Chapter Nineteen
Once Sibylla had regained her strength, she began to explore. The queen’s apartment included two rooms, her bedchamber and a private solar. The bedchamber was grander than any Sibylla had ever seen. The bed was bigger and softer and surrounded by curtains to keep out the draft. Yet, she missed the warm bodies of her cousin and sister. She even longed for Fiona’s snoring.
Rather than rush mats, the floors were covered with elaborate woven rugs that felt like silk under her bare feet. She’d never experienced such luxury. It seemed almost a travesty to walk on them. Queen Mathilda was a Norman. Had they come all the way from France?
Almost reverently, she moved about the chamber. There was a dressing table with a boar’s hair brush and a silver comb. Had these also belonged to the late queen? She fingered the objects wondering what kind of woman she was.
Gazing at herself in the queen’s polished silver hand mirror, Sibylla was painfully self-conscious of her drab appearance. Although Heloise had assisted in dressing her hair, the plain tartan homespun gown was all she had. She wished she’d at least had her tartan arisaid. She would have proudly flaunted her clan colors before the king, but all of her clothing and personal belongings had been stolen from her in the jail. She was probably lucky they hadn’t stripped her completely naked.
A light knock sounded on the door and the maid entered with a shallow curtsey. Having experienced Sibylla’s numerous blank stares, the servants had, by now, all but given up on verbal communication with her. She gestured to the door, indicating that it was time for Sibylla to descend to the great hall. The maid led her to a staircase where she was surprised to find the earl waiting for her.
“My lady? The king awaits.” He offered his burly arm in a gallant gesture that seemed almost mocking.
Tonight, she was dining with the king. This was finally the opportunity she’d hoped for, but she hated that she would be forced to put all of her faith in the Earl of Mearns to interpret for her. From the start, her instincts had warned her to be wary of him. Though he would have her believe he was on her side, he was no friend to her family. If he was, he surely would have made some attempt to help free MacAedh. But Eachann of Mearns had his own agenda.
She was sorely in need of an ally, but who could she trust?
She wondered if Father Gregor was still at Dunfermline. If so, perhaps she could convince the king to let him stay at court with her. She must find a way to ask.
Unlike the Castle Kilmuir that was nightly filled with laughter, music and chatter, the great hall of Dunfermline was almost eerily quiet. Her entrance was noted with low murmurings and whispers accompanied by the courtiers’ condescending stares and smug smiles. She’d never felt more alone and vulnerable. Sibylla wanted to turn and run, rather than face their ridicule, but pride squared her shoulders and forced her chin up. Releasing the earl’s arm, she floated across the floor as if she were the queen of this domain and dropped into a deep obeisance to the king. Though her heart despised her act of hypocrisy, she was determined to go through all the proper motions. Her kinsmen’s lives could very well depend on it.
From his seat on the dais, the king gifted her with a benevolent smile. “Bienvenue, ma cousine. Je suis soulage a voir vous avez recouve.”
Only glancing up briefly, she once more downcast her gaze, and waited for the earl to interpret.
“The king welcomes ye to Dunfermline and expresses his pleasure to see ye recovered,” the earl said.
“Pray convey to the king that I appreciate his welcome and the services of his physician.”
“Bien sur.” He inclined his head. “Je pourrais fair pas moins pour une parente.”
“I could do no less for a kinswoman,” the earl repeated in Gaelic.
The king’s gaze raked over her in slow scrutiny. “Est-ce que les barbares de Moray ne s’habillent pas pour le dîner?”
Although she could not comprehend the entire question, Sibylla’s ear was keen enough to decipher a few words. Les barbares de Moray. The barbarians of Moray.
“He wonders that ye dinna dress for the occasion,” the earl said, intentionally omitting the king’s insult.
“This is the only gown I have,” Sibylla said. “Everything else was stolen from me.”
Before the earl could communicate her answer the king asked another question.
“Pourquoi êtes-vous venu au palais?” the king inquired.
“He wishes to ken why ye have come,” the earl said.
“I came to beg the king’s indulgence and mercy for my uncle’s life. When can I see him?” she asked, raising her eyes fully to the king’s face. She looked for a sign of softness or compassion in his cool blue eyes, but the king remained impassive and unreadable.
