Chapter Six
After searching the castle, Alex found MacAedh, in the outer bailey working the forge. With sleeves rolled back, the thane of Kilmuir tapped the hammer on the anvil.
Sparks snapped in the air as he began molding a bar of white hot iron into shape.
“Ye sent for me?” Alex said.
“Aye,” MacAedh said, his dark eyes unreadable. “I would ken yer interest in my niece, Sibylla.”
“I was only obliging her request to show her how to throw the sgian-dubh.”
“And that is why ye met her secretly in the armory?” He glanced up briefly before striking another forceful blow with his hammer.
“I realize now that it was ill-advised,” Alex confessed. “I should have asked ye first. I meant no disrespect.”
“Sibylla should have asked,” MacAedh corrected. “But that lass has a way of bending others to her will.” He illustrated his point by bending his iron into the rough shape of a horseshoe. “Ye are nae the first of her victims, nor will ye be the last. Be mindful of feminine wiles, Alexander. A man can all too easily get caught up in their snares.”
“But ye’ve managed to avoid them?” Alex remarked.
“Aye,” MacAedh responded with a dry laugh. “I’ve been fortunate thus far, but no doubt my days of unfettered freedom are numbered.”
The thane’s answer surprised him. He’d always believed that nobles put a high priority on siring sons. “Ye dinna wish to take a wife?” Alex asked. “To have bairns?”
“Aye. Eventually,” MacAedh said. The bucket answered with a hiss of steam as he submerged the searing iron into the water. “But my life is too uncertain. I wouldna take a wife unless I could offer security.”
“Security? But ye are Thane of Kilmuir,” Alex said.
“I am, indeed, thane… and carpenter… and stone mason… and smith,” he replied with a humorless laugh. “I became master of all trades the day the king’s army came recruiting. They always conscript the smith first. ’Tis how they keep us in check, by taking our men and any means we have of making weapons.”
He retrieved the shaped iron from the bucket and laid it down with his tongs. He said nothing more until he’d doused the inferno that blazed inside the forge.
MacAedh then stood and wiped the sweat from his brow. “’Tis our payment in kind,” he added bitterly, “and how we remain here. If I refused to provide soldiers, we would soon find ourselves homeless. ’Tis also why this place is in such disrepair.” He nodded to the castle. “There are too few men left to do all the work and still provide for their families. We have had a reprieve for the past two years but the moment the English are done fighting themselves David Cenn Mór will send his men north to recruit.” His words suggested resignation but his tone bared deep resentment.
“Is that why Domnall and the others train?” Alex asked. “Will they be conscripted?”
“They train for their own purpose,” MacAedh answered cagily. “But any who refuse to join the king’s army will be counted as traitors against the crown. This places Domnall in a dangerous position. If he were to go south, even in the king’s service, I fear for his life. Few kinsmen of the Cenn Mórs ever die of natural causes. They have a remarkable talent for eliminating anyone they view as a threat to their power.”
“Is Domnall a threat?” Alex asked.
“His faither, as the son of Duncan, had a rightful claim, but ne’er saw fit to press it. Instead, he let the king buy him off with lands and titles. He became the greatest landholder in Scotland, save for the king himself. But Domnall is nae like his faither. His blood runs true to his Highland heritage. That alone makes him a threat. If the king doesna recognize him, he will likely fight for his birthright… which now leads to the matter I wish to discuss with ye.” MacAedh laid down his tools to eye Alex squarely. “I would ken the truth of where ye got that sgian-dubh.”
By his stern expression, MacAedh expected a forthright response, but Alex hesitated. Why was it so important for him to know the knife’s origin? His father had had many enemies—men who betrayed him and took him away. Was MacAedh somehow connected to that? Could he trust this man enough to disclose his secret? Part of him wanted to speak, but a life of caution told him to hold his silence.
“I told ye, I dinna remember.”
“Ye make a poor liar, Alexander.” MacAedh replied. “But perhaps ye have good reason for caution.”
“What do ye mean?” Alex studied MacAedh with uncertainty but sensed nothing threatening or suspicious in his eyes.
“Come,” MacAedh answered. “There’s something ye must see.”
Alex followed MacAedh through the bailey and past the castle to an ancient mausoleum where, presumably, generations of MacAedh’s clan rested. The entrance was guarded by two imposing, stone-carved angels holding swords. MacAedh unlocked the door to the tomb and beckoned Alex into the dark, dank chamber that smelled of death and decay.
