Chapter Four
The next morning Alex chose a new tack. Instead of sitting in his room waiting in vain for his pupil to show, he decided to go out in search of him. Surely MacAedh would soon expect a progress report. What was he to do? He’d give Domnall one last chance before confronting MacAedh with his nephew’s truancy.
Surely God had not sent him here for no purpose—unless His true reason was to test Alex’s resolution to take holy orders. Was Sibylla a part of that test? Had Fiona not come, would he have given in to the yearning to taste her lips? He wished he could be certain of his fortitude, but he’d never experienced the power of physical attraction before Sibylla. He knew he’d done right to leave the glen, but why did he feel no satisfaction in it? He was used to self-denial on many levels, but this new yearning was something beyond his ken. He’d never imagined kissing a lass, but now that’s all he could think about. Now that desire had awakened in him, could he ever rest without experiencing it?
He was so distracted by these thoughts that he almost collided with MacAedh as he passed through the bailey. “Alexander?” Domnall’s uncle considered him with a frown. “Is my nephew nae at his lessons?”
“Nae.” Alex shook his head. “It must have slipped his mind.”
“Is that so?” MacAedh’s gaze narrowed. “Has it ‘slipped his mind’ before?”
Alexander struggled with how he should answer. Though he didn’t want to put Domnall out of favor with his uncle, he also couldn’t lie. “I’ve tried everything I can to engage his interest, but he has yet to attend his lessons. Mayhap he would do better with a more experienced tutor?”
“’Tis nothing against ye,” MacAedh reassured. “Domnall’s ne’er been one for books. Nevertheless, a man must do many things in this life that he doesna like—especially one who aspires to lead other men.”
“Is Domnall yer tanist?” Alexander asked.
“Tanist?” MacAedh snorted. “If justice be done, the lad would one day be king of all Scotland.”
“King?” Alexander repeated blankly. He’d surmised that Domnall was the son of a nobleman, but he’d never considered that he might be of royal blood.
“Aye,” MacAedh nodded. “Ye dinna ken? Did Domnall nae tell ye how he came to be at Kilmuir?”
“Nae.” Alexander shook his head. “He tells me nothing.”
“I suppose he wouldna,” MacAedh said. “’Tis a sore subject.” Alexander lengthened his stride to match the larger man’s steps. “Through his faither, the lad is descended from King Duncan—not that the kinship has ever been to his benefit,” he was quick to add. “After the rebellion, his faither, William Fitz Duncan, married my sister to cement his claim to our lands, but later divorced her to wed a Norman heiress, that he might also claim her English lands and title.”
“So Domnall is his heir?”
“Nae.” MacAedh shook his head. “The short of it is that Fitz Duncan died a verra rich man, the most powerful in Scotland, next to the king, but left Domnall and Sibylla with nothing.”
“How is this possible?” Alex asked.
MacAedh responded with a humorless laugh. “All things are possible through machination, murder, and mutilation, the Cenn Mór specialties. In this case, the king repudiated Domnall’s legitimacy in order to give his inheritance to his Anglo-Norman half-brother, William the Atheling of Egremont, the son of Alice de Rumilly.”
“But why would he do such a thing?” Alexander asked.
“The short answer is out of spite,” MacAedh replied. “Why would the king willingly give land and power to anyone with blood ties to the clan who most strongly opposed his reign, when he could devise a way to grant those same lands and privileges to a faithful Anglo-Norman vassal? There is an ancient enmity between our people and the Cenn Mórs,” he explained. “The king thought to suppress any future attempt Domnall might make to claim the throne by making him illegitimate and penniless.”
“Does Domnall think to oppose the king?” Alexander asked.
MacAedh considered the question. “He will make that decision for himself once he comes of age. I have little to say about it. In the meantime, however, his life must be safeguarded. I dinna trust the Cenn Mór—which is why Domnall is here, under my protection.”
Alex wondered that MacAedh spoke his sentiments so openly. Many would consider his words as traitorous. They had walked to the rear of the castle to a six-foot high stone wall that appeared to be an enclosure. Was it a private garden? He was answered by the sound of clashing steel.
“What is this place?” Alex asked.
“’Tis the armory,” MacAedh replied. He raised the latch and swung open the gate. “I suspect we will find yer errant pupil here.”
