Chapter Twenty-Five
Dunfermline Abbey, Fife Scotland
Davina was crossing the abbey courtyard after midday prayer when a sudden commotion caught her eye. A crumpled figure lay on the ground by the reflecting pool, surrounded by soldiers, monks, and the distinct figure of the Earl of Mearns.
As she drew closer, Davina’s feet faltered. It was king himself! Was he dead? She watched breathlessly as the men carried his inert body toward the palace.
A moment later, she caught Father Abbot by the sleeve. “What has happened? Is the king…” she was almost afraid to utter the word… “dead?”
“He lives,” Father Abbot said, “but barely. Ill-tidings of Prince Malcolm seem to have brought on a seizure.”
“Prince Malcolm? What has happened?” Davina asked.
“His party was attacked just north of Inverness,” the abbot declared. “The Earl of Fife was slain and the prince is believed drowned.”
Davina gasped. Even with the king’s personal guard, it seemed the princess’ fears for her son were well-founded, after all.
“Does Princess Adaline ken of this?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “I must go to her!” Hastening across the courtyard, Davina went directly to the princess’ chambers to find the Earl of Mearns already delivering the news.
“There has been an incident, Highness,” he announced in a grave voice.
The princess paused with tapestry needle in the air. “What kind of incident?” she asked, eyes growing wide. “Is it the king?”
“The king has, indeed, been struck down with a seizure,” the earl replied, “but news of Prince Malcolm was the cause.”
“My son?” Princess Adaline dropped her tambour and rushed toward the earl. “Tell me!” She clutched his sleeve. “Tell me now! What has happened to Malcolm?”
“I’m sorry, my lady,” the earl began gruffly, “there is nae easy way to say this. They were ambushed at the River Beauly by a war party of Highlanders led by Domnall Fitz William. Fife was slain and Malcolm, who was swimming at the time, was struck by an arrow. ’Tis believed he drowned.”
Domnall? Davina was stunned. How could this be true? Davina could hardly wrap her mind around it. For certain, Domnall had good reason to hate the king, but an attempt to kill the young prince seemed so out of character for the Domnall she had known.
“Are ye quite certain ’twas Fitz William?” Davina asked.
The earl turned his cold, close-set, gray eyes up on her for the first time. The man was very large and bore many scars. He was close to the king but Davina didn’t like or trust him. “They were attacked by Highlanders within the boundaries of Moray. With MacAedh imprisoned, it could be no other.”
Why were they so quick to pin this on Domnall? Unless it was all just a convenient excuse to hunt him down. Davina refused to believe Domnall was responsible for the attack. The king had many enemies. But who among them could have done this thing and why?
“Kill him!” the princess screamed. “Kill them all! Send an army north and wipe them from the earth!”
“My lady,” the earl’s eyes widened in alarm. “I know you are distraught, but you must try to compose yourself.”
“Do you intend to do nothing?” she demanded.
“Of course not!” he thundered. “They will be hunted down and dealt with swiftly and without mercy. On this, you have my vow, but we must first consider the health of the king. His condition is dire. I go now to inquire of his status. I will also instruct the physician to send you a sleeping tonic.”
“A tonic?” her voice was choked with rage. “To hell with you and your tonics!”
“We will speak again when you have calmed,” the earl replied coldly.
The moment he departed, she crumpled to the floor in a hysterical fit of sobs that seemed to last for hours. Davina knelt beside her but could command no words of comfort. Berthe also came to offer consolation, but what was there to say to someone who had lost so much in such a short time?
Davina stayed with the princess until after she had taken her supper and the king’s physician arrived with a sleeping tonic. Once the princess retired to bed, Davina slipped out of the chamber. In truth, she knew quite well what the princess was feeling, as if her very heart had been wrenched from her chest. ’Twas the kind of pain one could never forget.
When she finally ceased weeping, the princess looked up with glassy and unfocused eyes. When she spoke, her voice was soft, flat, and eerily emotionless.