“Nous parlerons plus tard de MacAedh,” he replied with a dismissive gesture. “Jai faim.”
“He doesna wish to speak of yer uncle,” the earl said. “’Tis unwise to introduce a weighty subject to a hungry king.”
She’d sensed by the king’s tone and gesture that he had no intention of indulging her request. Sibylla needed no further interpretation. Perhaps she had spoken too soon. She should have responded to his questions with trite flattery. She had much to learn about life in a royal court.
The earl escorted her to an empty place at the high table where the nobles sat. Their expression told her all she needed to know. She was an object of scorn to the women and of curiosity to the men. The earl then went through the motions of formal introductions but the nobles’ unfamiliar speech and formal manners only made her feel more like a stranger in a foreign land.
The dinner was an elaborate affair that featured French wines and multiple courses of exotic dishes. A boar’s head stared at her from one end of the table, and a roasted pheasant adorned with its original plumes sat before the king. She would have enjoyed it all immensely under different circumstances, but she was far too anxious to taste anything. The meal was a long and drawn out ordeal, lasting for several hours. Even the minstrels in the gallery above failed to distract her. Their sedate strumming only made her yearn for the lively tones of the pipes and drums.
Although he initially made a point to interpret a few remarks for her, the earl quickly engaged in conversation with his peers, and soon forgot her presence altogether, not that she minded. It was an effort to make polite conversation with these people with whom she had nothing in common. Instead, she was content to silently study the king and his guests.
At long last, the king stood, signaling the end to the meal. Looking in her direction, he murmured something to a servant and then departed the great hall. A moment later, the same servant approached the earl, apparently conveying a message. “The king will see ye in his private apartments on the morrow,” the earl said.
“When can I see my uncle?” she asked again.
Before he could answer, Sibylla spoke again. “There is a priest at Dunfermline who kens both Gaelic and Norman. Could ye please ask the king if he might attend me?” Sibylla asked, adding hastily, “’twould save ye all the trouble of translating.”
“I have no pressing business,” he replied with a frown that suggested he read her mistrust. “But I will convey yer request to his majesty.”
*
The next morning, as Sibylla was washing, the chambermaid appeared bearing a bundle of brightly colored cloth. “C’est un cadeau du roi,” Heloise explained.
Though she didn’t comprehend all of the words, Sibylla recognized the Norman word for king. Had the king sent her a gift?
Sibylla suppressed a gasp of delight as the maid proceeded to lay the bundle on the bed. The deeply dyed hues and quality of the silk were far beyond anything Sibylla had ever seen. She reached out to touch the cloth, fighting the temptation to rub the soft fabric against her cheek. The clothes, a bliaut, girdle, and filet headdress, were distinctly Norman in style. The sleeves of the gown were particularly impractical, nearly dragging on the ground and the veil of chainsil was as transparent as gossamer. Had these garments belonged to the late queen?
Sibylla considered the king’s offering with mixed feelings of appreciation and resentment. Had the king sent the clothes out of consideration for her, or out of his own embarrassment that one of his kinswomen had sat at his table so poorly attired? More likely the latter. Although she was grateful to have a change of clothing, she bristled at the idea of adopting Norman dress. Why should she try to look the part when she would never be accepted by them? Although she would like to have demurred, Sibylla donned the clothes in the end. It would be a foolish thing, indeed, for her to rebel against the king’s wishes when she needed most to earn his favor.
Heloise assisted her with the garments that felt strange on her body, particularly the couvrechef with the silver filet. At home in Kilmuir, she’d never covered her head with a veil. None of the women had, but the thoroughly Norman king would expect her to don the modest headdress.
When Sibylla gazed once more into the mirror, she hardly recognized herself. Though she appeared elegant and regal in the rich clothing, she felt as if she betrayed her heritage by wearing them. Nevertheless, she could not afford to displease the king if she had any hope of helping her family. She was determined to use any means at her disposal to persuade him to release her uncle.
A soft knock sounded on the antechamber door. Heloise answered it, returning a moment later. “C’est un prêtre,” she announced.
“A priest? Faither Gregor?” Sibylla asked.
The maid shrugged and pointed to the antechamber.
“Lady Sibylla?” The old priest’s eyes widened when Sibylla entered. “I scarce recognize ye. Indeed, ye have quite the look of a queen.”