Alex followed MacAedh inside where half a dozen youths were engaged in mock combat with sticks, targes, and blunt swords. Transfixed, Alex watched as a pair of younger lads practiced with wooden swords. One lad charged another, only to be felled to the ground by his opponent. From thence, the would-be sword battle quickly transformed into a full out grappling contest.
MacAedh inclined his head to two older combatants, one Alex recognized as Domnall, who faced one another with bollock daggers. Domnall circled his opponent with a wolfish smile on his face and a predatory gleam in his eye.
“He trains to be a warrior?” Alex asked.
“Aye,” MacAedh nodded. “I told Domnall there is no shame if he chooses to live peacefully as I have done these past twenty years, but if he should decide to fight for his birthright, I would nae have him go unprepared. ’Twas the only good thing that came out of his early life—exposure to well-trained Norman soldiers.”
“Would ye like to join them?” he asked. “Domnall could teach ye to fight.”
Alex shook his head with a laugh. “Weaponry is hardly a useful skill for a man of the cloth.” Although he was no stranger to the knife, having wiled away countless hours in secret practice with his own sgian-dubh, he’d never intended to use it beyond personal protection.
“No man, regardless of birth or station, should be without fighting skills,” MacAedh replied. “Swords and knives alone do nae harm. ’Tis all in the hand that wields them. Domnall’s unchallenged amongst that lot,” he remarked with pride. “But I willna have him neglect his education. Domnall!” MacAedh called out to his nephew.
The moment Domnall turned to answer, his opponent lunged and struck, the tip of his blade slicing Domnall’s cheek. “Bluidy bastard!” Domnall hissed.
With a lightning-swift swoop of his leg, he downed his opponent. Pinning one knee to his adversary’s chest, Domnall pressed his dagger to the lad’s throat. The redhead’s eyes bulged with terror. Alex had never witnessed such skill. Even to his untrained eye, Alex could see that Domnall was swift and skilled in his strikes. If he’d wished it, the results would have been lethal.
“Gu leòr! Enough!” MacAedh barked.
Domnall released his sparring partner with a show of reluctance, sharply contrasted by the lad’s eagerness to regain his feet. Mumbling what was surely a threat for future retaliation, Domnall sheathed his daggers and turned to face his uncle.
“I would ken how ye progress in yer lessons,” MacAedh said, adding with a look of reproach, “by my reckoning, ye should have been at yer studies an hour ago.”
“I dinna like the books.” Domnall glowered at Alex. “The monk should go back whence he came.”
“A strong sword is indeed one way to gain a man’s respect,” MacAedh said. “But keeping it is quite another matter. Ye must learn how to command yer men.”
Domnall made no attempt to hide his contempt. “What would this monk ken of commanding men?”
“Much knowledge and wisdom can be gained from books and Alexander is here to guide ye to this knowledge.”
MacAedh was trying to provide the guidance that Domnall needed, but Alex feared his nephew’s impatient temperament would always lead him to learn his lessons the hard way. Alex studied Domnall, wondering if his attitude might be altered if he could somehow find some common ground. As a warrior, Domnall clearly valued physical skills above intellectual pursuits. Perhaps there was a way to win him over. Could a physical contest be the way to gain his respect?
“I’ll leave under one condition,” Alex said.
“And what is that?” Domnall asked. By the glittering in his eyes, Alex assuredly had the younger man’s attention.
“I have no training with swords or combat,” Alex confessed. “But I do have some skill with a knife. If ye can best me in a challenge, I’ll go back to the monastery.”
MacAedh’s brow furrowed. “Are ye certain about this, Alexander?”
“Aye,” Alex replied. He wanted to win a trial of skill, not just to gain Domnall’s respect, but for himself. It was suddenly important for him to know that he could stand his own as a man amongst these fierce Highlanders.
“What manner of challenge do ye propose?” Domnall asked.
“Knife throwing,” Alex said.
Domnall laughed. “Ye just might regret that decision.”
“I stand by my promise if I lose,” Alex replied evenly. “But if I win, ye’ll attend all of yer lessons. Ye may name the distance and the target. Do ye agree to the terms?”
“Aye.” Domnall grinned. “A standing target’s too easy. I would propose something harder—something that moves.”
“A moving target? Like what?” Alex asked.
Domnall scratched his lightly-stubbled chin. “I would call a chicken at five paces.”
“A chicken?” Alex shook his head. “I willna kill a living thing purely for sport.”