“Do you desire to take the sleeping tonic this night, milady?” Berthe softly asked.
“Nae.” The princess curled her lip in refusal. “Take it away! Fitz William killed my son. I will not rest until I see his sister and uncle hanged!”
“My lady,” Davina beseeched with a gentle hand on the princess’ arm. “I ken ye are much grieved and yer thoughts are affected by that grief, but ye mustna say such things. We are nae the judge of men. Justice is only for God and for those who rule in His name.”
“Nae!” The princess jerked away. “God’s justice failed once before when He allowed that spawn of Satan to escape! If the earl will not act now in the king’s name, then I will!”
*
Everyone at Dunfermline appeared affected by the tragic chain of events. A sober and dreary place in normal circumstances, the palace and abbey had now taken on the character of imminent mourning. The servants crept about in silence as if afraid even to speak, while secretly murmuring about a curse on the Cenn Mórs.
Three days later, however, all of the palace was abuzz with more news of the royal heir. Malcolm was very much alive! Word had come from Brother Alexander, the monk who had been traveling with the prince.
“Prince Malcolm lives, my lady,” the Earl of Mearns declared. “And the king is much recovered. God has answered our prayers.”
Though his words were pious, Davina could sense his lack of sincerity.
The princess, however, burst into tears of joy. “Malcolm is alive? Where is my son? I must see him!”
“The prince is, indeed, alive but he is wounded. You may rest assured he is being cared for until he can travel.”
“I will go to him!” she declared. “Berthe,” the princess called her maid. “Pack my trunk!”
“That is not possible, my lady,” the earl declared.
The princess confronted him with a frown. “Why not?”
“Because he is also being held hostage,” the earl answered. “The monk who was traveling with the prince brought word of it. He assures us, the prince is safe and will not be harmed, but they demand the release of the prisoner MacAedh, and the return of Lady Sibylla.”
“Then release them!” she cried.
“It is not so easily done, madam,” the earl explained. “MacAedh is as dangerous as his kinsman, Fitz William. We cannot allow these men to be at liberty. The king will give them nothing. He demands the prince’s immediate return or MacAedh will hang.”
“If you hang MacAedh, what is to stop them from killing my son?” she asked.
“Fear of retribution,” the earl replied. “The king’s wrath will be great.”
“But the king’s wrath will not bring back my son,” she argued, eyes flashing.
He shrugged. “You have more sons.”
Her heart raced in growing horror as Davina watched and listened to the exchange between the earl and the princess. Was the king indeed so bereft of feeling that he would sacrifice his grandson? Or was the earl intentionally baiting the princess? If so, why?
“You cold-hearted bastard!” Her hand suddenly flew up to strike his face, but the earl’s reflexes were swift.
He caught her wrist in one hand. His voice was soft but menacing. “You forget yourself, my lady.”
“I think not!” the princess spat. “I believe that power lust has gone to your head. The king would never allow such a thing!”
“On the contrary, my lady. ’Twas the king himself who named your son, William, as the new heir if Malcolm does not return.”
The princess’ jaw dropped.
The earl released her arm. “There is, however, another way this might be handled.”
“How?” the princess asked.
“The Earl of Fife was the king’s first choice for regent, but now the earl is dead and Fitz Alan seeks to take his place. If I secure Prince Malcolm’s safe return, would you support me as regent?”
“You promise to bring back Malcolm?” Her brow furrowed. “How can you make me such a vow?”
He smiled. “Because I have a plan. The monk leaves at first light with the king’s ultimatum. I will send my best men to follow him, and they will bring the prince home.” He continued with a smile, “They will also have instructions to… eliminate… any future threat from Moray.”
“Malcolm’s abductors will be killed? Good!” the princess declared. “What of MacAedh and Sibylla?” she asked.
“MacAedh will eventually hang. As to the girl,” the earl sighed. “The king has other plans for her. He has kept her here because he desires a betrothal between her and the prince.”
