confused him.
“He conducted himself last night like a drunken lout,” she replied.
“’Twas a feast.” Domnall shrugged. “Most of the men were drunken louts. What in particular gave ye offense?”
“He dinna like it when I told him I am promised to another,” she replied.
His temper flared. “Ye are nae promised to anyone but Ranald.”
Sibylla raised her chin. “I willna have him. I would go to the convent of Iona first.”
“We already had this discussion. ’Tis nae yer choice. Ye will make peace with Ranald. Everything depends upon it.”
“Everything?” She arched a brow. “Ye have nae faith that Uncle will succeed with the king?”
He took hold of her arm. “And what would ye ken of that? He told nae one outside the council that he goes to the king.”
Sibylla licked her lips. “I overheard—”
“Ye bluidy well spied!” he accused.
“I have every right,” she insisted. “Given I’m part of yer plan.”
“What did ye hear?” he demanded.
“Enough. I ken that Somerled offers an alliance. I also ken that Uncle and Alexander go to petition the king for ye.”
Hearing it from her lips only magnified his discontent. “I will nae be appeased. MacAedh would negotiate for a regency, but I want what is mine by right.”
“A regency?” Sibylla asked. “And ye would refuse this honor?” she asked.
“The king will ne’er agree to it,” Domnall said. “If he does, I still canna trust him.” He had very good reason not to, given past history. “Do ye recall how the king appeased Wimund with lands in Cumberland?” he said. “Nae one believes ’twas the Cumbrians who put out Wimund’s eyes and cut off his manhood.”
Sibylla reacted with a visible shudder.
Domnall purposely didn’t mention the king’s attempt to hang him. Sibylla knew nothing about that. Although Domnall had shared the tale with MacAedh and Fergus, he had spared his mother and sister the details of that ugly incident.
“If the king refuses to acknowledge me as his heir, ’twill surely come to blood,” Domnall said. “And that is why ye must wed Ranald.”
“Given that he left this morn, ’tis a moot point,” Sibylla argued.
“He agreed to give ye time to come around. He said he will be back in a month to claim his bride.”
“Ye canna trust Ranald,” she said, her eyes imploring. “He is nae an honorable man.”
“Why would ye say so?” Domnall asked.
“Because… because last night he tried to rape me!”
God’s blood! Her statement set him back on his heels.
“Aye,” she said. “He dinna succeed only because Alexander came along.”
Domnall’s pulse pounded a deafening tattoo in his ears. “If ’tis true, why the de’il did ye nae speak of it before he left?” Had he known of this before, Ranald would never have left Kilmuir alive, or at least not with his manhood intact.
“Ranald was drunk and likely dinna ken what he was about… I wouldna have a war over it. Please, Domnall. Let it be. There was nae real harm done. But do ye now understand why I willna have him?”
With a sigh, he released the hold on her arm. “Aye. I willna force the marriage.”
Sibylla looked as if a great weight had dropped from her shoulders, but it had landed on his. He’d regarded Ranald’s arrival as an act of Divine Providence, but now he felt as if he’d made a deal with the devil himself. If Somerled agreed to an alliance, Ranald would be back for Ailis. Domnall’s mind raced with how to deal with that.
He needed the support—but not this way. He must deal directly with Somerled himself. But it would be a wasted effort if the great warlord perceived him as weak. He had to negotiate from a position of strength. If only there was a way to turn the situation to his advantage. His mind began working the problem.
“Mayhap there is another way,” he murmured his thoughts.
“Another way for what?”
“Another way to bind an alliance,” Domnall said. The solution came suddenly and almost made him laugh aloud. “By the hand of fate, Ranald has given me all that I need to ensure Somerled’s support!”
“I dinna understand,” Sibylla said. “What are ye saying?”
Domnall strode to the paddock to gather his horse and tackle. There was no time to waste! Ranald had a head start of half a day but he had no reason to make haste. Domnall, however, had a swift horse and every reason to hie to Kintyre before Ranald arrived home.
“Where are ye going?” Sibylla asked as he saddled his horse.
“Where do ye think? I go west to Kintyre.”
“Ye should await Uncle’s return,” Sibylla insisted.
“I will nae,” Domnall replied defiantly. “To do so would only forfeit my advantage. I must confront Somerled now, before Ranald has an opportunity to tell his version of the story.”
“What if he doesna believe ye?” Sibylla asked.
“’Tis a risk I am willing to take. Ranald has brought disgrace to his family name.” He lifted his booted foot to the stirrup. “And Somerled’s honor will demand that he make reparation for it.”