“Why are we here?” Alex asked, growing horrified as MacAedh proceeded to pry open one of the caskets.
“’Tis heavy.” MacAedh grunted against the weight. “Come lad, help me to lift this.”
Steeling himself for rotted remains, Alex heaved with all his force to open the lid. To his shock, the casket instead held a cache of weapons.
“Our only remaining treasures.” MacAedh explained.
He retrieved a long object wrapped in layers of linen. “This is what we came for.” Removing the cloth, MacAedh revealed an ancient, silver-hilted sword.
He displayed it for Alex in open hands. Alex’s gaze riveted to the inscription on the blade—Veritatem, Virtutem, Vindictae. “’Tis the same as my sgian-dubh. I dinna understand this.”
“Perhaps ye will now understand my curiosity about yer sgian-dubh,” MacAedh said. “This sword is one of seven forged of pure Damascus steel centuries ago for the seven Mormaers of Alba. They are as legendary as the Holy Grail. Take it,” MacAedh urged, extending the sword to Alex.
Alex’s hands shook as he took possession of the ancient weapon. His heart raced as he more closely examined the deadly blade.
“My faither had such a sword,” MacAedh said, “but this particular blade belonged to Mal Peder MacLeon, Mormaer of Mearns, the man who killed Duncan Cenn Mór. Four kings have perished by these blades. For this reason, they have come to be called the Kingslayers.”
“Kingslayers?” Alex balanced the sword and then took a practice swing. It felt awkward in his unskilled hands.
“Aye.” MacAedh grinned. “The Cenn Mórs have good reason to fear and despise the men of the Highlands.”
A vague memory wormed its way out of some unknown recess of Alex’s brain. His mother’s kin were from Mearns. He didn’t know how, but he was certain it was true. Was his own family somehow connected to this story?
“If this belonged to the Mormaer of Mearns, why would ye have it?” Alex asked.
“After the regicide, King Alexander executed MacLeon and took the sword. He later used it to kill six other men of Mearns and Moray who’d set out to assassinate him. All of this only added to the swords’ legend. ’Tis now believed by many that he who claims all seven of these swords will become invincible.”
“Do ye believe this?” Alex asked.
MacAedh shrugged. “I am nae a superstitious man, but the Cenn Mórs believe it.”
“Ye still havena explained how ye have this sword in yer possession,” Alex said.
“On his deathbed, King Alexander gave the sword to his natural son in the hope that he might accede to the throne. But King Henry of England chose to pit Alexander’s brother David against the ‘bastard’ of Alexander. Four thousand Highland men met their death at Stracathro, when David Cenn Mór came at the head of a large Anglo-Norman force. My brother, Angus, was among them.”
“What became of the son of King Alexander?” Alex asked.
“He barely escaped with his life, only to be later betrayed by a kinsman. When his capture was imminent, he gave his sword to one of our men to bring it back to Kilmuir for safe keeping. It has been hidden in this crypt these twenty years.”
MacAedh leaned back against the stone coffin, arms crossed over his broad chest silently studying Alex. “I have entrusted ye with my own dangerous secret,” he said at length. “Perhaps now, ye will have faith to confide yers? Who gave ye the dagger?”
Alex hesitated. Years ago, he’d promised his mother never to divulge his past. Was he still bound to that vow when she’d broken her own promise to send for him? Could he trust this man whose family history seemed to be so closely intertwined with his own? His instincts told him he could.
“My máthair,” Alex replied. “She gave me the knife when she sent me to the monastery. I was but four years old.”
“A tender age to lose a máthair,” MacAedh remarked. His gaze narrowed. “Why did she feel compelled to give ye up?”
“There was danger,” Alex replied. He vividly recalled the fright in his mother’s eyes the night she sent him to the monastery.
“And yer faither?” MacAedh asked. “Where was he that he dinna protect his wife and son?”
Alex knew the true question. MacAedh presumed he was a bastard.
“I dinna remember much of my faither but he had enemies,” Alex said. “I only ken that my máthair feared for our lives. I was too young to understand why. She feared my Uncle Eachann. He’d taken us away to a terrible place, high on a cliff that overlooked the sea. She sent me away because she feared he would hurt me.”