“A betrothal? ’Tis ridiculous! She is a woman grown and Malcolm is barely twelve!”
“Age matters not in these arrangements. He will be of age to wed in two years. ’Tis not an unusually lengthy betrothal for a royal marriage,” the earl argued.
“But why her?” The princess looked ready to gnash her teeth. “Why would the king wish to taint our blood with such a creature, when Malcolm could have his pick from hundreds of well-bred maids of noble Norman families?”
“Which would do nothing to quell the unrest in Scotland,” he answered. “Lady Sibylla is 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.”
“Then look outside of this kingdom!” the princess angrily replied.
“The king once had thought to bolster the bond with England with a marital alliance, but ’tis still uncertain who will wear the English crown. Thus, he seeks, instead, to unify and strengthen Scotland. The king will use her to unite the northern and southern kingdoms.”
“But she is illegitimate!” the princess argued.
“A technicality,” the earl said dismissively. “A royal marriage will erase the taint and Prince Malcolm will wear the crown of a unified Scotland.”
I will not have it!” the princess raged. “I will not allow my son to be united with an accursed Highlander!”
“The king wills it, milady,” he said. “And the girl has agreed. The documents have already been signed.”
“Without my leave?” she gasped. “I am Malcolm’s mother!”
“And the king is his guardian. He doesna require your leave, madam,” the earl replied. “It is all but done.”
*
“It is not done!” The princess seethed long after the earl had departed. “There is indeed a way to prevent this marriage.”
“Milady?” Davina asked.
“Death oft takes people unexpectedly,” the princess remarked with a sly smile.
Death? The look in her eyes filled Davina with alarm. “Surely ye dinna wish harm to Lady Sibylla?”
“Poison would be the easiest way,” the princess continued with a faraway look in her eyes.
“’Tis a mortal sin to take a life, Highness,” Davina offered softly. “Ye must consider yer own soul.”
“My soul?” The princess released a short burst of manic laughter. “Do you think I will ever be at peace so long as any of them live? If I am condemned to the fires of hell, so be it! My own suffering will be much lessened by the joy of witnessing theirs.”
The feverish look in her eyes filled Davina with outright fear. Had the princess gone stark mad in her grief? Was she truly capable of murder? Davina would never have believed it, but given Prince Henry’s unexpected death, the loss of the princess’ infant, the attack on Prince Malcolm, and the king’s collapse, anything seemed possible.
*
After the princess retired to her bed, Davina departed with her prayer book, ostensibly to attend the ongoing prayer vigil for the king. Brother Alexander would be departing at first light. She must somehow find a way to warn him of the danger!
Davina wondered for the first time if Prince Malcolm was truly the intended target of this attack. Or was he merely injured by happenstance. The Earl of Fife was to have been regent, but now the earl was dead. Was the Earl of Mearns the kind of man to plot against a rival? Everything he’d said seemed to indicate he would.
If the king were to die, who would be in control of the kingdom? She didn’t understand the hierarchy of government, but knew for a certainly that it wouldn’t be a lad who had barely seen his twelfth summer.
The haunting sound of chanting monks carried on the breeze as she crossed the courtyard between the palace and abbey. The monks were gathered in the cathedral in all night vigils of prayer and supplication for the king’s recovery and the safe return of the prince. But when she crossed the courtyard, she bypassed the cathedral. She was bound instead for the abbot’s office. She still struggled with a credible excuse to inquire after the monk, but all of her hopes for helping Domnall and his family lay in finding and warning Brother Alexander.
As she entered the eerily empty abbey, Davina’s lone footsteps echoed against the walls of hewn stone. She paused and prayed before rapping lightly on the door.
“You may enter,” answered an unfamiliar voice.
An equally unfamiliar priest looked up at her. “May I help ye?”
“I am Sister Mary Malachy. I-I was looking for Father Abbot,” she said.
“He is nae here at present, Sister, but perhaps I can be of service?” He spoke Norman French as they all did, but his speech was thick with a Highland brogue.