“Ye said any target,” Domnall replied. “The chickens will be eaten for supper anyway. What difference does it make how they get to the cooking pot?”
Alex had felt a twinge of conscience in killing an animal, but if the chickens were already doomed to be dinner… “A’right,” he agreed.
“Duncan!” Domnall called out to a fair-haired boy. “Go ye to the chicken coops and bring back two birds.”
The lad threw down his wooden practice sword and sprinted in the direction of the kitchen building. A few minutes later, he returned with two squawking hens followed by a cluster of tittering spectators. Word had spread quickly.
“What do ye want me to do with them?” Duncan asked.
“Take them back a few paces,” Domnall instructed, watching Alex with a smug smile. “Are ye ready? They’re going to flit the instant they hit the ground.”
Alex withdrew his sgian-dubh from the sheath he wore around his leg and fingered the familiar cold metal. While he hadn’t expected such a strange challenge, after seventeen years of practice, he was confident he could do it. He nodded to Duncan. “Let one loose and then jump back.”
The boy tossed the birds. They landed in an angry ruffle of feathers. If this were a simple target Alex could have shut his eyes and hit it, but the birds were about ten paces away and their movements were erratic as they darted hither and fro.
Focusing on one bird, Alex crouched and waited. The instant it paused, he flicked his wrist. The spectators released a collective gasp as the knife spiraled twice through the air and impaled his target.
“Well done.” MacAedh clapped him on the back.
Just as Alex opened his mouth to respond, Sibylla rushed toward the bird, picked it up, and snapped its neck. With a glare in his direction, she then withdrew his knife, wiped it on her apron, and came toward him with a scowl of disapproval wrinkling her brow. “’Tis nae right for it to suffer just to prove yerself manly,” she said, offering the knife.
“But that’s nae why…” he protested as he accepted it from her hand, only to find himself speaking to her departing back.
“Dinna try to ken the mind of a woman,” MacAedh remarked with a chuckle. “’Tis a wasted effort. Now, let us see if Domnall can duplicate the feat.”
Domnall stood ready with his bollock knife in hand. Slowly, he circled the lone chicken that now stood frozen in place and staring back at him.
“’Tis an unfair advantage,” MacAedh remarked.
“No matter.” Alex shrugged. “Either he can best me or he canna.”
Some of the bystanders encouraged the chicken with whistles and catcalls, but it continued to defiantly stand its ground. “Defy me if ye will, but ye will surely be supper this night,” Domnall remarked with a smirk and loosed the knife, but the steadfast chick suddenly leaped out of its trajectory. To everyone’s surprise, Domnall’s blade landed in the grassy turf.
“It appears Alexander has won,” MacAedh said evenly.
“’Twas nae much of a challenge,” Domnall replied sullenly. “Any man can throw a knife, but it takes heart to stand in battle.” Domnall squared his stance and stared Alex in the eye, “Do ye have the courage to face a man, monk?”
“I told ye I am no warrior.” Alex immediately understood. It wasn’t skill, but bravery, that would win Domnall over. “’Tis my mettle ye wish to test?” Alex walked a few paces to retrieve a wooden targe. “I willna fight ye, but that doesna mean I fear ye.” His body shook but he refused to be cowed. With his blood pounding in his veins, Alex unsheathed his sgian-dubh and steeled himself to defend against Domnall’s assault. Was this another test of his character? If so, he was determined not to waver.
But just as Domnall reached for this sword hilt, MacAedh stepped in to clamp his big hand atop Domnall’s. “Enough of this pissing contest, Domnall! Alexander won fairly. Ye must hold to yer vow.”
Domnall’s face colored with a baleful flush before he dropped his hand back to his side. Reminded of how Isaac must have felt when God commanded Abraham to withhold the death blow, Alex released a great lungful of relief.
Domnall turned back to Alex. “I dinna believe there is aught of value ye can teach me, but honor compels me to keep my word. I will come tomorrow morn for my lessons.”
As Alex prepared to replace his knife back in its sheath, he became aware of MacAedh staring at the blade. “May I see it?” he asked, hand extended.
Unable to refuse, Alex offered it up reluctantly. The sgian-dubh was the only thing that still connected him with his family. Had he endangered himself with his thoughtlessness? Had his male pride overcome his caution?
MacAedh’s mouth compressed as he examined the worn inscription on the blade. There was a flash of recognition in his gaze, but this reaction told Alex to hold his tongue.