“Thank ye, Faither,” Sibylla replied, “But I feel verra much out of my element.”
“Dinna let him ken,” the priest advised. “The king will look for weaknesses to exploit.”
“Are ye to come with me?” she asked.
“Aye. The king commands me to attend ye.”
“Did he?” It was Sibylla’s turn for surprise. Although she had asked the earl to convey her request, she hadn’t truly expected the king to grant it. “Then let us nae keep his Majesty waiting.” She wondered what was behind these two unexpected acts of kindness. What could he possibly seek to gain from her?
The king was reading a document when the servant announced her. When he didn’t immediately acknowledge her, she made a detailed visual survey of the room. The walls were darkly paneled and contained many shelves of books. Was it, perhaps, a council chamber? A fire smoldered in a hearth at one end, beckoning her to its warmth, yet, Sibylla sensed that she should not initiate any uninvited movements.
After a time, he laid down the parchment, only to take up a quill pen and write. Was this some kind of test? She continued to silently watch him as he melted a blob of wax and then impressed his seal. It was only after he laid his implements down that he finally recognized her presence. Sibylla resisted the urge to fidget as he eyed her with studied scrutiny. “Je ne vous ai pas vu à la messe.”
“He desires to ken why ye dinna attend mass,” Father Gregor said.
“’Tis nae my habit,” Sibylla answered.
“La piété est une vertu sainte,” the king replied, adding in a commanding tone. “Vous assisterez à chaque heure de prière.”
“He expects ye to attend every hour of prayer,” Father Gregor said.
Normans prized modesty and piety in noblewomen, and life in this king’s court revolved very much around worship. While Sibylla had never considered herself particularly religious, she knew that she must act the part if she wished to gain favor.
“Les vêtements vous conviennent,” the king remarked with a nod.
“He says the clothes suit ye,” Father Gregor murmured.
“Please thank him for his generosity,” Sibylla said, glad that something she’d done had finally warranted his approval.
“Quelle langues parlez-vous?” the king asked.
“I dinna speak anything but Gaelic,” Sibylla replied to the question without need of interpretation. Her answer was true enough. Yet, since she’d arrived in the king’s court, old memories had begun to stir. As a small child, her father had demanded that she and Domnall speak only Anglo-Norman but, after he’d left, they had quickly abandoned the tongue in favor of their mother’s native Gaelic. Though the words did not come readily to her tongue, her ear was quickly becoming attuned to the language.
The king’s brows met in a frown. “Votre père a été négligent. Il aurait dû considérer vos perspectives de mariage.”
“Yer faither was negligent,” the priest said. “He should have considered yer marriage prospects.”
“My faither ne’er took much interest in our welfare,” Sibylla remarked dryly.
She wondered why the king would concern himself with her marriage prospects. He’d granted much land and many titles to foreigners in exchange for their fealty. Did he now think to use her to entice another Anglo-Norman noble to settle in Scotland? No! She refused to be used as a political pawn.
“C’est le devoir d’une noble femme de faire un bon mariage,” the king remarked.
“’Tis a noblewoman’s duty to make a good marriage,” the priest said.
“B-but I dinna wish to wed!” Sibylla said.
“Vos souhaits ne sont pas pertinents,” the king replied with a subtle smile.
The priest regarded Sibylla with an apologetic look. “The king says yer wishes are irrelevant.” Seeming to comprehend her answer, the king nodded. “Le droit du roi est également de faciliter ces questions.”
Sibylla’s throat tightened. What right had he to make such decisions on her behalf?
“It is a king’s privilege to facilitate such matters,” Father Gregor said. “’Tis the custom the king to arrange marriages between noble houses,” he explained. “And ye are nae only nobly bred but are also a kinswoman.”
“But my uncle is my guardian,” Sibylla insisted. “I have him to look after my interests. I only came here to plead for his life. Why canna I see him?” The king’s continued refusal only increased her anxiety. Was he hiding something from her? Was MacAedh already dead? “Please, yer Majesty,” she dropped to her knees to beg.
“Vous êtes maintenant sous ma tutelle. Vous ferez ce que je vous commande,” the king replied.
She had no difficulty comprehending his final words.
“Ye are now under my guardianship… and will do as I command.”