“I dinna think ye can,” she ventured in Gaelic.
His brows shot up in surprise. “How do ye speak the Highland tongue?”
“My máthair was Scottish and my father was Norman, but they are both dead.”
“Ye are an orphan?” His expression softened with sympathy. “Is this how ye came to take the vows?”
“Nae exactly,” she said. “Or nae right away. I was a ward of the king for a time, but I displeased him when I refused to wed.”
“Ah! So he sent ye to the nunnery?”
“Aye. I resided at Haddington Priory for three years but came here with Princess Adaline.”
Davina eyed the man closely. “And ye?” she asked. “How does a Highland priest come to be amongst the monks of Dunfermline?”
“I am the abbot of Portmahomack Monastery,” he said. “I came here to aid a friend. Father Abbot was kind enough to allow me the liberty of his quarters. He is at prayer now but will soon return.”
Davina hesitated. “This friend of yers, is it another priest?” she asked.
“A monk,” he replied. “One who is new to his vows and still seeking his path.”
Her pulse quickened. Could this man be speaking of the monk she sought? She was almost afraid to ask, but she had little hope of finding Alexander if she did not. “I came here in hope of finding a Highland monk named Alexander,” she said. “Do ye ken him?”
“Aye,” he replied slowly, his bushy gray brows pulling together. “The friend I speak of calls himself Alexander, but he has ne’er spoken of any acquaintance with a nun.”
“Because we are nae acquainted,” she explained. “We do, however, have a mutual friend in Lady Sibylla of Kilmuir.”
“Ah!” He inclined his bald head. “’Tis the Lady Sibylla who speaks through ye?”
“Nae exactly,” Davina said. “But I come with a private matter of a verra urgent nature that concerns both of them.”
“Do ye, indeed?” He studied her in a long, thoughtful silence.
“Do ye ken where I can find him?” she asked.
“I do ken,” he said. “But I fear meeting privately with a monk would nae be a good thing for ye. ’Twould be certain to draw unwanted attention.”
“I understand yer caution, Faither…” she suddenly realized that he had not given his name.
“Faither Gregor,” he supplied with a smile.
“I am willing to take the risk,” she said.
“Ye misunderstand, I am more concerned about my friend drawing unwanted attention,” he said. “I will be seeing Brother Alexander later this evening. Perhaps ye could entrust me with a message?”
Did she dare? But it truly was a matter of life and death. Surely Domnall’s entire family was endangered if she didn’t warn them. Was there any other way? She didn’t see one. She took a breath and murmured a brief prayer.
“Do ye swear in the name of the Blessed Virgin that ye will tell nae one save for the monk named Alexander of what I am about to say?”
“I swear in the name of the Blessed Virgin and all the saints,” he replied.
“Verra well,” Davina said. “Only hours ago, I witnessed a conversation between Princess Adaline and the Earl of Mearns. The earl told the princess that her son is a hostage and this monk named Alexander would be carrying the king’s message back to the prince’s captors.”
“Aye, ’tis true,” the priest said. “I go with him.”
“But there is more,” she continued, her heart beating so loud she could barely hear her own voice. “The earl is sending a party of men to follow him. They are to bring the prince back, but he also ordered them to kill everyone.”
“Why would ye risk yerself to warn them?” he asked with a puzzled look.
“Because Domnall Mac William was the one who saved me from the unwanted marriage I spoke of.” She licked her lips. “And because he is also a man I once loved.”
“Ah. I have my answer.” His gaze softened and his lips curved. “I have kent Domnall’s family for many years. Ye can have peace with entrusting me to deliver yer message, Sister Mary Malachy.”
“Davina,” she whispered the name she hadn’t used in three years.
He cocked a brow.
“Domnall kent me as Davina of Crailing.”
“I will be certain to convey that as well,” the priest said.
“Thank ye, Faither.” Davina left the abbot’s office for the cathedral, where she, indeed, spent the rest of the night in fervent prayer.