MacAedh’s gaze snapped up to meet his. “Where did ye get this?”
MacAedh’s interest was far too acute to be just idle curiosity. Recalling his mother’s desperate plea never to reveal himself, Alex sensed he should proceed with great caution. “I dinna remember,” he answered.
MacAedh’s expression hardened. He knew the lie for what it was. He handed the knife back to Alex with an ominous look. “Be sure that we will speak more of this later.”
Alex left the training grounds with myriad questions flooding his brain—questions he thought he’d buried years ago because he had no answers. MacAedh obviously knew something that Alex didn’t, but there was danger if he tread on this ground. Although it tormented him, Alex refrained from openly probing in that direction. His only choice was to wait and see what information MacAedh might volunteer.
Crossing the bailey, Alexander encountered Sibylla outside the kitchens, hanging the dead chicken. She purposely turned her back to him as he passed. Although common sense told him to keep things simple and continue walking past, he couldn’t bear the idea that he’d upset her. Even worse, that she believed he’d killed the bird just to show off. He had to set things straight.
“Please,” he began softly, “Ye dinna give me a chance to explain.”
She spun to face him, hands on hips and eyes flashing with indignation, reminding him of a summer storm on the Tarbat Ness. “A’right. Pray explain why ye felt the need to kill my hen when ye’d already caught fish for supper, and ye eat nae the meat?”
“Yer hen?” He’d had no idea. Damn. Damn. Double damn.
“Aye,” she sniffed. “She was the best layer of the lot. What was so important for ye to prove? Why did ye do this… this… murder, Alexander?”
“Murder? I-I’m sorry,” Alex stammered. “The chicken wasna my idea when I made the challenge. ’Twas yer brother who suggested it.”
“Why did ye make such a daft challenge to begin with?” she demanded. “I thought ye were different from the rest.”
“Different?” He wondered what she meant. What exactly did Lady Sibylla of Kilmuir think of him? “How?” he asked.
“Less prideful and arrogant perhaps.” She shrugged, averting her gaze from his. “More sensitive and thoughtful.”
“Aye?” he replied, feeling strangely warm inside. “I would like to think that I am.”
“Yet, ye just proved otherwise,” she replied with a snort.
“Will ye nae let me explain, Sibylla?” Her Christian name slipped thoughtlessly through his lips as he gently grasped her shoulders. He didn’t know why it mattered so much but it was vital to regain her good opinion of him.
Her gaze still avoided his. “Ye challenged my brother to a daft contest and killed my hen. What more is there to say?”
“’Twas for a far greater purpose than male pride,” he insisted. “’Twas my hope that by winning yer brother’s respect, I could accomplish what I came here to do. I told him if he could best me with the knife I would go back to the monastery, but if I beat him, he’d have to attend his lessons.”
“And he agreed to this?” Her gaze flickered back to his, clouded with doubt.
“Aye.” He nodded. “With yer uncle as witness.”
“And ye won.” She glanced up at her dead hen with a frown, but the anger was slowly easing from her face. “Then perhaps ’twas worth the sacrifice of a few dozen eggs.” She released a long sigh. “Then I suppose I’ll have to forgive ye.”
“Thank ye, my lady.” Suddenly aware that he still held her, Alex let his hands slip from her shoulders. He turned to leave, but halted his steps the moment she uttered his name. “Alexander?”
“Aye?” He turned back.
“How did ye learn to throw a knife like that?”
“I’ve practiced since I was a wee lad.”
She wound a finger around a stray curl the color of morning sunlight. “Do ye think ye could teach me? Like ye taught me how to fish with my hands?”
Alex briefly considered her request before shaking it off. Spending any more time alone with her was a very bad idea. He’d nearly kissed her at the burn. He could not take a chance on a repeated incident for fear he’d be helpless to resist the next time, but when he drew breath to deny her request, somehow the right words eluded his tongue.
“Aye. I could teach ye,” he said.
“At the armory? In the morn before anyone’s awake?” she suggested.
“At the armory,” he agreed with a nod. Once more, it was not the answer he’d intended to give, but he found himself unable to say no to her. He couldn’t comprehend his own actions. Why the de’il was he so helpless to resist her? Was he bewitched? Or was this another trial of his faith and self-restraint? He’d never thought himself a weak man, but if Sibylla was a test, he feared he was doomed to fail.