Alex shut his eyes on a rush of visions from his childhood—a big and fearsome man with a red beard and an ugly, jagged scar running down the length of his face. Now he understood why his mother had been so fearful. His uncle was the man who’d betrayed his father and then imprisoned him and his mother. After being sent to the monastery, he’d never again heard from either of his parents. Eventually, he’d come to believe his father had abandoned him and his mother. The truth was almost too overwhelming to comprehend. His entire life had been destroyed by one man’s greed.
“Eachann?” MacAedh’s brow wrinkled. “Ye canna mean Eachann of Mearns?”
“Aye,” Alex said. “Eachann of Mearns is my máthair’s brother. Do ye ken him?” Alex asked.
MacAedh’s gaze flickered. “Eachann of Mearns was the verra man who betrayed Mac Alexander.” MacAedh’s gaze narrowed in speculation. “What was yer sire’s name, lad?”
Alex’s heart raced. With each revelation, he was growing more overwhelmed and confused. He swallowed hard and then whispered, “Malcolm. His Christian name was Malcolm, after his grandsire.”
“His grandsire was Malcolm?” MacAedh repeated with a narrowed gaze.
“Dinna I just say so?” Alex was growing increasingly frustrated by MacAedh’s questions. “He was named for his grandsire, just as I am named for mine.”
As he stared at Alex, his expression transformed from dubious to outright incredulous. “Good God!” he responded with a bark of laughter. “Do ye ken naught of yer own blood, lad?”
“I told ye I dinna!” Alex snapped.
MacAedh replied, “If what ye say be true, and I have nae reason to doubt ye, the namesake grandfather ye speak of was King Alexander of Scotland. Which means ye are the son of Malcolm Mac Alexander.”
Alex could barely breathe. “Ye believe my faither was the son of King Alexander?”
“Aye,” MacAedh nodded. “I began to suspect something when I saw yer dagger. How else would ye have it? And the rest surely canna be coincidence.”
How could it be so? But how could it not? It all suddenly made perfect sense. The man who’d betrayed King Alexander’s bastard son was the same kinsman who’d also betrayed Alex’s father. His sgian-dubh had the same inscription as a legendary sword. His father had been an enemy of the king.
“Did ye ken him?” Alex asked.
“I only saw him once,” MacAedh said, “but my brother loved him well… enough to give his life…”
Alex had always yearned to know what manner of man his sire was, and how he was regarded by other men. “What was he like?”
“Malcolm Mac Alexander was a braw and bold warrior, the kind born to lead men… He would have made a fine king. He might have succeeded were it nae for the perfidy of Eachann of Mearns.”
Alex’s chest constricted with a profound sense of loss. Would his father have won the throne of Scotland if events had not taken such a tragic turn?
“What happened to my faither?” he asked at length. “Was he also slain?”
MacAedh shook his head. “After the slaughter at Stracathro, he waged war for another four years until he was betrayed by a kinsman who turned him over to the Cenn Mór in exchange for lands and titles.”
“My uncle,” Alex said flatly. He voiced the next question with hesitation, uncertain if he truly wanted to know the answer. “Did the king kill my faither?”
“Nae one kens,” MacAedh replied. “He was taken south to Roxburgh Castle. There has been no word of him these past seventeen years.”
“Then he could still be alive?” Alex had harbored hope for many years that his parents yet lived. Eventually, he’d given up that hope but now it unfurled once more inside him.
MacAedh laid a hand on his shoulder. “I would nae place any great faith in it.”
“I dinna understand why has this been kept from me all these years. Surely Faither Gregor knew! Why dinna he tell me?”
“Faither Gregor was probably sworn to shield ye. Perhaps ’tis why he encouraged ye to come to me, in hope that ye would discover the truth for yerself.”
The truth. Alex almost wanted to laugh. Everything he’d believed and the life he’d known was completely false. All his life, he’d sought counsel from Father Gregor only to learn he’d deceived him with silence.
“Ye are the son of the last man who challenged the king.” MacAedh continued softly. “But should this ever become kent, yer life could be in great peril.”
Alex gazed down at the gleaming steel that felt so unwieldly in his hand. Had the sword now come to him by Divine Providence? Alex had never felt more confused.
“As the son of Mac Alexander, the sword is rightfully yers,” MacAedh said. “And with it, ye have as much right to claim the throne of Scotland as any man alive. ’Tis yer choice now to train with it or to bury it. Whate’er ye decide, ye can trust that yer secret is safe with me.”
“I dinna even ken what to think right now.”
MacAedh eyed him for a long moment with his arms crossed over his chest. “Perhaps the greater question is—what will ye do?”